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THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH
by Charles Reade
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
Etext Notes:
1. Greek passages are enclosed in angled brackets, e.g. {methua}, and
have been transliterated according to:alpha A, a
beta B, b
gamma G, g
delta D, d
epsilon E, e
zeta Z, z
eta Y, y
theta Th, th
iota I, i
kappa K, k
lamda L, l
mu M, m
nu N, n
omicron O, o
pi P, p
rho R, r
sigma S, s
tau T, t
phi Ph, ph
chi Ch, ch
psi Ps, ps
xi X, x
upsilon U, u
omega W, w
2. All diacritics have been removed from this version
3. References for the Author's footnotes are enclosed in square
brackets(e.g. (1)) and collected at the end of the chapter they occur
in.
4. There are 100 chapters in the book, each starting with CHAPTER R,
where R is the chapter number expressed as a Roman numeral.
Etext Notes:
1. Greek passages are enclosed in angled brackets, e.g. {methua}, and have been transliterated according to: alpha A, a beta B, b gamma G, g delta D, d epsilon E, e zeta Z, z eta Y, y theta Th, th iota I, i kappa K, k lamda L, l mu M, m nu N, n omicron O, o pi P, p rho R, r sigma S, s tau T, t phi Ph, ph chi Ch, ch psi Ps, ps xi X, x upsilon U, u omega W, w
2. All diacritics have been removed from this version
3. References for the Author's footnotes are enclosed in square brackets (e.g. (1)) and collected at the end of the chapter they occur in.
4. There are 100 chapters in the book, each starting with CHAPTER R, where R is the chapter number expressed as a Roman numeral.AUTHOR'S PREFACE
A small portion of this tale appeared in Once a Week, July-September, 1859, under the title of “A Good Fight.”
A small portion of this story was published in Once a Week, July-September, 1859, titled “A Good Fight.”
After writing it, I took wider views of the subject, and also felt uneasy at having deviated unnecessarily from the historical outline of a true story. These two sentiments have cost me more than a year's very hard labour, which I venture to think has not been wasted. After this plain statement I trust all who comment on this work will see that to describe it as a reprint would be unfair to the public and to me. The English language is copious, and, in any true man's hands, quite able to convey the truth—namely, that one-fifth of the present work is a reprint, and four-fifths of it a new composition.
After writing it, I took a broader look at the subject and also felt uneasy about straying unnecessarily from the historical outline of a true story. These two feelings have cost me more than a year of really hard work, which I believe hasn’t been wasted. After this straightforward statement, I hope everyone who comments on this work will understand that calling it a reprint would be unfair to both the public and myself. The English language is rich, and, in the hands of any honest person, it can definitely convey the truth—that one-fifth of this work is a reprint, while four-fifths of it is new material.
CHAPTER I
Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.
Not a day goes by without ordinary men and women doing amazing things, saying impactful words, and enduring meaningful hardships. Most of these unknown heroes, thinkers, and martyrs will remain unrecognized until that moment when the truly significant are seen as insignificant, and the insignificant are acknowledged as important. However, for others, the world remains unaware; their lives and stories are buried in the records that document them. The average reader can’t connect with them because they are presented so briefly and coldly: they don’t evoke the emotions of vivid stories that touch the heart, but instead are like small historical pebbles that bounce off his chest. Plus, he can't truly grasp them; summaries aren't the same as narratives, just as skeletons aren’t the same as living beings.
Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk: the writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so rare a gift. Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the public—as an interpreter.
Thus, accounts of fundamental truths are meaningless to ordinary people: the authors have left so much open to interpretation, and imagination is a gift that’s hard to come by. Here, the fiction writer can serve the public as an interpreter.
There is a musty chronicle, written in intolerable Latin, and in it a chapter where every sentence holds a fact. Here is told, with harsh brevity, the strange history of a pair, who lived untrumpeted, and died unsung, four hundred years ago; and lie now, as unpitied, in that stern page, as fossils in a rock. Thus, living or dead, Fate is still unjust to them. For if I can but show you what lies below that dry chronicler's words, methinks you will correct the indifference of centuries, and give those two sore-tried souls a place in your heart—for a day.
There’s an old, dusty chronicle written in unbearable Latin, and in it, there’s a chapter where every sentence presents a fact. It tells, with harsh simplicity, the strange story of a couple who lived quietly and died without recognition four hundred years ago; now they lie, as unremarked, in that stern page, like fossils in a rock. So, whether alive or dead, Fate is still unkind to them. For if I can just show you what’s beneath that dry chronicler's words, I believe you’ll change the indifference of centuries and give those two weary souls a place in your heart—for a day.
It was past the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was sovereign of France; Edward IV was wrongful king of England; and Philip “the Good,” having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, where our tale begins.
It was after the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was the ruler of France; Edward IV was the illegitimate king of England; and Philip “the Good,” after using force and deception to take his cousin Jacqueline's title and break her heart, reigned peacefully for many years in Holland, where our story begins.
Elias, and Catherine his wife, lived in the little town of Tergou. He traded, wholesale and retail, in cloth, silk, brown holland, and, above all, in curried leather, a material highly valued by the middling people, because it would stand twenty years' wear, and turn an ordinary knife, no small virtue in a jerkin of that century, in which folk were so liberal of their steel; even at dinner a man would leave his meat awhile, and carve you his neighbour, on a very moderate difference of opinion.
Elias and his wife, Catherine, lived in the small town of Tergou. He was a wholesale and retail trader dealing in cloth, silk, brown holland, and especially in curried leather, a material highly prized by the average folks because it could last twenty years and resist an ordinary knife—no small feat for a jacket in a time when people were so quick to use their blades; even at dinner, a man might pause from his meal and go after his neighbor over a minor disagreement.
The couple were well to do, and would have been free from all earthly care, but for nine children. When these were coming into the world, one per annum, each was hailed with rejoicings, and the saints were thanked, not expostulated with; and when parents and children were all young together, the latter were looked upon as lovely little playthings invented by Heaven for the amusement, joy, and evening solace of people in business.
The couple was wealthy and would have been carefree if it weren’t for their nine children. Each time a new child arrived, one a year, it was celebrated, and they thanked the saints instead of complaining. When both parents and children were young, the kids were seen as adorable little toys created by Heaven for the enjoyment, happiness, and evening comfort of busy people.
But as the olive-branches shot up, and the parents grew older, and saw with their own eyes the fate of large families, misgivings and care mingled with their love. They belonged to a singularly wise and provident people: in Holland reckless parents were as rare as disobedient children. So now when the huge loaf came in on a gigantic trencher, looking like a fortress in its moat, and, the tour of the table once made, seemed to have melted away, Elias and Catherine would look at one another and say, “Who is to find bread for them all when we are gone?”
But as the olive branches grew taller, and the parents aged, witnessing the reality of large families, their love was mixed with worries and concerns. They were part of a particularly wise and careful community: in Holland, careless parents were as uncommon as disobedient children. So now, when the enormous loaf arrived on a massive platter, resembling a fortress surrounded by a moat, and after going around the table seemed to vanish, Elias and Catherine would glance at each other and say, “Who will provide for all of them when we're gone?”
At this observation the younger ones needed all their filial respect to keep their little Dutch countenances; for in their opinion dinner and supper came by nature like sunrise and sunset, and, so long as that luminary should travel round the earth, so long as the brown loaf go round their family circle, and set in their stomachs only to rise again in the family oven. But the remark awakened the national thoughtfulness of the elder boys, and being often repeated, set several of the family thinking, some of them good thoughts, some ill thoughts, according to the nature of the thinkers.
At this observation, the younger ones had to muster all their respect to keep their little Dutch faces straight; they believed that dinner and supper arrived naturally like sunrise and sunset. As long as that light moved around the earth, the brown loaf would keep circulating in their family circle, only to settle in their stomachs and rise again in the family oven. However, the remark sparked a thoughtful response from the older boys, and when it was mentioned often, it got several family members thinking—some good thoughts, some bad thoughts, depending on who was doing the thinking.
“Kate, the children grow so, this table will soon be too small.”
“Kate, the kids are growing so fast; this table will be too small soon.”
“We cannot afford it, Eli,” replied Catherine, answering not his words, but his thought, after the manner of women.
“We can’t afford it, Eli,” Catherine replied, not responding to his words, but to his thoughts, like women often do.
Their anxiety for the future took at times a less dismal but more mortifying turn. The free burghers had their pride as well as the nobles; and these two could not bear that any of their blood should go down in the burgh after their decease.
Their anxiety about the future sometimes turned into something less grim but even more embarrassing. The free citizens had their pride just like the nobles; and neither could stand the thought of any of their lineage fading away in the town after they were gone.
So by prudence and self-denial they managed to clothe all the little bodies, and feed all the great mouths, and yet put by a small hoard to meet the future; and, as it grew and grew, they felt a pleasure the miser hoarding for himself knows not.
So with careful planning and self-control, they managed to dress all the little ones, feed all the hungry mouths, and still save a little stash for the future; and as it grew and grew, they felt a satisfaction that a miser saving for himself can’t understand.
One day the eldest boy but one, aged nineteen, came to his mother, and, with that outward composure which has so misled some persons as to the real nature of this people, begged her to intercede with his father to send him to Amsterdam, and place him with a merchant. “It is the way of life that likes me: merchants are wealthy; I am good at numbers; prithee, good mother, take my part in this, and I shall ever be, as I am now, your debtor.”
One day, the second oldest boy, who was nineteen, approached his mother and, with the calm demeanor that has often confused people about the true character of their family, asked her to speak to his father about sending him to Amsterdam to work with a merchant. “This is the kind of life I enjoy: merchants are rich; I’m good with numbers; please, dear mother, support me in this, and I will always be, as I am now, in your debt.”
Catherine threw up her hands with dismay and incredulity.
Catherine raised her hands in shock and disbelief.
“What! leave Tergou!”
“What! Leave Tergou!”
“What is one street to me more than another? If I can leave the folk of Tergou, I can surely leave the stones.”
“What is one street to me more than another? If I can leave the people of Tergou, I can definitely leave the stones.”
“What! quit your poor father now he is no longer young?”
“What! Leave your poor father now that he's not young anymore?”
“Mother, if I can leave you, I can leave”
“Mom, if I can leave you, I can go.”
“What! leave your poor brothers and sisters, that love you so dear?”
“What! Leave your poor brothers and sisters, who love you so much?”
“There are enough in the house without me.”
“There are plenty in the house without me.”
“What mean you, Richart? Who is more thought of than you Stay, have I spoken sharp to you? Have I been unkind to you?”
“What do you mean, Richart? Who thinks of you more than I do? Wait, have I spoken harshly to you? Have I been unkind to you?”
“Never that I know of; and if you had, you should never hear of it from me. Mother,” said Richart gravely, but the tear was in his eye, “it all lies in a word, and nothing can change my mind. There will be one mouth less for you to feed.'
“Not that I know of; and if you did, you wouldn't hear about it from me. Mother,” Richart said seriously, but there was a tear in his eye, “it all comes down to a word, and nothing can change my mind. There will be one less mouth for you to feed.”
“There now, see what my tongue has done,” said Catherine, and the next moment she began to cry. For she saw her first young bird on the edge of the nest trying his wings to fly into the world. Richart had a calm, strong will, and she knew he never wasted a word.
“There now, see what my tongue has done,” said Catherine, and the next moment she started to cry. She saw her first young bird on the edge of the nest trying its wings to fly into the world. Richart had a calm, strong will, and she knew he never wasted a word.
It ended as nature has willed all such discourse shall end: young Richart went to Amsterdam with a face so long and sad as it had never been seen before, and a heart like granite.
It ended the way nature intends all such conversations to end: young Richart went to Amsterdam with a face so long and sad that it had never been seen before, and a heart like stone.
That afternoon at supper there was one mouth less. Catherine looked at Richart's chair and wept bitterly. On this Elias shouted roughly and angrily to the children, “Sit wider, can't ye: sit wider!” and turned his head away over the back of his seat awhile, and was silent.
That afternoon at dinner, there was one less person at the table. Catherine stared at Richart's empty chair and cried hard. At this, Elias yelled gruffly and angrily at the children, “Sit wider, can’t you? Sit wider!” Then he turned his head away over the back of his chair for a moment and fell silent.
Richart was launched, and never cost them another penny; but to fit him out and place him in the house of Vander Stegen, the merchant, took all the little hoard but one gold crown. They began again. Two years passed, Richart found a niche in commerce for his brother Jacob, and Jacob left Tergou directly after dinner, which was at eleven in the forenoon. At supper that day Elias remembered what had happened the last time; so it was in a low whisper he said, “Sit wider, dears!” Now until that moment, Catherine would not see the gap at table, for her daughter Catherine had besought her not to grieve to-night, and she had said, “No, sweetheart, I promise I will not, since it vexes my children.” But when Elias whispered “Sit wider!” says she, “Ay! the table will soon be too big for the children, and you thought it would be too small;” and having delivered this with forced calmness, she put up her apron the next moment, and wept sore.
Richart was launched and never cost them another penny; however, outfitting him and placing him in the house of Vander Stegen, the merchant, consumed almost all their savings except for one gold crown. They started over. Two years went by, and Richart found a spot in business for his brother Jacob. Jacob left Tergou right after lunch, which was at eleven in the morning. At dinner that evening, Elias recalled what had happened last time; so in a low whisper, he said, “Sit wider, dears!” Until that moment, Catherine hadn’t noticed the gap at the table because her daughter Catherine had asked her not to be sad tonight, and she’d promised, “No, sweetheart, I promise I won’t, since it bothers my children.” But when Elias whispered “Sit wider!” she replied, “Yes! The table will soon be too big for the children, and you thought it would be too small.” After saying this with forced calmness, she quickly raised her apron and wept heavily.
“'Tis the best that leave us,” sobbed she; “that is the cruel part.”
“It's the best that leave us,” she cried; “that’s the painful part.”
“Nay! nay!” said Elias, “our children are good children, and all are dear to us alike. Heed her not! What God takes from us still seems better that what He spares to us; that is to say, men are by nature unthankful—and women silly.”
“Nah! Nah!” said Elias, “our kids are good kids, and we love them all the same. Don’t listen to her! What God takes from us always seems better than what He leaves us; in other words, people are naturally ungrateful—and women are foolish.”
“And I say Richart and Jacob were the flower of the flock,” sobbed Catherine.
“And I say Richart and Jacob were the best of the group,” Catherine sobbed.
The little coffer was empty again, and to fill it they gathered like ants. In those days speculation was pretty much confined to the card-and-dice business. Elias knew no way to wealth but the slow and sure one. “A penny saved is a penny gained,” was his humble creed. All that was not required for the business and the necessaries of life went into the little coffer with steel bands and florid key. They denied themselves in turn the humblest luxuries, and then, catching one another's looks, smiled; perhaps with a greater joy than self-indulgence has to bestow. And so in three years more they had gleaned enough to set up their fourth son as a master-tailor, and their eldest daughter as a robemaker, in Tergou. Here were two more provided for: their own trade would enable them to throw work into the hands of this pair. But the coffer was drained to the dregs, and this time the shop too bled a little in goods if not in coin.
The little chest was empty again, and to fill it, they gathered like ants. In those days, speculation was mostly limited to the card and dice game. Elias only knew the slow and steady path to wealth. “A penny saved is a penny earned,” was his simple belief. Everything that wasn't needed for the business or basic living went into the little chest with steel bands and an ornate key. They took turns denying themselves even the simplest luxuries, and then, catching each other's eyes, they smiled; perhaps with a greater joy than what self-indulgence could offer. In another three years, they had saved enough to set up their fourth son as a master tailor and their oldest daughter as a robe maker in Tergou. Here were two more provided for: their own trade would allow them to provide work for this pair. But the chest was drained to the last drop, and this time, the shop also suffered a bit in goods, if not in cash.
Alas! there remained on hand two that were unable to get their bread, and two that were unwilling. The unable ones were, 1, Giles, a dwarf, of the wrong sort, half stupidity, half malice, all head and claws and voice, run from by dogs and unprejudiced females, and sided with through thick and thin by his mother; 2, Little Catherine, a poor little girl that could only move on crutches. She lived in pain, but smiled through it, with her marble face and violet eyes and long silky lashes; and fretful or repining word never came from her lips. The unwilling ones were Sybrandt, the youngest, a ne'er-do-weel, too much in love with play to work; and Cornelis, the eldest, who had made calculations, and stuck to the hearth, waiting for dead men's shoes. Almost worn out by their repeated efforts, and above all dispirited by the moral and physical infirmities of those that now remained on hand, the anxious couple would often say, “What will become of all these when we shall be no longer here to take care of them?” But when they had said this a good many times, suddenly the domestic horizon cleared, and then they used still to say it, because a habit is a habit, but they uttered it half mechanically now, and added brightly and cheerfully, “But thanks to St. Bavon and all the saints, there's Gerard.”
Unfortunately, there were two who couldn’t earn a living and two who didn’t want to. The ones who couldn’t were: 1. Giles, a dwarf of the wrong kind, half stupid and half malicious, all head, claws, and voice, shunned by dogs and unbiased women, but supported unwaveringly by his mother; 2. Little Catherine, a poor girl who could only move with crutches. She lived in pain but smiled through it, with her marble-like face, violet eyes, and long silky lashes; and never a fretful or complaining word escaped her lips. The unwilling ones were Sybrandt, the youngest, a slacker too fond of playing to work; and Cornelis, the eldest, who had made plans and lingered by the fire, waiting for someone to die so he could take their place. Almost exhausted by their repeated efforts, and particularly disheartened by the physical and moral weaknesses of those still around, the worried couple often said, “What will happen to all of them when we’re no longer here to care for them?” But after saying this many times, suddenly their domestic situation improved, and even though they still said it out of habit, it was now more automatic, and they added brightly and cheerfully, “But thanks to St. Bavon and all the saints, there’s Gerard.”
Young Gerard was for many years of his life a son apart and he was going into the Church, and the Church could always maintain her children by hook or by crook in those days: no great hopes, because his family had no interest with the great to get him a benefice, and the young man's own habits were frivolous, and, indeed, such as our cloth merchant would not have put up with in any one but a clerk that was to be. His trivialities were reading and penmanship, and he was so wrapped up in them that often he could hardly be got away to his meals. The day was never long enough for him; and he carried ever a tinder-box and brimstone matches, and begged ends of candles of the neighbours, which he lighted at unreasonable hours—ay, even at eight of the clock at night in winter, when the very burgomaster was abed. Endured at home, his practices were encouraged by the monks of a neighbouring convent. They had taught him penmanship, and continued to teach him until one day they discovered, in the middle of a lesson, that he was teaching them. They pointed this out to him in a merry way: he hung his head and blushed: he had suspected as much himself, but mistrusted his judgment in so delicate a matter. “But, my son,” said an elderly monk, “how is it that you, to whom God has given an eye so true, a hand so subtle yet firm, and a heart to love these beautiful crafts, how is it you do not colour as well as write? A scroll looks but barren unless a border of fruit, and leaves, and rich arabesques surround the good words, and charm the sense as those do the soul and understanding; to say nothing of the pictures of holy men and women departed, with which the several chapters should be adorned, and not alone the eye soothed with the brave and sweetly blended colours, but the heart lifted by effigies of the saints in glory. Answer me, my son.”
Young Gerard was, for many years, a lone son in his family, preparing to enter the Church, which could usually support its members by any means possible in those times. There were no great expectations, since his family had no connections with powerful people to secure him a position, and the young man’s own interests were rather light-hearted— the sort of behavior our cloth merchant wouldn't have tolerated in anyone but an aspiring cleric. His hobbies consisted of reading and writing beautifully, and he was so absorbed in them that he often found it difficult to step away for meals. The day was never long enough for him; he always carried a tinderbox and sulfur matches and borrowed candle stubs from the neighbors, lighting them at odd hours—even at eight o'clock at night in winter, when even the mayor was already asleep. While his family tolerated his habits, the monks from a nearby convent encouraged them. They had taught him writing and continued to do so until one day, during a lesson, they realized he was actually teaching them. They playfully pointed this out to him, and he hung his head in embarrassment. He had suspected as much but didn’t trust his judgment on such a delicate matter. “But, my son,” said an older monk, “how is it that you, with an eye so keen, a hand both delicate and steady, and a heart that loves these beautiful arts, how is it that you do not also have the skill to draw? A scroll appears quite plain unless it's adorned with fruits, leaves, and intricate designs that enhance the good words, just as they also elevate the soul and understanding; not to mention the pictures of holy men and women, which should decorate the various chapters, providing not just visual pleasure with their rich and harmonious colors, but also uplifting the heart through images of the saints in glory. Answer me, my son.”
At this Gerard was confused, and muttered that he had made several trials at illuminating, but had not succeeded well; and thus the matter rested.
At this, Gerard was confused and mumbled that he had tried several times to illuminate but hadn't been successful. And so the matter stayed as it was.
Soon after this a fellow-enthusiast came on the scene in the unwonted form of an old lady. Margaret, sister and survivor of the brothers Van Eyck, left Flanders, and came to end her days in her native country. She bought a small house near Tergou. In course of time she heard of Gerard, and saw some of his handiwork: it pleased her so well that she sent her female servant, Reicht Heynes, to ask him to come to her. This led to an acquaintance: it could hardly be otherwise, for little Tergou had never held so many as two zealots of this sort before. At first the old lady damped Gerard's courage terribly. At each visit she fished out of holes and corners drawings and paintings, some of them by her own hand, that seemed to him unapproachable; but if the artist overpowered him, the woman kept his heart up. She and Reicht soon turned him inside out like a glove: among other things, they drew from him what the good monks had failed to hit upon, the reason why he did not illuminate, viz., that he could not afford the gold, the blue, and the red, but only the cheap earths; and that he was afraid to ask his mother to buy the choice colours, and was sure he should ask her in vain. Then Margaret Van Eyck gave him a little brush—gold, and some vermilion and ultramarine, and a piece of good vellum to lay them on. He almost adored her. As he left the house Reicht ran after him with a candle and two quarters: he quite kissed her. But better even than the gold and lapis-lazuli to the illuminator was the sympathy to the isolated enthusiast. That sympathy was always ready, and, as he returned it, an affection sprung up between the old painter and the young caligrapher that was doubly characteristic of the time. For this was a century in which the fine arts and the higher mechanical arts were not separated by any distinct boundary, nor were those who practised them; and it was an age in which artists sought out and loved one another. Should this last statement stagger a painter or writer of our day, let me remind him that even Christians loved one another at first starting.
Soon after that, a fellow enthusiast appeared in the unexpected form of an old lady. Margaret, the sister and last surviving sibling of the Van Eyck brothers, left Flanders to spend her remaining days in her homeland. She bought a small house near Tergou. Over time, she heard about Gerard and saw some of his work; she liked it so much that she sent her maid, Reicht Heynes, to invite him over. This led to a friendship; it was inevitable, since little Tergou had never had more than two enthusiasts of this kind before. At first, the old lady really intimidated Gerard. During each visit, she pulled out drawings and paintings from all sorts of spots, some of which she had created herself, that he found awe-inspiring. But while the artist overwhelmed him, the woman lifted his spirits. She and Reicht quickly got him to open up: among other things, they discovered what the good monks had failed to understand—the reason he didn’t illuminate his works was that he couldn't afford the gold, blue, and red, only the cheaper earth pigments; he was also scared to ask his mother to buy the expensive colors, knowing she would likely say no. Then Margaret Van Eyck gave him a small brush—some gold, vermilion, ultramarine, and a piece of good vellum to use. He practically adored her. As he left the house, Reicht ran after him with a candle and two coins: he kissed her on the cheek. But even more valuable to the illuminator than the gold and lapis-lazuli was the understanding he found with another isolated enthusiast. That support was always there, and as he returned it, a bond formed between the old painter and the young calligrapher that perfectly reflected the times. This was a century when fine arts and higher crafts weren’t distinctly separate, nor were the people who practiced them. It was a time when artists sought one another out and formed friendships. If this notion surprises a modern painter or writer, let me remind them that even Christians started out loving one another.
Backed by an acquaintance so venerable, and strengthened by female sympathy, Gerard advanced in learning and skill. His spirits, too, rose visibly: he still looked behind him when dragged to dinner in the middle of an initial G; but once seated, showed great social qualities; likewise a gay humour, that had hitherto but peeped in him, shone out, and often he set the table in a roar, and kept it there, sometimes with his own wit, sometimes with jests which were glossy new to his family, being drawn from antiquity.
Supported by a respected friend and encouraged by the support of women, Gerard made progress in his learning and skills. His spirits visibly improved: he still glanced back nervously when pulled into dinner during the start of a conversation; but once he was seated, he displayed excellent social skills. A sense of humor that had previously only peeked out now burst forth, and he often had everyone at the table laughing, sometimes with his own jokes and sometimes with fresh takes on old stories that were new to his family.
As a return for all he owed his friends the monks, he made them exquisite copies from two of their choicest MSS., viz., the life of their founder, and their Comedies of Terence, the monastery finding the vellum.
As a way to repay the monks for everything he owed them, he created beautiful copies from two of their finest manuscripts: the life of their founder and their Comedies of Terence, with the monastery providing the vellum.
The high and puissant Prince, Philip “the Good,” Duke of Burgundy, Luxemburg, and Brabant, Earl of Holland and Zealand, Lord of Friesland, Count of Flanders, Artois, and Hainault, Lord of Salins and Macklyn—was versatile.
The powerful Prince, Philip “the Good,” Duke of Burgundy, Luxemburg, and Brabant, Earl of Holland and Zealand, Lord of Friesland, Count of Flanders, Artois, and Hainault, Lord of Salins and Macklyn—was multi-talented.
He could fight as well as any king going; and lie could lie as well as any, except the King of France. He was a mighty hunter, and could read and write. His tastes were wide and ardent. He loved jewels like a woman, and gorgeous apparel. He dearly loved maids of honour, and indeed paintings generally; in proof of which he ennobled Jan Van Eyck. He had also a rage for giants, dwarfs, and Turks. These last stood ever planted about him, turbaned and blazing with jewels. His agents inveigled them from Istamboul with fair promises; but the moment he had got them, he baptized them by brute force in a large tub; and this done, let them squat with their faces towards Mecca, and invoke Mahound as much as they pleased, laughing in his sleeve at their simplicity in fancying they were still infidels. He had lions in cages, and fleet leopards trained by Orientals to run down hares and deer. In short, he relished all rarities, except the humdrum virtues. For anything singularly pretty or diabolically ugly, this was your customer. The best of him was, he was openhanded to the poor; and the next best was, he fostered the arts in earnest: whereof he now gave a signal proof. He offered prizes for the best specimens of orfevrerie in two kinds, religious and secular: item, for the best paintings in white of egg, oils, and tempera; these to be on panel, silk, or metal, as the artists chose: item, for the best transparent painting on glass: item, for the best illuminating and border-painting on vellum: item, for the fairest writing on vellum. The burgomasters of the several towns were commanded to aid all the poorer competitors by receiving their specimens and sending them with due care to Rotterdam at the expense of their several burghs. When this was cried by the bellman through the streets of Tergou, a thousand mouths opened, and one heart beat—Gerard's. He told his family timidly he should try for two of those prizes. They stared in silence, for their breath was gone at his audacity; but one horrid laugh exploded on the floor like a petard. Gerard looked down, and there was the dwarf, slit and fanged from ear to ear at his expense, and laughing like a lion. Nature, relenting at having made Giles so small, had given him as a set-off the biggest voice on record. His very whisper was a bassoon. He was like those stunted wide-mouthed pieces of ordnance we see on fortifications; more like a flower-pot than a cannon; but ods tympana how they bellow!
He could fight as well as any king around, and he could lie just as well, except maybe for the King of France. He was a great hunter, and he could read and write. His interests were broad and intense. He loved jewels like a woman and wore lavish clothes. He had a deep affection for maids of honor and, in fact, for paintings in general; to prove this, he honored Jan Van Eyck. He also had a fascination with giants, dwarfs, and Turks. The Turks would always surround him, wearing turbans and adorned with jewels. His agents lured them from Istanbul with sweet promises; but once he got them, he forcibly converted them in a large tub, then let them kneel facing Mecca and call on Mahound as much as they wanted, all while secretly laughing at their naivety in thinking they were still infidels. He kept lions in cages and quick leopards trained by Easterners to hunt hares and deer. In short, he enjoyed all kinds of rarities, except for the mundane virtues. For anything uniquely beautiful or grotesquely ugly, he was your guy. The best part about him was that he was generous to the poor; and the next best thing was his serious support for the arts, which he demonstrated by offering prizes for the best examples of silverwork in two categories: religious and secular; also, for the best paintings using egg white, oils, and tempera on panel, silk, or metal, as the artists preferred; as well as for the best transparent painting on glass; for the best illumination and border painting on vellum; and for the most beautiful writing on vellum. The burgomasters of various towns were instructed to help the poorer competitors by collecting their work and sending it with care to Rotterdam, funded by their respective municipalities. When this was announced by the town crier in the streets of Tergou, a thousand mouths opened, and one heart raced—Gerard’s. He timidly told his family that he would try for two of those prizes. They stared in silence, shocked by his boldness; but one horrid laugh burst out on the floor like a firecracker. Gerard looked down, and there was the dwarf, grinning widely and mockingly at his expense, laughing like a lion. Nature, feeling guilty for making Giles so small, had compensated him by giving him the loudest voice imaginable. His whisper was like a bassoon. He resembled those short, wide-mouthed cannons seen on fortifications; more like a flowerpot than a cannon, but boy, do they roar!
Gerard turned red with anger, the more so as the others began to titter. White Catherine saw, and a pink tinge came on her cheek. She said softly, “Why do you laugh? Is it because he is our brother you think he cannot be capable? Yes, Gerard, try with the rest. Many say you are skilful; and mother and I will pray the Virgin to guide your hand.”
Gerard's face flushed with anger, especially as the others started to giggle. White Catherine noticed and a blush crept onto her cheek. She said gently, “Why are you laughing? Do you think he can't be capable just because he's our brother? Yes, Gerard, give it a shot with the others. A lot of people say you're talented; and mom and I will pray to the Virgin to help you.”
“Thank you, little Kate. You shall pray to our Lady, and our mother shall buy me vellum and the colours to illuminate with.”
“Thanks, little Kate. You should pray to our Lady, and our mother will buy me parchment and the colors to decorate with.”
“What will they cost, my lad?”
“What will they cost, my friend?”
“Two gold crowns” (about three shillings and fourpence English money).
“Two gold crowns” (around three shillings and fourpence in English money).
“What!” screamed the housewife, “when the bushel of rye costs but a groat! What! me spend a month's meal and meat and fire on such vanity as that: the lightning from Heaven would fall on me, and my children would all be beggars.”
“What!” screamed the housewife, “when a bushel of rye costs just a penny! What! Me spend a month's worth of food, meat, and heat on such foolishness as that: the lightning from Heaven would strike me, and my children would end up beggars.”
“Mother!” sighed little Catherine, imploringly.
"Mom!" sighed little Catherine, imploringly.
“Oh! it is in vain, Kate,” said Gerard, with a sigh. “I shall have to give it up, or ask the dame Van Eyck. She would give it me, but I think shame to be for ever taking from her.”
“Oh! it's useless, Kate,” said Gerard, with a sigh. “I’ll have to give it up, or ask Mrs. Van Eyck. She would give it to me, but I feel embarrassed to keep taking from her.”
“It is not her affair,” said Catherine, very sharply; “what has she to do coming between me and my son?” and she left the room with a red face. Little Catherine smiled. Presently the housewife returned with a gracious, affectionate air, and two little gold pieces in her hand.
“It’s none of her business,” Catherine said sharply. “What does she have to do with coming between me and my son?” She left the room with a flushed face. Little Catherine smiled. Soon, the housewife came back with a warm, friendly attitude and two little gold coins in her hand.
“There, sweetheart,” said she, “you won't have to trouble dame or demoiselle for two paltry crowns.”
“There, sweetheart,” she said, “you won’t have to bother the lady or the young woman for two measly crowns.”
But on this Gerard fell a thinking how he could spare her purse.
But then Gerard started thinking about how he could help her save some money.
“One will do, mother. I will ask the good monks to let me send my copy of their 'Terence:' it is on snowy vellum, and I can write no better: so then I shall only need six sheets of vellum for my borders and miniatures, and gold for my ground, and prime colours—one crown will do.'
“One will do, Mom. I'll ask the good monks to let me send my copy of their 'Terence': it’s on snowy vellum, and I can’t write any better than that. So, I’ll only need six sheets of vellum for my borders and miniatures, plus gold for my background, and some primary colors—one crown will be enough.”
“Never tyne the ship for want of a bit of tar, Gerard,” said his changeable mother. But she added, “Well, there, I will put the crown in my pocket. That won't be like putting it back in the box. Going to the box to take out instead of putting in, it is like going to my heart with a knife for so many drops of blood. You will be sure to want it, Gerard. The house is never built for less than the builder counted on.”
“Don't lose the ship just because of a little tar, Gerard,” said his fickle mother. But she added, “Alright, I’ll put the crown in my pocket. That’s not the same as putting it back in the box. Taking it out of the box instead of putting it in feels like taking a knife to my heart for just a few drops of blood. You’re definitely going to need it, Gerard. A house is never built for less than what the builder planned on.”
Sure enough, when the time came, Gerard longed to go to Rotterdam and see the Duke, and above all to see the work of his competitors, and so get a lesson from defeat. And the crown came out of the housewife's pocket with a very good grace. Gerard would soon be a priest. It seemed hard if he might not enjoy the world a little before separating himself from it for life.
Sure enough, when the time came, Gerard wanted to go to Rotterdam and see the Duke, especially to check out what his competitors were doing and learn from his failures. The crown came out of the housewife's pocket easily. Gerard would soon become a priest. It seemed unfair if he couldn't enjoy the world a bit before committing himself to a life apart from it.
The night before he went, Margaret Van Eyck asked him to take a letter for her, and when he came to look at it, to his surprise he found it was addressed to the Princess Marie, at the Stadthouse in Rotterdam.
The night before he left, Margaret Van Eyck asked him to take a letter for her, and when he looked at it, he was surprised to find it was addressed to Princess Marie at the Stadthouse in Rotterdam.
The day before the prizes were to be distributed, Gerard started for Rotterdam in his holiday suit, to wit, a doublet of silver-grey cloth, with sleeves, and a jerkin of the same over it, but without sleeves. From his waist to his heels he was clad in a pair of tight-fitting buckskin hose fastened by laces (called points) to his doublet. His shoes were pointed, in moderation, and secured by a strap that passed under the hollow of the foot. On his head and the back of his neck he wore his flowing hair, and pinned to his back between his shoulders was his hat: it was further secured by a purple silk ribbon little Kate had passed round him from the sides of the hat, and knotted neatly on his breast; below his hat, attached to the upper rim of his broad waist-belt, was his leathern wallet. When he got within a league of Rotterdam he was pretty tired, but he soon fell in with a pair that were more so. He found an old man sitting by the roadside quite worn out, and a comely young woman holding his hand, with a face brimful of concern. The country people trudged by, and noticed nothing amiss; but Gerard, as he passed, drew conclusions. Even dress tells a tale to those who study it so closely as he did, being an illuminator. The old man wore a gown, and a fur tippet, and a velvet cap, sure signs of dignity; but the triangular purse at his girdle was lean, the gown rusty, the fur worn, sure signs of poverty. The young woman was dressed in plain russet cloth: yet snow-white lawn covered that part of her neck the gown left visible, and ended half way up her white throat in a little band of gold embroidery; and her head-dress was new to Gerard: instead of hiding her hair in a pile of linen or lawn, she wore an open network of silver cord with silver spangles at the interstices: in this her glossy auburn hair was rolled in front into two solid waves, and supported behind in a luxurious and shapely mass. His quick eye took in all this, and the old man's pallor, and the tears in the young woman's eyes. So when he had passed them a few yards, he reflected, and turned back, and came towards them bashfully.
The day before the prizes were to be given out, Gerard set off for Rotterdam in his holiday outfit, which consisted of a silver-grey doublet with sleeves and a sleeveless jerkin over it. From his waist to his ankles, he wore tight-fitting buckskin hose that were laced (called points) to his doublet. His shoes were moderately pointed and secured by a strap that went under his foot. He wore his long hair flowing over his head and neck, with his hat pinned to his back between his shoulders; it was also held in place by a purple silk ribbon that little Kate had tied around him from the sides of the hat, knotted neatly on his chest. Attached to the upper rim of his broad waist-belt was his leather wallet. When he got within a league of Rotterdam, he was pretty tired, but soon he came across a couple who looked even more exhausted. He found an old man sitting by the roadside, completely worn out, and a pretty young woman holding his hand, her face full of concern. The local people walked by, not noticing anything wrong; but as Gerard passed, he started to draw conclusions. Even clothing tells a story to someone who studies it as closely as he did, being an illuminator. The old man wore a gown, a fur tippet, and a velvet cap, clear signs of status; but the triangular purse at his belt was empty, the gown was frayed, and the fur was worn, clear signs of poverty. The young woman was dressed in plain russet cloth, yet a snow-white lawn covered the part of her neck that her gown left exposed, ending halfway up her throat with a small band of gold embroidery; her headpiece was new to Gerard: instead of hiding her hair under layers of linen or lace, she wore an open network of silver cord with silver sequins at the spaces between; her glossy auburn hair was styled in two solid waves in front and gathered in a luxurious, shapely mass at the back. He quickly took in all this, along with the old man's pale face and the tears in the young woman's eyes. After passing them by a few yards, he thought about it and turned back, approaching them shyly.
“Father, I fear you are tired.”
“Dad, I’m worried you’re tired.”
“Indeed, my son, I am,” replied the old man, “and faint for lack of food.”
“Yeah, my son, I am,” the old man replied, “and I'm weak from not having enough to eat.”
Gerard's address did not appear so agreeable to the girl as to the old man. She seemed ashamed, and with much reserve in her manner, said, that it was her fault—she had underrated the distance, and imprudently allowed her father to start too late in the day.
Gerard's address didn’t seem as pleasant to the girl as it did to the old man. She looked embarrassed and, holding back, said that it was her fault—she had miscalculated the distance and had thoughtlessly let her father set off too late in the day.
“No, no,” said the old man; “it is not the distance, it is the want of nourishment.”
“No, no,” said the old man; “it’s not the distance, it’s the lack of food.”
The girl put her arms round his neck with tender concern, but took that opportunity of whispering, “Father, a stranger—a young man!”
The girl wrapped her arms around his neck with gentle care but seized the moment to whisper, “Dad, there’s a stranger—a young man!”
But it was too late. Gerard, with simplicity, and quite as a matter of course, fell to gathering sticks with great expedition. This done, he took down his wallet, out with the manchet of bread and the iron flask his careful mother had put up, and his everlasting tinder-box; lighted a match, then a candle-end, then the sticks; and put his iron flask on it. Then down he went on his stomach, and took a good blow: then looking up, he saw the girl's face had thawed, and she was looking down at him and his energy with a demure smile. He laughed back to her. “Mind the pot,” said he, “and don't let it spill, for Heaven's sake: there's a cleft stick to hold it safe with;” and with this he set off running towards a corn-field at some distance.
But it was too late. Gerard, without any fuss and just like it was the most natural thing in the world, quickly started gathering sticks. Once he finished, he pulled out his wallet and took out the piece of bread and the iron flask his careful mother had packed, along with his trusty tinderbox. He lit a match, then a candle end, and then the sticks, placing his iron flask on top of them. Then he lay down on his stomach and took a deep breath; when he looked up, he saw the girl's expression had softened, and she was looking down at him with a shy smile. He smiled back at her. “Watch the pot,” he said, “and try not to spill it, for goodness' sake: there's a forked stick to hold it steady;” and with that, he took off running toward a distant cornfield.
Whilst he was gone, there came by, on a mule with rich purple housings, an old man redolent of wealth. The purse at his girdle was plethoric, the fur on his tippet was ermine, broad and new.
While he was away, an old man riding a mule adorned with rich purple coverings came by. He smelled of wealth. The purse at his belt was full, and the fur on his cape was new, broad ermine.
It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the burgomaster of Tergou.
It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the mayor of Tergou.
He was old, and his face furrowed. He was a notorious miser, and looked one generally. But the idea of supping with the Duke raised him just now into manifest complacency. Yet at the sight of the faded old man and his bright daughter sitting by a fire of sticks, the smile died out of his face, and he wore a strange look of pain and uneasiness. He reined in his mule.
He was old, and his face was lined with wrinkles. He was known to be a miser, and he looked the part. However, the thought of having dinner with the Duke filled him with a sense of satisfaction. But when he saw the faded old man and his vibrant daughter sitting by a fire made of sticks, the smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a strange expression of pain and discomfort. He pulled back on the reins of his mule.
“Why, Peter,—Margaret,” said he, almost fiercely, “what mummery is this?” Peter was going to answer, but Margaret interposed hastily, and said: “My father was exhausted, so I am warming something to give him strength before we go on.”
“Why, Peter,—Margaret,” he said, almost angrily, “what nonsense is this?” Peter was about to reply, but Margaret quickly interrupted and said, “My dad was worn out, so I’m warming something to give him energy before we continue.”
“What! reduced to feed by the roadside like the Bohemians,” said Ghysbrecht, and his hand went into his purse; but it did not seem at home there; it fumbled uncertainly, afraid too large a coin might stick to a finger and come out.
“What! Stuck feeding by the roadside like the Bohemians,” said Ghysbrecht, and his hand reached into his purse; but it didn’t feel right in there; it fumbled awkwardly, worried that a big coin might get stuck to a finger and come out.
At this moment who should come bounding up but Gerard. He had two straws in his hand, and he threw himself down by the fire and relieved Margaret of the cooking part: then suddenly recognizing the burgomaster, he coloured all over. Ghysbrecht Van Swieten started and glared at him, and took his hand out of his purse. “Oh!” said he bitterly, “I am not wanted,” and went slowly on, casting a long look of suspicion on Margaret, and hostility on Gerard, that was not very intelligible. However, there was something about it that Margaret could read enough to blush at, and almost toss her head. Gerard only stared with surprise. “By St. Bavon, I think the old miser grudges us three our quart of soup,” said he. When the young man put that interpretation on Ghysbrecht's strange and meaning look, Margaret was greatly relieved, and smiled gaily on the speaker.
At that moment, who should come bounding up but Gerard. He had two straws in his hand, and he flopped down by the fire, taking over the cooking from Margaret. Then, suddenly recognizing the burgomaster, he turned bright red. Ghysbrecht Van Swieten jumped and glared at him, pulling his hand out of his purse. “Oh!” he said bitterly, “I’m not wanted,” and walked away slowly, casting a suspicious look at Margaret and a hostile one at Gerard that was hard to understand. Still, there was something in it that made Margaret blush and almost toss her head. Gerard just stared in surprise. “By St. Bavon, I think the old miser is unhappy that the three of us are having our quart of soup,” he said. When the young man gave that explanation for Ghysbrecht's strange and loaded look, Margaret felt a wave of relief and smiled brightly at him.
Meanwhile Ghysbrecht plodded on, more wretched in his wealth than these in their poverty. And the curious thing is, that the mule, the purple housings, and one-half the coin in that plethoric purse, belonged not to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, but to that faded old man and that comely girl, who sat by a roadside fire to be fed by a stranger. They did not know this; but Ghysbrecht knew it, and carried in his heart a scorpion of his own begetting; that scorpion is remorse—the remorse that, not being penitence, is incurable, and ready for fresh misdeeds upon a fresh temptation.
Meanwhile, Ghysbrecht trudged along, more miserable in his wealth than they were in their poverty. Interestingly, the mule, the purple coverings, and half of the coins in that stuffed purse didn’t belong to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, but to that faded old man and the lovely girl who sat by a roadside fire, waiting to be fed by a stranger. They didn’t know this, but Ghysbrecht did, and he carried in his heart a scorpion of his own making; that scorpion is remorse—the kind of remorse that isn’t penitence, making it incurable and eager for new wrongdoings when faced with fresh temptations.
Twenty years ago, when Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was a hard and honest man, the touchstone opportunity came to him, and he did an act of heartless roguery. It seemed a safe one. It had hitherto proved a safe one, though he had never felt safe. To-day he had seen youth, enterprise, and, above all, knowledge, seated by fair Margaret and her father on terms that look familiar and loving.
Twenty years ago, when Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was a tough and honest man, a tempting opportunity came his way, and he made a heartless choice. It seemed like a safe bet. It had seemed safe up until now, though he had never felt secure. Today, he watched as youth, ambition, and especially knowledge sat next to fair Margaret and her father, appearing familiar and affectionate.
And the fiends are at big ear again.
And the demons are listening in again.
CHAPTER II
“The soup is hot,” said Gerard.
“But how are we to get it to our mouths?” inquired the senior, despondingly.
“But how are we supposed to get it to our mouths?” the senior asked, feeling down.
“Father, the young man has brought us straws.” And Margaret smiled slily.
“Dad, the guy has brought us straws.” And Margaret smiled mischievously.
“Ay, ay!” said the old man; “but my poor bones are stiff, and indeed the fire is too hot for a body to kneel over with these short straws. St. John the Baptist, but the young man is adroit!”
“Ay, ay!” said the old man; “but my poor bones are stiff, and honestly, the fire is too hot for someone to kneel over with these short straws. St. John the Baptist, that young man is skilled!”
For, while he stated his difficulty, Gerard removed it. He untied in a moment the knot on his breast, took his hat off, put a stone into each corner of it, then, wrapping his hand in the tail of his jerkin, whipped the flask off the fire, wedged it in between the stones, and put the hat under the old man's nose with a merry smile. The other tremulously inserted the pipe of rye-straw and sucked. Lo and behold, his wan, drawn face was seen to light up more and more, till it quite glowed; and as soon as he had drawn a long breath:
For while he expressed his difficulty, Gerard solved it. He quickly untied the knot at his chest, took off his hat, put a stone in each corner of it, then, wrapping his hand in the tail of his jerkin, grabbed the flask off the fire, wedged it between the stones, and held the hat under the old man's nose with a cheerful smile. The other man nervously put the rye-straw pipe in his mouth and took a puff. Suddenly, his pale, gaunt face began to brighten up more and more until it was glowing, and as soon as he took a deep breath:
“Hippocrates and Galen!” he cried, “'tis a soupe au vin—the restorative of restoratives. Blessed be the nation that invented it, and the woman that made it, and the young man who brings it to fainting folk. Have a suck, my girl, while I relate to our young host the history and virtues of this his sovereign compound. This corroborative, young sir, was unknown to the ancients: we find it neither in their treatises of medicine, nor in those popular narratives, which reveal many of their remedies, both in chirurgery and medicine proper. Hector, in the Ilias, if my memory does not play me false—
“Hippocrates and Galen!” he exclaimed, “it’s a wine soup—the ultimate restorative. Bless the country that created it, and the woman who made it, and the young man who brings it to those in need. Take a sip, my girl, while I tell our young host about the history and benefits of this amazing concoction. This powerful remedy, young sir, was unknown to the ancients; we don’t find it in their medical writings or in those popular stories that share many of their treatments, whether in surgery or medicine. Hector, in the Iliad, if my memory serves me right—
(Margaret. “Alas! he's off.”)
(Margaret. “Oh no! he's gone.”)
——was invited by one of the ladies of the poem to drink a draught of wine; but he declined, on the plea that he was just going into battle, and must not take aught to weaken his powers. Now, if the soupe au vin had been known in Troy, it is clear that in declining vinum merum upon that score, he would have added in the hexameter, 'But a soupe au vin, madam, I will degust, and gratefully.' Not only would this have been but common civility—a virtue no perfect commander is wanting in—but not to have done it would have proved him a shallow and improvident person, unfit to be trusted with the conduct of a war; for men going into a battle need sustenance and all possible support, as is proved by this, that foolish generals, bringing hungry soldiers to blows with full ones, have been defeated, in all ages, by inferior numbers. The Romans lost a great battle in the north of Italy to Hannibal, the Carthaginian, by this neglect alone. Now, this divine elixir gives in one moment force to the limbs and ardour to the spirits; and taken into Hector's body at the nick of time, would, by the aid of Phoebus, Venus, and the blessed saints, have most likely procured the Greeks a defeat. For note how faint and weary and heart-sick I was a minute ago; well, I suck this celestial cordial, and now behold me brave as Achilles and strong as an eagle.”
——was invited by one of the ladies in the poem to have a drink of wine; but he turned it down, claiming he was heading into battle and couldn’t take anything that might weaken him. Now, if the soupe au vin had been known in Troy, it’s clear that in refusing strong wine for that reason, he would have added in verse, 'But a soupe au vin, madam, I will taste, and with gratitude.' Not only would this have been simple courtesy—a trait no great commander is without—but failing to do so would have shown him to be shallow and thoughtless, unfit to lead in a war. Soldiers going into battle need nourishment and all the support they can get, as demonstrated by the fact that foolish generals, sending hungry soldiers into combat against full ones, have been defeated throughout history by smaller forces. The Romans lost a significant battle in northern Italy to Hannibal, the Carthaginian, due to this very neglect. Now, this divine drink gives strength to the body and lifts the spirits in an instant; if it had been given to Hector at just the right moment, it might have led, with the help of Phoebus, Venus, and the blessed saints, to a Greek defeat. Just notice how faint, weary, and heart-sick I was a moment ago; now, having taken this heavenly tonic, look at me—brave as Achilles and strong as an eagle.
“Oh, father, now? an eagle, alack!”
“Oh, Dad, really? An eagle, wow!”
“Girl, I defy thee and all the world. Ready, I say, like a foaming charger, to devour the space between this and Rotterdam, and strong to combat the ills of life, even poverty and old age, which last philosophers have called the summum malum. Negatur; unless the man's life has been ill-spent—which, by the bye, it generally has. Now for the moderns!”
“Girl, I challenge you and the whole world. I'm ready, I tell you, like a spirited horse, eager to cover the distance between here and Rotterdam, and strong enough to fight against life's struggles, even poverty and old age, which the latest philosophers have termed the ultimate evil. Not so; unless the man's life has been wasted—which, by the way, it usually has. Now let's talk about the moderns!”
“Father! dear father!”
“Dad! dear dad!”
“Fear me not, girl; I will be brief, unreasonably and unseasonably brief. The soupe au vin occurs not in modern science; but this is only one proof more, if proof were needed, that for the last few hundred years physicians have been idiots, with their chicken-broth and their decoction of gold, whereby they attribute the highest qualities to that meat which has the least juice of any meat, and to that metal which has less chemical qualities than all the metals; mountebanks! dunces! homicides! Since, then, from these no light is to be gathered, go we to the chroniclers; and first we find that Duguesclin, a French knight, being about to join battle with the English—masters, at that time, of half France, and sturdy strikers by sea and land—drank, not one, but three soupes au vin in honour of the Blessed Trinity. This done, he charged the islanders; and, as might have been foretold, killed a multitude, and drove the rest into the sea. But he was only the first of a long list of holy and hard-hitting ones who have, by this divine restorative, been sustentated, fortified, corroborated, and consoled.”
“Don’t be afraid, girl; I’ll be quick, unreasonably and unseasonably quick. The soup with wine isn’t recognized in modern science; but this is just more evidence, if evidence were needed, that for the last few hundred years, doctors have been fools, with their chicken broth and their gold solution, attributing the highest qualities to the meat with the least juice and to a metal with fewer chemical properties than any other metal; charlatans! idiots! killers! Since we can't gain any insight from them, let’s turn to the historians; and first, we find that Duguesclin, a French knight, about to engage in battle with the English—who at that time controlled half of France and were tough fighters by sea and land—drank not one, but three bowls of wine soup in honor of the Blessed Trinity. After that, he charged the islanders and, as might have been predicted, killed many and drove the rest into the sea. But he was just the first in a long line of holy and tough fighters who have been sustained, strengthened, fortified, and comforted by this divine restorative.”
“Dear father, prithee add thyself to that venerable company ere the soup cools.” And Margaret held the hat imploringly in both hands till he inserted the straw once more.
“Dear father, please join that esteemed company before the soup gets cold.” And Margaret held the hat pleadingly in both hands until he put the straw back in.
This spared them the “modern instances,” and gave Gerard an opportunity of telling Margaret how proud his mother would be her soup had profited a man of learning.
This saved them from the "modern instances," and gave Gerard a chance to tell Margaret how proud his mother would be that her soup had benefited a learned man.
“Ay! but,” said Margaret, “it would like her ill to see her son give all and take none himself. Why brought you but two straws?”
“Ay! but,” said Margaret, “it wouldn’t look good for her to see her son give everything and take nothing for himself. Why did you bring only two straws?”
“Fair mistress, I hoped you would let me put my lips to your straw, there being but two.”
“Fair mistress, I hoped you would allow me to kiss your straw, since there are only two.”
Margaret smiled and blushed. “Never beg that you may command,” said she. “The straw is not mine, 'tis yours: you cut it in yonder field.”
Margaret smiled and blushed. “Don't ever beg to be in charge,” she said. “The straw isn't mine, it's yours: you cut it in that field over there.”
“I cut it, and that made it mine; but after that, your lip touched it, and that made it yours.”
“I cut it, and that made it mine; but after that, your lips touched it, and that made it yours.”
“Did it Then I will lend it you. There—now it is yours again; your lip has touched it.”
“Did it? Then I'll lend it to you. There—now it's yours again; your lips have touched it.”
“No, it belongs to us both now. Let us divide it.”
“No, it’s ours now. Let’s split it.”
“By all means; you have a knife.”
“Of course; you have a knife.”
“No, I will not cut it—that would be unlucky. I'll bite it. There I shall keep my half: you will burn yours, once you get home, I doubt.'
“No, I won’t cut it—that would be bad luck. I’ll bite it. That’s where I’ll keep my half: you’ll burn yours when you get home, I’m sure."
“You know me not. I waste nothing. It is odds but I make a hairpin of it, or something.”
“You don’t know me. I don’t waste anything. It’s likely I’ll turn it into a hairpin, or something similar.”
This answer dashed the novice Gerard, instead of provoking him, to fresh efforts, and he was silent. And now, the bread and soup being disposed of, the old scholar prepared to continue his journey. Then came a little difficulty: Gerard the adroit could not tie his ribbon again as Catherine had tied it. Margaret, after slily eyeing his efforts for some time, offered to help him; for at her age girls love to be coy and tender, saucy and gentle, by turns, and she saw she had put him out of countenance but now. Then a fair head, with its stately crown of auburn hair, glossy and glowing through silver, bowed sweetly towards him; and, while it ravished his eye, two white supple hands played delicately upon the stubborn ribbon, and moulded it with soft and airy touches. Then a heavenly thrill ran through the innocent young man, and vague glimpses of a new world of feeling and sentiment opened on him. And these new and exquisite sensations Margaret unwittingly prolonged: it is not natural to her sex to hurry aught that pertains to the sacred toilet. Nay, when the taper fingers had at last subjugated the ends of the knot, her mind was not quite easy, till, by a manoeuvre peculiar to the female hand, she had made her palm convex, and so applied it with a gentle pressure to the centre of the knot—a sweet little coaxing hand-kiss, as much as to say, “Now be a good knot, and stay so.” The palm-kiss was bestowed on the ribbon, but the wearer's heart leaped to meet it.
This response caught the inexperienced Gerard off guard instead of inspiring him to try harder, and he stayed quiet. Now that the bread and soup had been finished, the old scholar got ready to continue his journey. Then came a small problem: Gerard, being skilled, couldn't tie his ribbon like Catherine had. Margaret, having watched him for a while, offered to help him, because at her age, girls enjoy being playful and sweet, sassy and gentle, all at once, and she noticed she had embarrassed him. Then a lovely head, with its elegant crown of auburn hair, shiny and shimmering with silver, sweetly leaned towards him; and while it captivated him, two soft white hands danced gently over the stubborn ribbon, shaping it with soft, light touches. A heavenly thrill ran through the innocent young man, and vague hints of a new emotional world began to unfold for him. These new, exquisite feelings lingered thanks to Margaret, as it’s not in her nature to rush anything related to the cherished task of dressing. When her delicate fingers finally tamed the ends of the knot, she wasn't entirely satisfied until, using a maneuver unique to a woman's hand, she curved her palm and gently pressed it against the center of the knot—a sweet little coaxing kiss, as if to say, “Now be a good knot and stay this way.” The palm-kiss was given to the ribbon, but the wearer's heart leaped to embrace it.
“There, that is how it was,” said Margaret, and drew back to take one last keen survey of her work; then, looking up for simple approval of her skill, received full in her eyes a longing gaze of such ardent adoration, as made her lower them quickly and colour all over. An indescribable tremor seized her, and she retreated with downcast lashes and tell-tale cheeks, and took her father's arm on the opposite side. Gerard, blushing at having scared her away with his eyes, took the other arm; and so the two young things went downcast and conscious, and propped the eagle along in silence.
“There, that's how it was,” said Margaret, stepping back to take one last good look at her work. Then, looking up for simple approval of her skill, she met Gerard's intense gaze filled with such deep admiration that she quickly lowered her eyes, flushing all over. An indescribable shiver ran through her, and she turned away with downcast lashes and telling cheeks, taking her father's arm on the other side. Gerard, embarrassed for having startled her with his gaze, took the opposite arm. And so the two young people walked, both a bit shy and self-conscious, silently supporting the eagle.
They entered Rotterdam by the Schiedamze Poort; and, as Gerard was unacquainted with the town, Peter directed him the way to the Hooch Straet, in which the Stadthouse was. He himself was going with Margaret to his cousin, in the Ooster-Waagen Straet, so, almost on entering the gate, their roads lay apart. They bade each other a friendly adieu, and Gerard dived into the great town. A profound sense of solitude fell upon him, yet the streets were crowded. Then he lamented too late that, out of delicacy, he had not asked his late companions who they were and where they lived.
They entered Rotterdam through the Schiedamze Poort, and since Gerard didn't know the city, Peter showed him the way to Hooch Straet, where the Stadthouse was. He was heading with Margaret to visit his cousin on Ooster-Waagen Straet, so just after entering the gate, they parted ways. They exchanged a friendly goodbye, and Gerard stepped into the bustling city. A deep feeling of loneliness washed over him, even though the streets were full of people. He regretted not having asked his former companions who they were and where they lived, out of politeness.
“Beshrew my shamefacedness!” said he. “But their words and their breeding were above their means, and something did whisper me they would not be known. I shall never see her more. Oh weary world, I hate you and your ways. To think I must meet beauty and goodness and learning—three pearls of price—and never see them more!”
“Curse my embarrassment!” he said. “But their words and manners were above their status, and something told me they wouldn’t reveal their true selves. I’ll never see her again. Oh, tired world, I despise you and your ways. To think I had to encounter beauty, goodness, and knowledge—three priceless gems—and I’ll never see them again!”
Falling into this sad reverie, and letting his body go where it would, he lost his way; but presently meeting a crowd of persons all moving in one direction, he mingled with them, for he argued they must be making for the Stadthouse. Soon the noisy troop that contained the moody Gerard emerged, not upon the Stadthouse, but upon a large meadow by the side of the Maas; and then the attraction was revealed. Games of all sorts were going on: wrestling, the game of palm, the quintain, legerdemain, archery, tumbling, in which art, I blush to say, women as well as men performed, to the great delectation of the company. There was also a trained bear, who stood on his head, and marched upright, and bowed with prodigious gravity to his master; and a hare that beat a drum, and a cock that strutted on little stilts disdainfully. These things made Gerard laugh now and then; but the gay scene could not really enliven it, for his heart was not in tune with it. So hearing a young man say to his fellow that the Duke had been in the meadow, but was gone to the Stadthouse to entertain the burgomasters and aldermen and the competitors for the prizes, and their friends, he suddenly remembered he was hungry, and should like to sup with a prince. He left the river-side, and this time he found the Hooch Straet, and it speedily led him to the Stadthouse. But when he got there he was refused, first at one door, then at another, till he came to the great gate of the courtyard. It was kept by soldiers, and superintended by a pompous major-domo, glittering in an embroidered collar and a gold chain of office, and holding a white staff with a gold knob. There was a crowd of persons at the gate endeavouring to soften this official rock. They came up in turn like ripples, and retired as such in turn. It cost Gerard a struggle to get near him, and when he was within four heads of the gate, he saw something that made his heart beat; there was Peter, with Margaret on his arm, soliciting humbly for entrance.
Falling into this sad daydream, and letting his body go where it wanted, he lost his way; but soon he encountered a crowd of people all moving in one direction, so he joined them, thinking they must be headed to the Stadthouse. Soon the noisy group that included the brooding Gerard ended up not at the Stadthouse, but in a large meadow by the Maas, and then the reason for the gathering became clear. There were all kinds of games happening: wrestling, palm games, the quintain, sleight of hand, archery, and acrobatics, which, I’m embarrassed to say, both women and men took part in, much to the delight of the audience. There was also a trained bear that stood on its head, walked upright, and bowed dramatically to its master; a hare that played a drum, and a cock that strutted on little stilts with a sense of superiority. These things made Gerard laugh occasionally, but the lively scene couldn’t truly cheer him up, as his heart wasn’t in it. Then he overheard a young man telling his friend that the Duke had been in the meadow but had gone to the Stadthouse to entertain the burgomasters, aldermen, competitors for the prizes, and their friends. Suddenly, Gerard remembered he was hungry and wished to dine with a prince. He left the riverside, and this time he found the Hooch Straet, which quickly led him to the Stadthouse. But when he arrived, he was turned away, first at one door, then at another, until he reached the main gate of the courtyard. It was guarded by soldiers and overseen by a pompous steward, shining in an embroidered collar and a gold chain of office, holding a white staff with a gold knob. A crowd of people at the gate was trying to sway this official. They approached like waves and retreated just the same. It took Gerard some effort to get close to him, and when he was only four people away from the gate, he spotted something that made his heart race; there was Peter, with Margaret on his arm, humbly asking for entry.
“My cousin the alderman is not at home; they say he is here.”
“My cousin the alderman isn’t home; they say he’s here.”
“What is that to me, old man?”
“What does that mean to me, old man?”
“If you will not let us pass in to him, at least take this leaf from my tablet to my cousin. See, I have written his name; he will come out to us.
“If you won't let us in to see him, at least take this leaf from my tablet to my cousin. Look, I’ve written his name; he’ll come out to us."
“For what do you take me? I carry no messages, I keep the gate.”
“For what do you think I am? I don’t carry messages; I just guard the gate.”
He then bawled, in a stentorian voice, inexorably:
He then shouted, in a loud voice, relentlessly:
“No strangers enter here, but the competitors and their companies.”
“No strangers are allowed here, only the competitors and their companies.”
“Come, old man,” cried a voice in the crowd, “you have gotten your answer; make way.”
“Come on, old man,” shouted a voice in the crowd, “you've got your answer; make way.”
Margaret turned half round imploringly:
Margaret turned halfway around pleadingly:
“Good people, we are come from far, and my father is old; and my cousin has a new servant that knows us not, and would not let us sit in our cousin's house.”
“Good people, we have come from far away, and my father is old; and my cousin has a new servant who doesn’t know us and wouldn't let us sit in our cousin’s house.”
At this the crowd laughed hoarsely. Margaret shrank as if they had struck her. At that moment a hand grasped hers—a magic grasp; it felt like heart meeting heart, or magnet steel. She turned quickly round at it, and it was Gerard. Such a little cry of joy and appeal came from her bosom, and she began to whimper prettily.
At this, the crowd laughed roughly. Margaret flinched as if they had hit her. Just then, a hand took hers—a magical grip; it felt like a heart connecting with another, like magnet to metal. She turned around quickly, and it was Gerard. A small cry of joy and longing escaped her, and she started to whimper charmingly.
They had hustled her and frightened her, for one thing; and her cousin's thoughtlessness, in not even telling his servant they were coming, was cruel; and the servant's caution, however wise and faithful to her master, was bitterly mortifying to her father and her. And to her so mortified, and anxious and jostled, came suddenly this kind hand and face. “Hinc illae lacrimae.”
They had rushed her and scared her, for one thing; and her cousin's carelessness, in not even informing his servant that they were coming, was cruel; and the servant's caution, no matter how smart and loyal to her master, was extremely humiliating for her father and her. And to her, feeling so embarrassed, anxious, and pushed around, suddenly came this kind hand and face. “Hinc illae lacrimae.”
“All is well now,” remarked a coarse humourist; “she hath gotten her sweetheart.”
"Everything's good now," said a rough humorist; "she's got her sweetheart."
“Haw! haw! haw!” went the crowd.
“Haha! Haha! Haha!” went the crowd.
She dropped Gerard's hand directly, and turned round, with eyes flashing through her tears:
She dropped Gerard's hand immediately and turned around, her eyes blazing with tears:
“I have no sweetheart, you rude men. But I am friendless in your boorish town, and this is a friend; and one who knows, what you know not, how to treat the aged and the weak.”
“I don't have a sweetheart, you rude men. But I'm all alone in your uncouth town, and this is a friend; someone who knows, what you don't, how to treat the old and the weak.”
The crowd was dead silent. They had only been thoughtless, and now felt the rebuke, though severe, was just. The silence enabled Gerard to treat with the porter.
The crowd was completely silent. They had been careless, and now they felt the harshness of the rebuke was deserved. The silence allowed Gerard to speak with the porter.
“I am a competitor, sir.”
"I'm a competitor, sir."
“What is your name?” and the man eyed him suspiciously.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, looking at him suspiciously.
“Gerard, the son of Elias.”
"Gerard, Elias's son."
The janitor inspected a slip of parchment he held in his hand:
The janitor looked over a piece of parchment he was holding:
“Gerard Eliassoen can enter.”
“Gerard Eliassoen can come in.”
“With my company, these two?”
“With my company, these two?”
“Nay; those are not your company they came before you.”
“Nah; those aren’t your people; they were here before you.”
“What matter? They are my friends, and without them I go not in.”
“What does it matter? They are my friends, and without them I won't go in.”
“Stay without, then.”
"Wait outside, then."
“That will I not.”
“I won’t do that.”
“That we shall see.”
"We'll see about that."
“We will, and speedily.” And with this, Gerard raised a voice of astounding volume and power, and routed so that the whole street rang:
“We will, and quickly.” With this, Gerard raised his voice with incredible volume and strength, causing the whole street to echo:
“Ho! PHILIP, EARL OF HOLLAND!”
“Hey! PHILIP, EARL OF HOLLAND!”
“Are you mad?” cried the porter.
“Are you crazy?” yelled the porter.
“HERE IS ONE OF YOUR VARLETS DEFIES YOU.”
“HERE IS ONE OF YOUR SERVANTS CHALLENGES YOU.”
“Hush, hush!”
“Shh, shh!”
“AND WILL NOT LET YOUR GUESTS PASS IN.”
“AND WILL NOT LET YOUR GUESTS PASS IN.”
“Hush! murder! The Dukes there. I'm dead,” cried the janitor, quaking.
“Hush! Murder! The Dukes are there. I’m dead,” cried the janitor, shaking.
Then suddenly trying to overpower Gerard's thunder, he shouted, with all his lungs:
Then suddenly, trying to drown out Gerard's thunder, he shouted at the top of his lungs:
“OPEN THE GATE, YE KNAVES! WAY THERE FOR GERARD ELIASSOEN AND HIS COMPANY! (The fiends go with him!)”
“OPEN THE GATE, YOU CUNNING THIEVES! MAKE WAY FOR GERARD ELIASSOEN AND HIS CREW! (The demons accompany him!)”
The gate swung open as by magic. Eight soldiers lowered their pikes halfway, and made an arch, under which the victorious three marched in triumphant. The moment they had passed, the pikes clashed together horizontally to bar the gateway, and all but pinned an abdominal citizen that sought to wedge in along with them.
The gate opened like magic. Eight soldiers lowered their pikes halfway, creating an arch for the victorious three to march through proudly. As soon as they passed, the pikes came together horizontally to block the gateway, nearly trapping a local citizen who tried to squeeze in with them.
Once past the guarded portal, a few steps brought the trio upon a scene of Oriental luxury. The courtyard was laid out in tables loaded with rich meats and piled with gorgeous plate. Guests in rich and various costumes sat beneath a leafy canopy of fresh-cut branches fastened tastefully to golden, silver, and blue silken cords that traversed the area; and fruits of many hues, including some artificial ones of gold, silver, and wax, hung pendant, or peeped like fair eyes among the green leaves of plane-trees and lime-trees. The Duke's minstrels swept their lutes at intervals, and a fountain played red Burgundy in six jets that met and battled in the air. The evening sun darted its fires through those bright and purple wine spouts, making them jets and cascades of molten rubies, then passing on, tinged with the blood of the grape, shed crimson glories here and there on fair faces, snowy beards, velvet, satin, jewelled hilts, glowing gold, gleaming silver, and sparkling glass. Gerard and his friends stood dazzled, spell-bound. Presently a whisper buzzed round them, “Salute the Duke! Salute the Duke!” They looked up, and there on high, under the dais, was their sovereign, bidding them welcome with a kindly wave of the hand. The men bowed low, and Margaret curtsied with a deep and graceful obeisance. The Duke's hand being up, he gave it another turn, and pointed the new-comers out to a knot of valets. Instantly seven of his people, with an obedient start, went headlong at our friends, seated them at a table, and put fifteen many-coloured soups before them, in little silver bowls, and as many wines in crystal vases.
Once through the guarded entrance, the trio took a few steps into a scene of Oriental luxury. The courtyard was filled with tables piled high with rich meats and beautiful dishes. Guests in elaborate and varied outfits sat beneath a leafy canopy made from fresh-cut branches, tastefully tied with golden, silver, and blue silk cords stretching across the area. Fruits in many colors, including some fake ones made of gold, silver, and wax, hung down or peeked out like bright eyes among the green leaves of plane trees and lime trees. The Duke's musicians played their lutes at intervals, and a fountain sprayed red Burgundy in six jets that danced and played in the air. The evening sun illuminated those bright purple wine spouts, turning them into jets and cascades of molten rubies, and as it moved on, tinted with the blood of the grape, it cast crimson glows on lovely faces, snowy beards, velvet, satin, jeweled hilts, glowing gold, shining silver, and sparkling glass. Gerard and his friends stood there, mesmerized. Soon, a whisper circulated around them, “Salute the Duke! Salute the Duke!” They looked up to see their sovereign on the dais, greeting them with a friendly wave. The men bowed deeply, and Margaret curtsied with a graceful gesture. With his hand raised, the Duke made another signal and indicated the newcomers to a group of attendants. Immediately, seven of his servants sprang into action, ushering our friends to a table and presenting them with fifteen colorful soups in little silver bowls, along with as many wines in crystal vases.
“Nay, father, let us not eat until we have thanked our good friend,” said Margaret, now first recovering from all this bustle.
“Nah, Dad, let’s not eat until we’ve thanked our good friend,” said Margaret, finally recovering from all the chaos.
“Girl, he is our guardian angel.”
“Girl, he's our guardian angel.”
Gerard put his face into his hands.
Gerard buried his face in his hands.
“Tell me when you have done,” said he, “and I will reappear and have my supper, for I am hungry. I know which of us three is the happiest at meeting again.”
“Let me know when you're finished,” he said, “and I’ll come back and have my dinner, because I’m hungry. I know which one of us three is the happiest to see each other again.”
“Me?” inquired Margaret.
"Me?" asked Margaret.
“No: guess again.”
“Nope: try again.”
“Father?”
“Dad?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Then I have no guess which it can be;” and she gave a little crow of happiness and gaiety. The soup was tasted, and vanished in a twirl of fourteen hands, and fish came on the table in a dozen forms, with patties of lobster and almonds mixed, and of almonds and cream, and an immense variety of brouets known to us as rissoles. The next trifle was a wild boar, which smelt divine. Why, then, did Margaret start away from it with two shrieks of dismay, and pinch so good a friend as Gerard? Because the Duke's cuisinier had been too clever; had made this excellent dish too captivating to the sight as well as taste. He had restored to the animal, by elaborate mimicry with burnt sugar and other edible colours, the hair and bristles he had robbed him of by fire and water. To make him still more enticing, the huge tusks were carefully preserved in the brute's jaw, and gave his mouth the winning smile that comes of tusk in man or beast; and two eyes of coloured sugar glowed in his head. St. Argus! what eyes! so bright, so bloodshot, so threatening—they followed a man and every movement of his knife and spoon. But, indeed, I need the pencil of Granville or Tenniel to make you see the two gilt valets on the opposite side of the table putting the monster down before our friends, with a smiling, self-satisfied, benevolent obsequiousness for this ghastly monster was the flower of all comestibles—old Peter clasping both hands in pious admiration of it; Margaret wheeling round with horror-stricken eyes and her hand on Gerard's shoulder, squeaking and pinching; his face of unwise delight at being pinched, the grizzly brute glaring sulkily on all, and the guests grinning from ear to ear.
“Then I have no idea what it could be;” and she let out a little crow of happiness and excitement. The soup was tasted and disappeared in a flurry of fourteen hands, and fish appeared on the table in many different forms, with patties of lobster and almond mix, and almond and cream, plus an amazing variety of broths we call rissoles. The next dish was wild boar, which smelled incredible. Why, then, did Margaret recoil from it with two screams of fright, and pinch her good friend Gerard? Because the Duke's chef had been too clever; he had made this fantastic dish so appealing to the eye as well as the palate. He had recreated the animal’s hair and bristles with intricate work using burnt sugar and other edible colors, which he had previously stripped away through fire and water. To make it even more enticing, the large tusks were carefully preserved in the beast's jaw, giving its mouth the charming smile that tusks impart, whether in man or beast; and two eyes made of colored sugar sparkled in its head. St. Argus! What eyes! So bright, so bloodshot, so menacing—they followed every movement of a man's knife and spoon. Truly, I need the skill of Granville or Tenniel to let you envision the two gilded valets on the opposite side of the table setting the monster down before our friends, with a smiling, self-satisfied, and overly polite demeanor for this horrifying creature, which was the highlight of all food—old Peter clasping both hands in reverent admiration of it; Margaret turning around with horror-stricken eyes and her hand on Gerard's shoulder, squeaking and pinching; his face lighting up with foolish delight at being pinched, the grizzly beast glaring sulkily at everyone, and the guests grinning from ear to ear.
“What's to do?” shouted the Duke, hearing the signals of female distress. Seven of his people with a zealous start went headlong and told him. He laughed and said, “Give her of the beef-stuffing, then, and bring me Sir Boar.” Benevolent monarch! The beef-stuffing was his own private dish. On these grand occasions an ox was roasted whole, and reserved for the poor. But this wise as well as charitable prince had discovered, that whatever venison, bares, lamb, poultry, etc., you skewered into that beef cavern, got cooked to perfection, retaining their own juices and receiving those of the reeking ox. These he called his beef-stuffing, and took delight therein, as did now our trio; for, at his word, seven of his people went headlong, and drove silver tridents into the steaming cave at random, and speared a kid, a cygnet, and a flock of wildfowl. These presently smoked before Gerard and company; and Peter's face, sad and slightly morose at the loss of the savage hog, expanded and shone. After this, twenty different tarts of fruits and herbs, and last of all, confectionery on a Titanic scale; cathedrals of sugar, all gilt painted in the interstices of the bas-reliefs; castles with moats, and ditches imitated to the life; elephants, camels, toads; knights on horseback jousting; kings and princesses looking on trumpeters blowing; and all these personages eating, and their veins filled with sweet-scented juices: works of art made to be destroyed. The guests breached a bastion, crunched a crusader and his horse and lance, or cracked a bishop, cope, chasuble, crosier and all, as remorselessly as we do a caraway comfit; sipping meanwhile hippocras and other spiced drinks, and Greek and Corsican wines, while every now and then little Turkish boys, turbaned, spangled, jewelled, and gilt, came offering on bended knee golden troughs of rose-water and orange-water to keep the guests' hands cool and perfumed.
“What's going on?” shouted the Duke, hearing signals of distress from the women. Seven of his people eagerly rushed to tell him. He laughed and said, “Give her the beef-stuffing, then, and bring me Sir Boar.” What a generous leader! The beef-stuffing was his personal favorite dish. For these big events, they roasted an entire ox and set it aside for the less fortunate. But this wise and kind prince found that whatever game, deer, lamb, poultry, etc., was skewered into that beef cavity got cooked perfectly, keeping its own juices while soaking up those of the roasting ox. He called this his beef-stuffing, and he loved it, as did our trio; at his command, seven of his people dove in, using silver tridents to randomly stab into the steaming mass and speared a kid, a swan, and a bunch of wildfowl. These soon smoked before Gerard and his companions, and Peter's face, sad and slightly gloomy about losing the wild boar, lit up. After this, twenty different tarts filled with fruits and herbs, and finally, an enormous spread of sweets; sugar sculptures, all gilded, painted in the gaps of the designs; castles complete with moats and ditches intricately detailed; elephants, camels, toads; knights jousting on horseback; kings and queens watching with trumpeters playing; and all these figures eating, their veins filled with sweet juices: masterpieces meant to be devoured. The guests smashed into a bastion, crunched a crusader along with his horse and lance, or shattered a bishop in his formal attire, completely unfeeling, just like we do with a caraway seed; sipping on hippocras and other spiced drinks, plus Greek and Corsican wines, while here and there little Turkish boys, wearing turbans and adorned with jewels, came offering golden bowls of rose-water and orange-water on bent knee to keep the guests' hands cool and fragrant.
But long before our party arrived at this final stage appetite had succumbed, and Gerard had suddenly remembered he was the bearer of a letter to the Princess Marie, and, in an under-tone, had asked one of the servants if he would undertake to deliver it. The man took it with a deep obeisance: “He could not deliver it himself, but would instantly give it one of the Princess's suite, several of whom were about.”
But long before our group reached this last stage, hunger had taken over, and Gerard suddenly remembered he was carrying a letter for Princess Marie. In a low voice, he asked one of the servants if he could deliver it. The man accepted with a deep bow: “He couldn’t deliver it himself, but he would immediately give it to one of the Princess's attendants, several of whom were nearby.”
It may be remembered that Peter and Margaret came here not to dine, but to find their cousin. Well, the old gentleman ate heartily, and—being much fatigued, dropped asleep, and forgot all about his cousin. Margaret did not remind him; we shall hear why.
It may be remembered that Peter and Margaret came here not to eat, but to find their cousin. Well, the old gentleman had a big meal, and—being very tired—fell asleep and forgot all about his cousin. Margaret didn’t remind him; we’ll find out why.
Meanwhile, that Cousin was seated within a few feet of them, at their backs, and discovered them when Margaret turned round and screamed at the boar. But he forbore to speak to them, for municipal reasons. Margaret was very plainly dressed, and Peter inclined to threadbare. So the alderman said to himself:
Meanwhile, that cousin was sitting just a few feet away from them, behind their backs, and noticed them when Margaret turned around and screamed at the boar. But he decided not to say anything to them, for civic reasons. Margaret was dressed very simply, and Peter seemed a bit worn out. So the alderman thought to himself:
“'Twill be time to make up to them when the sun sets and the company disperses then I will take my poor relations to my house, and none will be the wiser.”
“It will be time to approach them when the sun goes down and everyone leaves. Then I will bring my less fortunate relatives to my home, and no one will be the wiser.”
Half the courses were lost on Gerard and Margaret. They were no great eaters, and just now were feeding on sweet thoughts that have ever been unfavourable to appetite. But there is a delicate kind of sensuality, to whose influence these two were perhaps more sensitive than any other pair in that assembly—the delights of colour, music, and perfume, all of which blended so fascinatingly here.
Half the courses were wasted on Gerard and Margaret. They weren't big eaters and were currently indulging in sweet thoughts that always dampen their appetite. However, there is a subtle form of sensuality to which these two were likely more attuned than anyone else in the room—the pleasures of color, music, and fragrance, all of which merged so enchantingly here.
Margaret leaned back and half closed her eyes, and murmured to Gerard: “What a lovely scene! the warm sun, the green shade, the rich dresses, the bright music of the lutes and the cool music of the fountain, and all faces so happy and gay! and then, it is to you we owe it.”
Margaret leaned back and half-closed her eyes, murmuring to Gerard: “What a beautiful scene! The warm sun, the green shade, the lavish dresses, the lively music of the lutes, the soothing sound of the fountain, and everyone’s faces are so happy and cheerful! And it’s all thanks to you.”
Gerard was silent all but his eyes; observing which—
Gerard was silent except for his eyes; watching as—
“Now, speak not to me,” said Margaret languidly; “let me listen to the fountain: what are you a competitor for?”
“Now, don’t talk to me,” said Margaret wearily; “let me listen to the fountain: what are you competing for?”
He told her.
He said to her.
“Very well! You will gain one prize, at least.”
“Alright! You’ll at least win one prize.”
“Which? which? have you seen any of my work?”
“Which? Which? Have you seen any of my work?”
“I? no. But you will gain a prize.
“I? No. But you will win a prize.
“I hope so; but what makes you think so?”
“I hope so; but what makes you say that?”
“Because you were so good to my father.”
“Because you were so kind to my dad.”
Gerard smiled at the feminine logic, and hung his head at the sweet praise, and was silent.
Gerard smiled at the feminine reasoning, lowered his head at the kind words, and stayed quiet.
“Speak not,” murmured Margaret. “They say this is a world of sin and misery. Can that be? What is your opinion?”
“Don't say anything,” whispered Margaret. “People say this is a world full of sin and suffering. Is that true? What do you think?”
“No! that is all a silly old song,” explained Gerard. “'Tis a byword our elders keep repeating, out of custom: it is not true.”
“No! that’s just an old silly song,” Gerard explained. “It’s a phrase our elders keep repeating out of habit: it’s not true.”
“How can you know? You are but a child,” said Margaret, with pensive dignity.
“How can you know? You’re just a kid,” Margaret said, with thoughtful dignity.
“Why, only look round! And then thought I had lost you for ever; and you are by my side; and now the minstrels are going to play again. Sin and misery? Stuff and nonsense!”
“Why, just look around! I thought I had lost you forever, and here you are by my side; now the musicians are about to play again. Sin and misery? Nonsense!”
The lutes burst out. The courtyard rang again with their delicate harmony.
The lutes played loudly. The courtyard resonated once more with their sweet melody.
“What do you admire most of all these beautiful things, Gerard?”
“What do you admire the most about all these beautiful things, Gerard?”
“You know my name? How is that?”
“You know my name? How do you know that?”
“White magic. I am a—witch.”
“White magic. I’m a witch.”
“Angels are never witches. But I can't think how you—”
“Angels are never witches. But I can’t figure out how you—”
“Foolish boy! was it not cried at the gate loud enough to deave one?”
“Foolish boy! Wasn't that shouted at the gate loud enough to make someone deaf?”
“So it was. Where is my head? What do I admire most? If you will sit a little more that way, I'll tell you.”
“So it was. Where is my mind? What do I admire most? If you could move a bit over that way, I'll tell you.”
“This way?”
“Is this the way?”
“Yes; so that the light may fall on you. There! I see many fair things here, fairer than I could have conceived; but the fairest of all, to my eye, is your lovely hair in its silver frame, and the setting sun kissing it. It minds me of what the Vulgate praises for beauty, 'an apple of gold in a network of silver,' and oh, what a pity I did not know you before I sent in my poor endeavours at illuminating! I could illuminate so much better now. I could do everything better. There, now the sun is full on it, it is like an aureole. So our Lady looked, and none since her until to-day.”
“Yes; so that the light can shine on you. There! I see many beautiful things here, even more beautiful than I could have imagined; but the most stunning of all, to me, is your lovely hair framed in silver, with the setting sun kissing it. It reminds me of what the Vulgate praises for beauty, 'an apple of gold in a network of silver,' and oh, what a shame I didn’t know you before I tried my poor efforts at illustrating! I could do so much better now. I could do everything better. Now that the sun is fully on it, it looks like a halo. That’s how our Lady looked, and no one since her until today.”
“Oh, fie! it is wicked to talk so. Compare a poor, coarse-favoured girl like me with the Queen of Heaven? Oh, Gerard! I thought you were a good young man.” And Margaret was shocked apparently.
“Oh, come on! It's wrong to talk like that. How can you compare a poor, plain girl like me to the Queen of Heaven? Oh, Gerard! I thought you were a decent guy.” And Margaret seemed genuinely shocked.
Gerard tried to explain. “I am no worse than the rest; but how can I help having eyes, and a heart Margaret!”
Gerard tried to explain. “I’m no worse than anyone else; but how can I help having eyes and a heart, Margaret!”
“Gerard!”
“Gerard!”
“Be not angry now!”
"Don't be angry now!"
“Now, is it likely?”
"Is it likely now?"
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Oh, for shame! you must not say that to me,” and Margaret coloured furiously at this sudden assault.
“Oh, how terrible! You can't say that to me,” and Margaret blushed deeply at this unexpected remark.
“I can't help it. I love you. I love you.”
“I can't help it. I love you. I love you.”
“Hush, hush! for pity's sake! I must not listen to such words from a stranger. I am ungrateful to call you a stranger. Oh! how one may be mistaken! If I had known you were so bold—” And Margaret's bosom began to heave, and her cheeks were covered with blushes, and she looked towards her sleeping father, very much like a timid thing that meditates actual flight.
“Hush, hush! Please, I can't listen to words like that from someone I don't know. It's ungrateful of me to call you a stranger. Oh! How wrong one can be! If I had known you were so daring—” Margaret's chest began to rise and fall, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced at her sleeping father, looking very much like a shy creature considering escape.
Then Gerard was frightened at the alarm he caused. “Forgive me,” said he imploringly. “How could any one help loving you?”
Then Gerard was scared by the panic he created. “I'm sorry,” he said desperately. “How could anyone not love you?”
“Well, sir, I will try and forgive you—you are so good in other respects; but then you must promise me never to say you—to say that again.”
“Well, sir, I’ll try to forgive you—you have so many good qualities; but you have to promise me never to say that again.”
“Give me your hand then, or you don't forgive me.”
“Then give me your hand, or you won't forgive me.”
She hesitated; but eventually put out her hand a very little way, very slowly, and with seeming reluctance. He took it, and held it prisoner. When she thought it had been there long enough, she tried gently to draw it away. He held it tight: it submitted quite patiently to force. What is the use resisting force. She turned her head away, and her long eyelashes drooped sweetly. Gerard lost nothing by his promise. Words were not needed here; and silence was more eloquent. Nature was in that day what she is in ours; but manners were somewhat freer. Then as now, virgins drew back alarmed at the first words of love; but of prudery and artificial coquetry there was little, and the young soon read one another's hearts. Everything was on Gerard's side, his good looks, her belief in his goodness, her gratitude; and opportunity for at the Duke's banquet this mellow summer eve, all things disposed the female nature to tenderness: the avenues to the heart lay open; the senses were so soothed and subdued with lovely colours, gentle sounds, and delicate odours; the sun gently sinking, the warm air, the green canopy, the cool music of the now violet fountain.
She hesitated but eventually reached her hand out just a little, very slowly and with obvious reluctance. He took her hand and held it firmly. When she thought it had been there long enough, she gently tried to pull it away. He held it tightly: it submitted patiently to the pressure. What’s the point of resisting force? She turned her head away, and her long eyelashes drooped sweetly. Gerard lost nothing by his promise. Words weren’t necessary here, and silence spoke volumes. Nature back then was like it is now; but manners were a bit more relaxed. Just like today, girls would shy away at the first words of love; but there was little prudery or artificial flirtation, and young people quickly understood each other's feelings. Everything was in Gerard’s favor—his good looks, her belief in his kindness, her gratitude; and at the Duke’s banquet that warm summer evening, all things inclined the female nature toward tenderness: the pathways to her heart were wide open; the atmosphere was so soothing with beautiful colors, gentle sounds, and delicate scents; the sun was gently setting, the warm air, the green leaves above, and the soft music of the now violet fountain.
Gerard and Margaret sat hand in hand in silence; and Gerard's eyes sought hers lovingly; and hers now and then turned on him timidly and imploringly and presently two sweet unreasonable tears rolled down her cheeks, and she smiled while they were drying: yet they did not take long.
Gerard and Margaret sat silently, holding hands. Gerard looked at her lovingly, and occasionally, she glanced at him shyly and with longing. Soon, two sweet, unreasonable tears rolled down her cheeks, and she smiled as they dried; however, it didn't take long for them to dry.
And the sun declined; and the air cooled; and the fountain plashed more gently; and the pair throbbed in unison and silence, and this weary world looked heaven to them.
And the sun set; the air got cooler; the fountain splashed softly; the couple felt a deep connection in the stillness, and this tired world felt like paradise to them.
Oh, the merry days, the merry days when we were young.
Oh, the merry days, the merry days when we were young.
Oh, the joyful days, the joyful days when we were young.
Oh, the joyful days, the joyful days when we were young. CHAPTER III
A grave white-haired seneschal came to their table, and inquired courteously whether Gerard Eliassoen was of their company. Upon Gerard's answer, he said:
A serious, white-haired steward approached their table and politely asked if Gerard Eliassoen was with them. After Gerard replied, he said:
“The Princess Marie would confer with you, young sir; I am to conduct you to her presence.”
“The Princess Marie wants to speak with you, young sir; I’m here to take you to her.”
Instantly all faces within hearing turned sharp round, and were bent with curiosity and envy on the man that was to go to a princess.
Instantly, everyone who could hear turned sharply, their faces filled with curiosity and envy directed at the man who was going to meet a princess.
Gerard rose to obey.
Gerard got up to comply.
“I wager we shall not see you again,” said Margaret calmly, but colouring a little.
“I bet we won’t see you again,” said Margaret calmly, though a bit flushed.
“That you will,” was the reply: then he whispered in her ear: “This is my good princess; but you are my queen.” He added aloud: “Wait for me, I pray you, I will presently return.”
“That you will,” was the reply: then he whispered in her ear: “This is my good princess; but you are my queen.” He said out loud: “Wait for me, please, I will be back soon.”
“Ay, ay!” said Peter, awaking and speaking at one and the same moment.
“Ay, ay!” Peter said, waking up and speaking at the same time.
Gerard gone, the pair whose dress was so homely, yet they were with the man whom the Princess sent for, became “the cynosure of neighbouring eyes;” observing which, William Johnson came forward, acted surprise, and claimed his relations.
Gerard gone, the couple dressed so simply, yet they were with the man the Princess summoned, became “the center of attention;” noticing this, William Johnson stepped forward, pretended to be surprised, and claimed his connection to them.
“And to think that there was I at your backs, and you saw me not”
“And to think that I was right behind you, and you didn’t see me.”
“Nay, cousin Johnson, I saw you long syne,” said Margaret coldly.
“Nah, cousin Johnson, I saw you a long time ago,” said Margaret coldly.
“You saw me, and spoke not to me?”
“You saw me, but you didn’t talk to me?”
“Cousin, it was for you to welcome us to Rotterdam, as it is for us to welcome you at Sevenbergen. Your servant denied us a seat in your house.”
“Cousin, it was your turn to welcome us to Rotterdam, just as it is ours to welcome you at Sevenbergen. Your servant refused to give us a seat in your house.”
“The idiot!”
"That idiot!"
“And I had a mind to see whether it was 'like maid like master:' for there is sooth in bywords.”
“And I wanted to see if it was 'like mistress, like master:' because there's truth in sayings.”
William Johnson blushed purple. He saw Margaret was keen, and suspected him. He did the wisest thing under the circumstances, trusted to deeds not words. He insisted on their coming home with him at once, and he would show them whether they were welcome to Rotterdam or not.
William Johnson turned bright red. He noticed that Margaret was sharp and seemed to suspect him. He made the smartest choice given the situation, relying on actions instead of words. He insisted they come home with him right away, and he would show them whether they were welcome in Rotterdam or not.
“Who doubts it, cousin? Who doubts it?” said the scholar.
“Who doubts it, cousin? Who doubts it?” said the scholar.
Margaret thanked him graciously, but demurred to go just now: said she wanted to hear the minstrels again. In about a quarter of an hour Johnson renewed his proposal, and bade her observe that many of the guests had left. Then her real reason came out.
Margaret thanked him politely but declined to leave just yet, saying she wanted to listen to the musicians again. After about fifteen minutes, Johnson brought up his offer again and pointed out that many of the guests had already left. That’s when her real reason was revealed.
“It were ill manners to our friend; and he will lose us. He knows not where we lodge in Rotterdam, and the city is large, and we have parted company once already.”
“It would be rude to our friend; and he will lose us. He doesn’t know where we’re staying in Rotterdam, and the city is big, and we’ve already separated once.”
“Oh!” said Johnson, “we will provide for that. My young man, ahem! I mean my secretary, shall sit here and wait, and bring him on to my house: he shall lodge with me and with no other.”
“Oh!” said Johnson, “we’ll take care of that. My young man, um! I mean my secretary, will sit here and wait, and bring him to my house: he’ll stay with me and no one else.”
“Cousin, we shall be too burdensome.”
“Cousin, we will be too much of a burden.”
“Nay, nay; you shall see whether you are welcome or not, you and your friends, and your friends' friends, if need be; and I shall hear what the Princess would with him.”
“Nah, nah; you’ll see if you and your friends, and your friends' friends if necessary, are welcome or not; and I’ll find out what the Princess wants with him.”
Margaret felt a thrill of joy that Gerard should be lodged under the same roof with her; then she had a slight misgiving.
Margaret felt a rush of happiness at the idea of Gerard staying under the same roof as her; then she had a slight feeling of uncertainty.
“But if your young man should be thoughtless, and go play, and Gerard miss him?”
“But what if your young guy is careless and goes out to play, and Gerard can't find him?”
“He go play? He leave that spot where I put him, and bid him stay? Ho! stand forth, Hans Cloterman.”
“He’s going to play? He left the spot where I put him and I told him to stay? Oh! step forward, Hans Cloterman.”
A figure clad in black serge and dark violet hose arose, and took two steps and stood before them without moving a muscle: a solemn, precise young man, the very statue of gravity and starched propriety. At his aspect Margaret, being very happy, could hardly keep her countenance. But she whispered Johnson, “I would put my hand in the fire for him. We are at your command, cousin, as soon as you have given him his orders.”
A figure dressed in black fabric and dark purple stockings stood up, took two steps, and stood before them without moving a muscle: a serious, meticulous young man, the very embodiment of dignity and stiff formality. At the sight of him, Margaret, feeling very happy, could hardly hold back her laughter. But she whispered to Johnson, “I would risk anything for him. We are at your service, cousin, as soon as you give him his instructions.”
Hans was then instructed to sit at the table and wait for Gerard, and conduct him to Ooster-Waagen Straet. He replied, not in words, but by calmly taking the seat indicated, and Margaret, Peter, and William Johnson went away together.
Hans was then told to sit at the table and wait for Gerard, so he could take him to Ooster-Waagen Street. He responded, not with words, but by quietly taking the offered seat, and Margaret, Peter, and William Johnson left together.
“And, indeed, it is time you were abed, father, after all your travel,” said Margaret. This had been in her mind all along.
“And, honestly, it’s time you were in bed, Dad, after all your traveling,” said Margaret. This had been on her mind the whole time.
Hans Cloterman sat waiting for Gerard, solemn and businesslike. The minutes flew by, but excited no impatience in that perfect young man. Johnson did him no more than justice when he laughed to scorn the idea of his secretary leaving his post or neglecting his duty in pursuit of sport or out of youthful hilarity and frivolity.
Hans Cloterman sat waiting for Gerard, serious and professional. The minutes passed quickly, but this perfect young man showed no signs of impatience. Johnson was spot on when he scoffed at the idea of his secretary abandoning his position or slacking off in the name of fun or youthful antics.
As Gerard was long in coming, the patient Hans—his employer's eye being no longer on him improved the time by quaffing solemnly, silently, and at short but accurately measured intervals, goblets of Corsican wine. The wine was strong, so was Cloterman's head; and Gerard had been gone a good hour ere the model secretary imbibed the notion that Creation expected Cloterman to drink the health of all good fellows, and nommement of the Duke of Burgundy there present. With this view he filled bumper nine, and rose gingerly but solemnly and slowly. Having reached his full height, he instantly rolled upon the grass, goblet in hand, spilling the cold liquor on more than one ankle—whose owners frisked—but not disturbing a muscle in his own long face, which, in the total eclipse of reason, retained its gravity, primness, and infallibility.
As Gerard took a long time to arrive, the patient Hans—since his boss wasn't watching anymore—used the time to drink solemnly, quietly, and at short but precisely measured intervals, goblets of Corsican wine. The wine was strong, as was Cloterman's resolve; and Gerard had been gone for a good hour before the model secretary realized that creation demanded Cloterman to toast to all good fellows, especially the Duke of Burgundy present. With this intention, he poured his ninth drink and stood up carefully yet seriously. Once he reached his full height, he immediately collapsed onto the grass, goblet in hand, spilling cold wine on more than one ankle—causing those owners to jump—but not disturbing a single muscle in his own long face, which, in this complete blackout of reason, kept its seriousness, formality, and unshakeable demeanor.
The seneschal led Gerard through several passages to the door of the pavilion, where some young noblemen, embroidered and feathered, sat sentinel, guarding the heir-apparent, and playing cards by the red light of torches their servants held. A whisper from the seneschal, and one of them rose reluctantly, stared at Gerard with haughty surprise, and entered the pavilion. He presently returned, and, beckoning the pair, led then, through a passage or two and landed them in an ante-chamber, where sat three more young gentlemen, feathered, furred, and embroidered like pieces of fancy work, and deep in that instructive and edifying branch of learning, dice.
The seneschal guided Gerard through several hallways to the door of the pavilion, where some young noblemen, adorned with embroidery and feathers, stood guard over the heir-apparent and played cards by the flickering torchlight held by their servants. After a quiet word from the seneschal, one of them got up reluctantly, looked at Gerard with an air of disdain, and entered the pavilion. He soon came back, signaling for the two to follow him. They went through a couple more hallways and arrived in an anteroom, where three more young gentlemen, also dressed in feathers, fur, and embroidery like stylish artworks, were engrossed in the fascinating and educational activity of rolling dice.
“You can't see the Princess—it is too late,” said one.
“You can’t see the Princess—it’s too late,” said one.
Another followed suit:
Another joined in:
“She passed this way but now with her nurse. She is gone to bed, doll and all. Deuce—ace again!”
“She came this way but now with her nurse. She’s gone to bed, doll and all. Damn—ace again!”
Gerard prepared to retire. The seneschal, with an incredulous smile, replied:
Gerard got ready to retire. The seneschal, with a disbelieving smile, replied:
“The young man is here by the Countess's orders; be so good as conduct him to her ladies.”
“The young man is here at the Countess's request; please be kind enough to take him to her ladies.”
On this a superb Adonis rose, with an injured look, and led Gerard into a room where sat or lolloped eleven ladies, chattering like magpies. Two, more industrious than the rest, were playing cat's-cradle with fingers as nimble as their tongues. At the sight of a stranger all the tongues stopped like one piece of complicated machinery, and all the eyes turned on Gerard, as if the same string that checked the tongues had turned the eyes on. Gerard was ill at ease before, but this battery of eyes discountenanced him, and down went his eyes on the ground. Then the cowards finding, like the hare who ran by the pond and the frogs scuttled into the water, that there was a creature they could frighten, giggled and enjoyed their prowess. Then a duenna said severely, “Mesdames!” and they were all abashed at once as though a modesty string had been pulled. This same duenna took Gerard, and marched before him in solemn silence. The young man's heart sank, and he had half a mind to turn and run out of the place.
On this, a stunning Adonis appeared, looking somewhat wounded, and led Gerard into a room where eleven ladies were either sitting or lounging, chattering like magpies. Two of them, more focused than the others, were playing cat's cradle with fingers as quick as their chatter. When they noticed a stranger, all conversation halted abruptly, and every eye shifted to Gerard, as if the same force that silenced the chatter had directed their gaze. Gerard felt uneasy before, but this intense scrutiny made him even more uncomfortable, and his gaze dropped to the floor. The ladies, discovering they could intimidate someone, giggled and relished their ability to frighten him, much like the hare that startled the frogs into the water. Then a duenna said firmly, “Mesdames!” and they all became instantly shy, as if a modesty string had been pulled. This same duenna took Gerard and walked in front of him in solemn silence. The young man's heart sank, and he nearly decided to turn and flee from the place.
“What must princes be,” he thought, “when their courtiers are so freezing? Doubtless they take their breeding from him they serve.” These reflections were interrupted by the duenna suddenly introducing him into a room where three ladies sat working, and a pretty little girl tuning a lute. The ladies were richly but not showily dressed, and the duenna went up to the one who was hemming a kerchief, and said a few words in a low tone. This lady then turned towards Gerard with a smile, and beckoned him to come near her. She did not rise, but she laid aside her work, and her manner of turning towards him, slight as the movement was, was full of grace and ease and courtesy. She began a conversation at once.
“What must princes be like,” he thought, “when their courtiers are so cold? They must take their cues from the ones they serve.” His thoughts were cut short when the duenna suddenly brought him into a room where three ladies were working, and a cute little girl was tuning a lute. The ladies were dressed nicely but not excessively, and the duenna approached the one who was hemming a handkerchief and whispered a few words. This lady then turned to Gerard with a smile and signaled for him to come closer. She didn’t get up, but she set aside her work, and the way she turned to him, though subtle, was full of grace, ease, and kindness. She started a conversation right away.
“Margaret Van Eyck is an old friend of mine, sir, and I am right glad to have a letter from her hand, and thankful to you, sir, for bringing it to me safely. Marie, my love, this is the gentleman who brought you that pretty miniature.”
“Margaret Van Eyck is an old friend of mine, sir, and I’m really happy to have a letter from her and grateful to you, sir, for bringing it to me safely. Marie, my love, this is the gentleman who brought you that lovely miniature.”
“Sir, I thank you a thousand times,” said the young lady.
“Thank you so much, sir,” said the young lady.
“I am glad you feel her debtor, sweetheart, for our friend would have us to do him a little service in return.
“I’m glad you feel like you owe her, sweetheart, because our friend would like us to do him a small favor in return.”
“I will do anything on earth for him,” replied the young lady with ardour.
“I would do anything for him,” replied the young lady passionately.
“Anything on earth is nothing in the world,” said the Countess of Charolois quietly.
“Anything on earth is nothing in the world,” the Countess of Charolois said quietly.
“Well, then, I will—What would you have me to do, sir?”
“Well, then, I will—What do you want me to do, sir?”
Gerard had just found out what high society he was in. “My sovereign demoiselle,” said he, gently and a little tremulously, “where there have been no pains, there needs no reward.”
Gerard had just discovered the kind of high society he was a part of. “My noble lady,” he said, softly and a bit nervously, “where there have been no efforts, there needs to be no reward.”
But we must obey mamma. All the world must obey
But we have to obey Mom. Everyone has to obey.
“That is true. Then, our demoiselle, reward me, if you will by letting me hear the stave you were going to sing and I did interrupt it.”
"That's true. So, our lady, please reward me by letting me hear the song you were going to sing before I interrupted it."
“What! you love music, sir?”
“What! You love music, sir?”
“I adore it.”
“I love it.”
The little princess looked inquiringly at her mother, and received a smile of assent. She then took her lute and sang a romaunt of the day. Although but twelve years old, she was a well-taught and painstaking musician. Her little claw swept the chords with Courage and precision, and struck out the notes of the arpeggio clear, and distinct, and bright, like twinkling stars; but the main charm was her voice. It was not mighty, but it was round, clear, full, and ringing like a bell. She sang with a certain modest eloquence, though she knew none of the tricks of feeling. She was too young to be theatrical, or even sentimental, so nothing was forced—all gushed. Her little mouth seemed the mouth of Nature. The ditty, too, was as pure as its utterance. As there were none of those false divisions—those whining slurs, which are now sold so dear by Italian songsters, though every jackal in India delivers them gratis to his customers all night, and sometimes gets shot for them, and always deserves it—so there were no cadences and fiorituri, the trite, turgid, and feeble expletives of song, the skim-milk with which mindless musicians and mindless writers quench fire, wash out colour, and drown melody and meaning dead.
The little princess looked curiously at her mother, who smiled in agreement. She then took her lute and sang a song of the day. Even though she was only twelve years old, she was a skilled and dedicated musician. Her little fingers glided over the strings with confidence and precision, producing notes of the arpeggio that were clear, distinct, and bright, like twinkling stars; but the real magic was her voice. It wasn't powerful, but it was round, clear, full, and ringing like a bell. She sang with a certain modest expressiveness, although she didn’t use any dramatic tricks. She was too young to be theatrical or sentimental, so nothing felt forced—everything flowed naturally. Her little mouth seemed to be the voice of Nature itself. The song, too, was as pure as her delivery. There were none of those false divisions—those whiny slurs, which are now so overvalued by Italian singers, even though every jackal in India delivers them for free to his audience all night and sometimes gets shot for it, which he always deserves—so there were no cadences and flourishes, the clichéd, exaggerated, and weak fillers of music, the bland stuff that mindless musicians and writers use to dull fire, wash out color, and drown melody and meaning.
While the pure and tender strain was flowing from the pure young throat, Gerard's eyes filled. The Countess watched him with interest, for it was usual to applaud the Princess loudly, but not with cheek and eye. So when the voice ceased, and the glasses left off ringing, she asked demurely, “Was he content?”
While the pure and tender notes filled the air from the young singer's throat, Gerard's eyes welled up. The Countess observed him with curiosity, since it was common to cheer for the Princess loudly but not with such emotion in one's face. So when the music stopped and the glasses stopped clinking, she asked gently, “Was he happy?”
Gerard gave a little start; the spoken voice broke a charm and brought him back to earth.
Gerard jumped slightly; the voice snapped him out of his trance and brought him back to reality.
“Oh, madam!” he cried, “surely it is thus that cherubs and seraphs sing, and charm the saints in heaven.”
“Oh, ma'am!” he exclaimed, “this must be how angels and seraphs sing, and enchant the saints in heaven.”
“I am somewhat of your opinion, my young friend,” said the Countess, with emotion; and she bent a look of love and gentle pride upon her girl: a heavenly look, such as, they say, is given to the eye of the short-lived resting on the short-lived.
“I somewhat agree with you, my young friend,” said the Countess, feeling emotional; and she looked at her girl with love and gentle pride: a beautiful look, as they say, that is seen in the eyes of the short-lived gazing upon the short-lived.
The Countess resumed: “My old friend request me to be serviceable to you. It is the first favour she has done us the honour of asking us, and the request is sacred. You are in holy orders, sir?”
The Countess continued, “My old friend has asked me to help you. This is the first favor she has honored us by asking, and the request is important. Are you in holy orders, sir?”
Gerard bowed.
Gerard bowed.
“I fear you are not a priest, you look too young.”
“I’m afraid you’re not a priest; you look too young.”
“Oh no, madam; I am not even a sub-deacon. I am only a lector; but next month I shall be an exorcist, and before long an acolyth.”
“Oh no, ma'am; I'm not even a sub-deacon. I'm just a lector; but next month I'll be an exorcist, and before long an acolyte.”
“Well, Monsieur Gerard, with your accomplishments you can soon pass through the inferior orders. And let me beg you to do so. For the day after you have said your first mass I shall have the pleasure of appointing you to a benefice.”
“Well, Monsieur Gerard, with your achievements, you can soon move up through the lower ranks. And I urge you to do so. Because the day after you say your first mass, I’ll have the pleasure of giving you a position.”
“Oh, madam!”
“Oh, ma'am!”
“And, Marie, remember I make this promise in your name as well as my own.”
“And, Marie, keep in mind that I’m making this promise in your name as well as my own.”
“Fear not, mamma: I will not forget. But if he will take my advice, what he will be is Bishop of Liege. The Bishop of Liege is a beautiful bishop. What! do you not remember him, mamma, that day we were at Liege? he was braver than grandpapa himself. He had on a crown, a high one, and it was cut in the middle, and it was full of oh! such beautiful jewels; and his gown stiff with gold; and his mantle, too; and it had a broad border, all pictures; but, above all, his gloves; you have no such gloves, mamma. They were embroidered and covered with jewels, and scented with such lovely scent; I smelt them all the time he was giving me his blessing on my head with them. Dear old man! I dare say he will die soon most old people do and then, sir, you Can be bishop you know, and wear—
“Don’t worry, mom: I won’t forget. But if he takes my advice, he’ll become the Bishop of Liege. The Bishop of Liege is quite impressive. What! Don’t you remember him, mom, that day we were in Liege? He was braver than grandpa himself. He wore a crown, a tall one, cut in the middle and adorned with oh! such beautiful jewels; his gown was stiff with gold; and his cloak, too, had a wide border, all decorated with pictures; but above all, his gloves; you don’t have gloves like those, mom. They were embroidered, covered with jewels, and smelled so lovely; I could smell them the whole time he was giving me his blessing on my head with them. Dear old man! I bet he’ll pass away soon—most old people do—and then, sir, you can be bishop, you know, and wear—
“Gently, Marie, gently: bishoprics are for old gentlemen; and this is a young gentleman.”
“Take it easy, Marie, take it easy: bishoprics are for older men; and this is a young man.”
“Mamma! he is not so very young.
“Mom! He’s not that young.”
“Not compared with you, Marie, eh?”
“Not in comparison to you, Marie, right?”
“He is a good birth dear mamma; and I am sure he is good enough for a bishop.
“He is a good match, dear mom; and I’m sure he’s good enough for a bishop."
“Alas! mademoiselle, you are mistaken”
"Sorry, miss, you're mistaken."
“I know not that, Monsieur Gerard; but I am a little puzzled to know on what grounds mademoiselle there pronounces your character so boldly.”
“I don't know about that, Monsieur Gerard; but I'm a bit confused about why mademoiselle speaks so confidently about your character.”
“Alas! mamma,” said the Princess, “you have not looked at his face, then;” and she raised her eyebrows at her mother's simplicity.
“Honestly, Mom,” said the Princess, “you haven’t even looked at his face, have you?” and she raised her eyebrows at her mother's cluelessness.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Countess, “I have. Well, sir, if I cannot go quite so fast as my daughter, attribute it to my age, not to a want of interest in your welfare. A benefice will do to begin your Career with; and I must take care it is not too far from—what call you the place?”
“I’m sorry,” said the Countess, “I have. Well, sir, if I can’t keep up with my daughter, please blame it on my age, not on a lack of concern for your well-being. A benefice will be a good start for your career; and I need to make sure it’s not too far from—what do you call the place?”
“Tergou, madam
“Tergou, ma'am”
“A priest gives up much,” continued the Countess; “often, I fear, he learns too late how much;” and her woman's eye rested a moment on Gerard with mild pity and half surprise at his resigning her sex and all the heaven they can bestow, and the great parental joys: “at least you shall be near your friends. Have you a mother?”
“A priest sacrifices a lot,” the Countess continued; “sometimes, I worry, he realizes too late how much.” Her gaze lingered on Gerard with a mix of gentle pity and surprise that he would give up women and all the joys they can offer, as well as the immense happiness of parenthood. “At least you’ll be close to your friends. Do you have a mother?”
“Yes, madam, thanks be to God!”
“Yes, ma'am, thank goodness!”
“Good! You shall have a church near Tergou. She will thank me. And now, sir, we must not detain you too long from those who have a better claim on your society than we have. Duchess, oblige me by bidding one of the pages conduct him to the hall of banquet; the way is hard to find.”
“Great! You’ll have a church near Tergou. She’ll appreciate it. Now, sir, we shouldn’t keep you away from those who have a better right to your company than we do. Duchess, please ask one of the pages to show him to the banquet hall; it’s difficult to find.”
Gerard bowed low to the Countess and the Princess, and backed towards the door.
Gerard bowed deeply to the Countess and the Princess, then stepped back toward the door.
“I hope it will be a nice benefice,” said the Princess to him, with a pretty smile, as he was going out; then, shaking her head with an air of solemn misgiving, “but you had better have been Bishop of Liege.”
“I hope it'll be a nice position,” said the Princess to him, with a sweet smile, as he was leaving; then, shaking her head with a look of serious concern, “but you really should have been Bishop of Liege.”
Gerard followed his new conductor, his heart warm with gratitude; but ere he reached the banquet-hall a chill came over him. The mind of one who has led a quiet, uneventful life is not apt to take in contradictory feelings at the same moment and balance them, but rather to be overpowered by each in turn. While Gerard was with the Countess, the excitement of so new a situation, the unlooked-for promise the joy and pride it would cause at home, possessed him wholly; but now it was passion's turn to be heard again. What! give up Margaret, whose soft hand he still felt in his, and her deep eyes in his heart? resign her and all the world of love and joy she had opened on him to-day? The revulsion, when it did come, was so strong that he hastily resolved to say nothing at home about the offered benefice. “The Countess is so good,” thought he, “she has a hundred ways of aiding a young man's fortune: she will not compel me to be a priest when she shall learn I love one of her sex: one would almost think she does know it, for she cast a strange look on me, and said, 'A priest gives up much, too much.' I dare say she will give me a place about the palace.” And with this hopeful reflection his mind was eased, and, being now at the entrance of the banqueting hall, he thanked his conductor, and ran hastily with joyful eyes to Margaret. He came in sight of the table—she was gone. Peter was gone too. Nobody was at the table at all; only a citizen in sober garments had just tumbled under it dead drunk, and several persons were raising him to carry him away. Gerard never guessed how important this solemn drunkard was to him: he was looking for “Beauty,” and let the “Beast” lie. He ran wildly round the hall, which was now comparatively empty. She was not there. He left the palace: outside he found a crowd gaping at two great fan-lights just lighted over the gate. He asked them earnestly if they had seen an old man in a gown, and a lovely girl pass out. They laughed at the question. “They were staring at these new lights that turn night into day. They didn't trouble their heads about old men and young wenches, every-day sights.” From another group he learned there was a Mystery being played under canvas hard by, and all the world gone to see it. This revived his hopes, and he went and saw the Mystery.
Gerard followed his new conductor, feeling a warm sense of gratitude, but as he approached the banquet hall, a chill swept over him. Someone who has lived a quiet, uneventful life isn’t used to processing conflicting emotions all at once; instead, they tend to be overwhelmed by each feeling in succession. While he was with the Countess, the excitement of such a new situation and the unexpected promise of joy and pride it would bring at home completely consumed him. But now, it was time for his passion to resurface. What? Give up Margaret, whose soft hand he still felt in his and whose deep eyes were etched in his heart? Resign her and every world of love and happiness she had opened up to him today? The wave of emotion hit him so hard that he quickly decided not to mention the benefice at home. “The Countess is so kind,” he thought, “she has a hundred ways to help a young man's future. She won't force me to become a priest when she finds out I love a woman. One might almost think she knows, since she gave me a strange look and said, 'A priest gives up much, too much.' I'm sure she’ll offer me a position at the palace.” With this hopeful thought, he felt more at ease, and as he reached the entrance of the banquet hall, he thanked his conductor and hurried joyfully toward Margaret. But when he found the table, she was gone. Peter was gone too. No one was at the table; only a citizen in plain clothes had just collapsed under it, dead drunk, and several people were lifting him to take him away. Gerard had no idea how important this fallen man was to him; he was searching for “Beauty” while ignoring the “Beast.” He dashed around the now relatively empty hall. She was nowhere to be found. He left the palace and found a crowd gathered, staring at two large lights just lit over the gate. He urgently asked them if they had seen an old man in a gown and a beautiful girl come out. They laughed at his question. “They were too busy staring at these new lights that turned night into day. They didn’t care about old men and young women—it was an everyday sight.” From another group, he learned that a Mystery was being performed in a nearby tent, and everyone had gone to see it. This revived his hopes, and he went to watch the Mystery.
In this representation divine personages, too sacred for me to name here, came clumsily down from heaven to talk sophistry with the cardinal Virtues, the nine Muses, and the seven deadly sins, all present in human shape, and not unlike one another. To enliven which weary stuff in rattled the Prince of the power of the air, and an imp that kept molesting him and buffeting him with a bladder, at each thwack of which the crowd were in ecstasies. When the Vices had uttered good store of obscenity and the Virtues twaddle, the celestials, including the nine Muses went gingerly back to heaven one by one; for there was but one cloud; and two artisans worked it up with its supernatural freight, and worked it down with a winch, in full sight of the audience. These disposed of, the bottomless pit opened and flamed in the centre of the stage; the carpenters and Virtues shoved the Vices in, and the Virtues and Beelzebub and his tormentor danced merrily round the place of eternal torture to the fife and tabor.
In this scene, divine figures, too sacred for me to name here, awkwardly came down from heaven to engage in meaningless arguments with the cardinal Virtues, the nine Muses, and the seven deadly sins, all appearing in human form and quite similar to each other. To liven up the dull material, the Prince of the power of the air entered with an imp that kept bothering him and hitting him with a bladder, causing the crowd to erupt in applause with each smack. Once the Vices had spewed quite a bit of obscenity and the Virtues had chatted nonsense, the celestial beings, including the nine Muses, gingerly returned to heaven one by one; there was only one cloud, and two artisans manipulated it with its supernatural load, lowering it with a winch right in front of the audience. After they were taken care of, the bottomless pit opened and blazed in the center of the stage; the carpenters and Virtues pushed the Vices in, and the Virtues along with Beelzebub and his tormentor danced joyfully around the place of eternal punishment to the sound of a fife and drum.
This entertainment was writ by the Bishop of Ghent for the diffusion of religious sentiment by the aid of the senses, and was an average specimen of theatrical exhibitions so long as they were in the hands of the clergy. But, in course of time, the laity conducted plays, and so the theatre, I learn from the pulpit, has become profane.
This performance was written by the Bishop of Ghent to spread religious feelings through sensory experiences, and it was a typical example of theatrical shows while they were managed by the clergy. However, over time, the laity took over the plays, and now, as I hear from the pulpit, the theater has become secular.
Margaret was nowhere in the crowd, and Gerard could not enjoy the performance; he actually went away in Act 2, in the midst of a much-admired piece of dialogue, in which Justice out-quibbled Satan. He walked through many streets, but could not find her he sought. At last, fairly worn out, he went to a hostelry and slept till daybreak. All that day, heavy and heartsick, he sought her, but could never fall in with her or her father, nor ever obtain the slightest clue. Then he felt she was false or had changed her mind. He was irritated now, as well as sad. More good fortune fell on him; he almost hated it. At last, on the third day, after he had once more been through every street, he said, “She is not in the town, and I shall never see her again. I will go home.” He started for Tergou with royal favour promised, with fifteen golden angels in his purse, a golden medal on his bosom, and a heart like a lump of lead.
Margaret was nowhere to be found in the crowd, and Gerard couldn’t enjoy the performance; he actually left during Act 2, in the middle of a well-loved dialogue where Justice outsmarted Satan. He wandered through many streets, but couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally, completely exhausted, he went to an inn and slept until dawn. All day, feeling heavy and heartbroken, he searched for her but never ran into her or her father, nor could he find any hint of where she was. Then he started to feel like she had betrayed him or changed her mind. He was now both irritated and sad. More misfortune fell on him; he almost hated it. Finally, on the third day, after searching every street again, he said, “She’s not in the town, and I’ll never see her again. I’ll go home.” He set off for Tergou with royal favor promised, fifteen golden angels in his pocket, a gold medal on his chest, and a heart feeling like a lump of lead.
CHAPTER IV
It was near four o'clock in the afternoon. Eli was in the shop. His eldest and youngest sons were abroad. Catherine and her little crippled daughter had long been anxious about Gerard, and now they were gone a little way down the road, to see if by good luck he might be visible in the distance; and Giles was alone in the sitting-room, which I will sketch, furniture and dwarf included.
It was almost four o'clock in the afternoon. Eli was in the shop. His oldest and youngest sons were out. Catherine and her little disabled daughter had been worried about Gerard for a while, and now they had gone a short distance down the road to see if they could spot him in the distance; and Giles was alone in the sitting room, which I will describe, furniture and dwarf included.
The Hollanders were always an original and leading people. They claim to have invented printing (wooden type), oil-painting, liberty, banking, gardening, etc. Above all, years before my tale, they invented cleanliness. So, while the English gentry, in velvet jerkins and chicken-toed shoes, trode floors of stale rushes, foul receptacle of bones, decomposing morsels, spittle, dogs, eggs, and all abominations, this hosier's sitting-room at Tergou was floored with Dutch tiles, so highly glazed and constantly washed, that you could eat off them. There was one large window; the cross stone-work in the centre of it was very massive, and stood in relief, looking like an actual cross to the inmates, and was eyed as such in their devotions. The panes were very small and lozenge-shaped, and soldered to one another with strips of lead: the like you may see to this day in our rural cottages. The chairs were rude and primitive, all but the arm-chair, whose back, at right angles with its seat, was so high that the sitter's head stopped two feet short of the top. This chair was of oak, and carved at the summit. There was a copper pail, that went in at the waist, holding holy water, and a little hand-besom to sprinkle it far and wide; and a long, narrow, but massive oak table, and a dwarf sticking to its rim by his teeth, his eyes glaring, and his claws in the air like a pouncing vampire. Nature, it would seem, did not make Giles a dwarf out of malice prepense; she constructed a head and torso with her usual care; but just then her attention was distracted, and she left the rest to chance; the result was a human wedge, an inverted cone. He might justly have taken her to task in the terms of Horace,
The Dutch were always a creative and influential people. They claim to have invented printing (with wooden type), oil painting, freedom, banking, gardening, and more. Above all, years before my story, they came up with cleanliness. So, while the English gentry, dressed in velvet jackets and pointy shoes, walked on floors made of stale rushes, which were full of bones, rotting scraps, spit, dogs, eggs, and all sorts of filth, this hosier’s sitting room in Tergou had a floor of Dutch tiles, so highly glazed and frequently cleaned that you could eat off them. There was one large window; the stone cross in the center was very sturdy and stood out, resembling an actual cross to those inside, and was regarded with reverence during prayer. The panes were small and diamond-shaped, and joined together with strips of lead, like you can still see today in our countryside cottages. The chairs were rough and simple, except for the armchair, which had a back that was at such an angle from the seat that a person’s head stopped two feet short of the top. This chair was made of oak and carved at the top. There was a copper bucket, wide at the top, holding holy water, and a little broom to sprinkle it around; and a long, narrow, but solid oak table, with a dwarf clinging to its edge by his teeth, his eyes wide, and his claws in the air like a ready-to-pounce vampire. It seemed that nature didn’t make Giles a dwarf out of malice; she shaped his head and torso with her usual precision, but at that moment, she got distracted and left the rest to chance; the result was a human wedge, an inverted cone. He could justly have questioned her in the words of Horace,
“Amphora coepit
Institui; currente rota cur urceus exit?”
“The amphora started to take shape; why does the jug come out while the wheel is turning?”
His centre was anything but his centre of gravity. Bisected, upper Giles would have outweighed three lower Giles. But this very disproportion enabled him to do feats that would have baffled Milo. His brawny arms had no weight to draw after them; so he could go up a vertical pole like a squirrel, and hang for hours from a bough by one hand like a cherry by its stalk. If he could have made a vacuum with his hands, as the lizard is said to do with its feet, he would have gone along a ceiling. Now, this pocket-athlete was insanely fond of gripping the dinner-table with both hands, and so swinging; and then—climax of delight! he would seize it with his teeth, and, taking off his hands, hold on like grim death by his huge ivories.
His center was anything but his center of gravity. If you divided him, the upper part of Giles would have weighed more than three lower parts. But this very imbalance allowed him to perform feats that would have amazed Milo. His strong arms had no weight to pull them down; so he could climb a vertical pole like a squirrel and hang for hours from a branch by one hand like a cherry on its stem. If he could have created a vacuum with his hands, like a lizard is said to do with its feet, he would have walked along a ceiling. Now, this pocket-sized athlete was wildly enthusiastic about gripping the dinner table with both hands and swinging from it; and then—peak of joy!—he would grab it with his teeth, letting go with his hands and hanging on like grim death with his massive teeth.
But all our joys, however elevating, suffer interruption. Little Kate caught Sampsonet in this posture, and stood aghast. She was her mother's daughter, and her heart was with the furniture, not with the 12mo gymnast.
But all our joys, no matter how uplifting, face interruptions. Little Kate caught Sampsonet in this position and was shocked. She was her mother's daughter, and her loyalty was with the furniture, not with the 12mo gymnast.
“Oh, Giles! how can you? Mother is at hand. It dents the table.”
“Oh, Giles! How can you? Mom is right here. It leaves a mark on the table.”
“Go and tell her, little tale-bearer,” snarled Giles. “You are the one for making mischief.”
“Go and tell her, little gossip,” snarled Giles. “You’re the one who causes trouble.”
“Am I?” inquired Kate calmly; “that is news to me.”
“Am I?” Kate asked calmly. “That's news to me.”
“The biggest in Tergou,” growled Giles, fastening on again.
“The biggest in Tergou,” growled Giles, fastening on again.
“Oh, indeed!” said Kate drily.
“Oh, for sure!” said Kate dryly.
This piece of unwonted satire launched, and Giles not visibly blasted, she sat down quietly and cried.
This unexpected satire was released, and since Giles wasn’t obviously upset, she quietly sat down and cried.
Her mother came in almost at that moment, and Giles hurled himself under the table, and there glared.
Her mom walked in just then, and Giles jumped under the table, glaring from there.
“What is to do now?” said the dame sharply. Then turning her experienced eyes from Kate to Giles, and observing the position he had taken up, and a sheepish expression, she hinted at cuffing of ears.
“What should we do now?” the woman said sharply. Then, turning her knowledgeable gaze from Kate to Giles and noticing the stance he had adopted and his sheepish expression, she suggested a good earful.
“Nay, mother,” said the girl; “it was but a foolish word Giles spoke. I had not noticed it at another time; but I was tired and in care for Gerard, you know.”
“Nah, mom,” said the girl; “it was just a silly thing Giles said. I wouldn't have paid attention to it at another time, but I was tired and worried about Gerard, you know.”
“Let no one be in care for me,” said a faint voice at the door, and in tottered Gerard, pale, dusty, and worn out; and amidst uplifted hands and cries of delight, curiosity, and anxiety mingled, dropped exhausted into the nearest chair.
“Don’t worry about me,” said a weak voice at the door, and in walked Gerard, pale, dusty, and worn out; he dropped exhausted into the nearest chair amidst raised hands and mixed shouts of joy, curiosity, and concern.
Beating Rotterdam, like a covert, for Margaret, and the long journey afterwards, had fairly knocked Gerard up. But elastic youth soon revived, and behold him the centre of an eager circle. First of all they must hear about the prizes. Then Gerard told them he had been admitted to see the competitors' works, all laid out in an enormous hall before the judges pronounced.
Beating Rotterdam, like a secret mission for Margaret, and the long journey afterward had really worn Gerard out. But his youthful energy quickly bounced back, and there he was, the center of an excited group. First, they all wanted to hear about the prizes. Then Gerard shared that he had been allowed to see the competitors' works, all displayed in a huge hall before the judges made their decision.
“Oh, mother! oh, Kate! when I saw the goldsmiths' work, I had liked to have fallen on the floor. I thought not all the goldsmiths on earth had so much gold, silver, jewels, and craft of design and facture. But, in sooth, all the arts are divine.”
“Oh, mom! Oh, Kate! When I saw the goldsmiths' work, I almost fell to the floor. I didn't think any goldsmiths on earth had so much gold, silver, jewels, and skill in design and craftsmanship. But honestly, all the arts are divine.”
Then, to please the females, he described to them the reliquaries, feretories, calices, crosiers, crosses, pyxes, monstrances, and other wonders ecclesiastical, and the goblets, hanaps, watches, Clocks, chains, brooches, &c., so that their mouths watered.
Then, to impress the women, he talked about the reliquaries, feretories, chalices, staffs, crosses, pyxes, monstrances, and other amazing church treasures, along with the goblets, cups, watches, clocks, chains, brooches, etc., making their mouths water.
“But, Kate, when I came to the illuminated work from Ghent and Bruges, my heart sank. Mine was dirt by the side of it. For the first minute I could almost have cried; but I prayed for a better spirit, and presently I was able to enjoy them, and thank God for those lovely works, and for those skilful, patient craftsmen, whom I own my masters. Well, the coloured work was so beautiful I forgot all about the black and white. But next day, when all the other prizes had been given, they came to the writing, and whose name think you was called first?”
“But, Kate, when I saw the illuminated work from Ghent and Bruges, my heart sank. Mine was nothing compared to it. For the first minute, I could have almost cried; but I asked for a better mindset, and soon I was able to appreciate them and thank God for those beautiful pieces and for those skilled, patient craftsmen, who I consider my mentors. Well, the colored work was so stunning that I completely forgot about the black and white. But the next day, when all the other prizes had been awarded, they announced the writing, and whose name do you think was called first?”
“Yours,” said Kate.
“Yours,” Kate said.
The others laughed her to scorn.
They laughed at her.
“You may well laugh,” said Gerard, “but for all that, Gerard Eliassoen of Tergou was the name the herald shouted. I stood stupid; they thrust me forward. Everything swam before my eyes. I found myself kneeling on a cushion at the feet of the Duke. He said something to me, but I was so fluttered I could not answer him. So then he put his hand to his side, and did not draw a glaive and cut off my dull head, but gave me a gold medal, and there it is.” There was a yell and almost a scramble. “And then he gave me fifteen great bright golden angels. I had seen one before, but I never handled one. Here they are.”
“You might laugh,” said Gerard, “but despite that, Gerard Eliassoen of Tergou was the name the herald announced. I stood there, stunned; they pushed me forward. Everything blurred in front of my eyes. I found myself kneeling on a cushion at the Duke's feet. He said something to me, but I was so flustered that I couldn’t respond. Instead of drawing a sword and taking my dull head, he placed his hand at his side and gave me a gold medal, and here it is.” There was a cheer and nearly a scramble. “And then he gave me fifteen big, shiny golden angels. I had seen one before, but I had never held one. Here they are.”
“Oh, Gerard! oh, Gerard!”
“Oh, Gerard! Oh, Gerard!”
“There is one for you, our eldest; and one for you, Sybrandt, and for you, Little Mischief; and two for thee, Little Lily, because God hath afflicted thee; and one for myself, to buy colours and vellum; and nine for her that nursed us all, and risked the two crowns upon poor Gerard's hand.”
“There's one for you, our oldest; and one for you, Sybrandt, and for you, Little Mischief; and two for you, Little Lily, because God has tested you; and one for me, to buy colors and parchment; and nine for the one who cared for us all and risked the two crowns on poor Gerard's hand.”
The gold drew out their characters. Cornelis and Sybrandt clutched each his coin with one glare of greediness and another glare of envy at Kate, who had got two pieces. Giles seized his and rolled it along the floor and gambolled after it. Kate put down her crutches and sat down, and held out her little arms to Gerard with a heavenly gesture of love and tenderness; and the mother, fairly benumbed at first by the shower of gold that fell on her apron, now cried out, “Leave kissing him, Kate; he is my son, not yours. Ah. Gerard! my boy! I have not loved you as you deserved.”
The gold revealed their true natures. Cornelis and Sybrandt each grabbed a coin, their eyes shining with greed and envy as they looked at Kate, who had two coins. Giles snatched his and rolled it across the floor, chasing after it playfully. Kate set down her crutches, sat down, and extended her little arms to Gerard with a beautiful gesture of love and affection. The mother, initially stunned by the shower of gold that landed on her apron, then exclaimed, “Stop kissing him, Kate; he’s my son, not yours. Oh, Gerard! My boy! I haven't loved you as you truly deserve.”
Then Gerard threw himself on his knees beside her, and she flung her arms round him and wept for joy and pride upon his neck.
Then Gerard dropped to his knees beside her, and she wrapped her arms around him and cried tears of joy and pride on his neck.
“Good lad! good lad!” cried the hosier, with some emotion. “I must go and tell the neighbours. Lend me the medal, Gerard; I'll show it my good friend Peter Buyskens; he is ever regaling me with how his son Jorian won the tin mug a shooting at the butts.”
“Good boy! good boy!” shouted the hosier, feeling a bit emotional. “I need to go tell the neighbors. Let me borrow the medal, Gerard; I’ll show it to my good friend Peter Buyskens; he’s always bragging about how his son Jorian won the tin mug in a shooting match at the butts.”
“Ay, do, my man; and show Peter Buyskens one of the angels. Tell him there are fourteen more where that came from. Mind you bring it me back!”
“Ay, do it, my man; and show Peter Buyskens one of the angels. Tell him there are fourteen more where that came from. Just make sure to bring it back to me!”
“Stay a minute, father; there is better news behind,” said Gerard, flushing with joy at the joy he caused.
“Wait a minute, Dad; there’s better news coming,” said Gerard, blushing with happiness at the happiness he brought.
“Better! better than this?”
“Better! Better than this?”
Then Gerard told his interview with the Countess, and the house rang with joy.
Then Gerard shared his conversation with the Countess, and the house was filled with joy.
“Now, God bless the good lady, and bless the dame Van Eyck! A benefice? our son! My cares are at an end. Eli, my good friend and master, now we two can die happy whenever our time comes. This dear boy will take our place, and none of these loved ones will want a home or a friend.”
“Now, God bless the good lady, and bless Dame Van Eyck! A benefice? Our son! My worries are over. Eli, my good friend and mentor, now we can die happy whenever our time comes. This dear boy will take our place, and none of these loved ones will be without a home or a friend.”
From that hour Gerard was looked upon as the stay of the family. He was a son apart, but in another sense. He was always in the right, and nothing too good for him. Cornelis and Sybrandt became more and more jealous of him, and longed for the day he should go to his benefice; they would get rid of the favourite, and his reverence's purse would be open to them. With these views he co-operated. The wound love had given him throbbed duller and duller. His success and the affection and admiration of his parents made him think more highly of himself, and resent with more spirit Margaret's ingratitude and discourtesy. For all that, she had power to cool him towards the rest of her sex, and now for every reason he wished to be ordained priest as soon as he could pass the intermediate orders. He knew the Vulgate already better than most of the clergy, and studied the rubric and the dogmas of the Church with his friends the monks; and, the first time the bishop came that way, he applied to be admitted “exorcist,” the third step in holy orders. The bishop questioned him, and ordained him at once. He had to kneel, and, after a short prayer, the bishop delivered to him a little MS. full of exorcisms, and said: “Take this, Gerard, and have power to lay hands on the possessed, whether baptized or catechumens!” and he took it reverently, and went home invested by the Church with power to cast out demons.
From that moment on, Gerard was seen as the backbone of the family. He was a unique son, but in a different way. He was always right, and nothing was too good for him. Cornelis and Sybrandt grew increasingly jealous of him and eagerly awaited the day he would leave for his benefice; they hoped to get rid of the favorite, and his reverence's wallet would be open to them. With this in mind, he played along. The wound love had inflicted on him throbbed less intensely. His success and the love and admiration from his parents made him think more highly of himself and fueled his resentment towards Margaret's ingratitude and unkindness. Despite this, she still had the ability to make him feel distant from other women, and now, for all these reasons, he wanted to be ordained as a priest as soon as he could complete the intermediate orders. He knew the Vulgate better than most clergy and studied the rubric and the dogmas of the Church with his monk friends. When the bishop came through, he applied to be admitted as “exorcist,” the third step in holy orders. The bishop questioned him and ordained him on the spot. He had to kneel, and after a brief prayer, the bishop gave him a small manuscript filled with exorcisms, saying, “Take this, Gerard, and have the power to lay hands on the possessed, whether baptized or catechumens!” He accepted it with reverence and returned home endowed by the Church with the authority to cast out demons.
Returning home from the church, he was met by little Kate on her crutches.
Returning home from church, he was greeted by little Kate on her crutches.
“Oh, Gerard! who, think you, hath sent to our house seeking you?—the burgomaster himself.”
“Oh, Gerard! Who do you think has come to our house looking for you?—the mayor himself.”
“Ghysbrecht Van Swieten! What would he with me?”
“Ghysbrecht Van Swieten! What does he want with me?”
“Nay, Gerard, I know not. But he seems urgent to see you. You are to go to his house on the instant.”
“Nah, Gerard, I don’t know. But he really wants to see you. You need to go to his house right away.”
“Well, he is the burgomaster: I will go; but it likes me not. Kate, I have seen him cast such a look on me as no friend casts. No matter; such looks forewarn the wise. To be sure, he knows.”
“Well, he is the mayor: I will go; but I don't like it. Kate, I've seen him give me a look that no friend would give. It doesn’t matter; such looks are a warning to the wise. Of course, he knows.”
“Knows what, Gerard?”
"Knows what, Gerard?"
“Nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
"Really?"
“Kate, I'll go.”
“Kate, I’ll take care of it.”
CHAPTER V
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was an artful man. He opened on the novice with something quite wide of the mark he was really aiming at. “The town records,” said he, “are crabbedly written, and the ink rusty with age.” He offered Gerard the honour of transcribing them fair.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was a clever man. He started with the novice by mentioning something that was far from his actual intent. “The town records,” he said, “are poorly written, and the ink is rusty with age.” He offered Gerard the privilege of copying them neatly.
Gerard inquired what he was to be paid.
Gerard asked what he would be paid.
Ghysbrecht offered a sum that would have just purchased the pens, ink, and parchment.
Ghysbrecht offered an amount that would have barely covered the cost of the pens, ink, and paper.
“But, burgomaster, my labour? Here is a year's work.”
“But, mayor, my work? This is a year's worth of effort.”
“Your labour? Call you marking parchment labour? Little sweat goes to that, I trow.”
“Your work? You call marking parchment work? That hardly takes any effort, I suppose.”
“'Tis labour, and skilled labour to boot; and that is better paid in all crafts than rude labour, sweat or no sweat. Besides, there's my time.”
“It's skilled work, and it pays better in all trades than unskilled labor, whether it's hard work or not. Plus, there's my time.”
“Your time? Why, what is time to you, at two-and-twenty?” Then fixing his eyes keenly on Gerard, to mark the effect of his words, he said: “Say, rather, you are idle grown. You are in love. Your body is with these chanting monks, but your heart is with Peter Brandt and his red-haired girl.”
“Your time? What does time even mean to you at twenty-two?” Then, focusing intently on Gerard to see how his words landed, he continued: “Let’s be honest, you’ve become lazy. You’re in love. Your body is here with these chanting monks, but your heart is with Peter Brandt and his red-haired girl.”
“I know no Peter Brandt.”
“I don't know Peter Brandt.”
This denial confirmed Ghysbrecht's suspicion that the caster-out of demons was playing a deep game.
This denial confirmed Ghysbrecht's suspicion that the exorcist was playing a complicated game.
“Ye lie!” he shouted. “Did I not find you at her elbow on the road to Rotterdam?”
“You're lying!” he shouted. “Didn't I find you by her side on the way to Rotterdam?”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“Ah! And you were seen at Sevenbergen but t'other day.”
“Ah! And you were seen at Sevenbergen just the other day.”
“Was I?'
“Was I?"
“Ah and at Peter's house.”
“Ah, at Peter's place.”
“At Sevenbergen?”
"At Sevenbergen?"
“Ay, at Sevenbergen.”
"Yeah, at Sevenbergen."
Now, this was what in modern days is called a draw. It was a guess, put boldly forth as fact, to elicit by the young man's answer whether he had been there lately or not.
Now, this was what we call a guess today. It was a bold statement made as though it were a fact, to see from the young man's response whether he had been there recently or not.
The result of the artifice surprised the crafty one. Gerard started up in a strange state of nervous excitement.
The outcome of the trick caught the clever one off guard. Gerard jumped up, feeling a strange mix of nervous excitement.
“Burgomaster,” said he, with trembling voice, “I have not been at Sevenbergen these three years, and I know not the name of those you saw me with, nor where they dwelt; but, as my time is precious, though you value it not, give you good day.” And he darted out, with his eyes sparkling.
“Burgomaster,” he said, his voice shaking, “I haven’t been to Sevenbergen in three years, and I don’t know the names of the people you saw me with, or where they lived. But since my time is important, even if you don’t think so, have a good day.” And he rushed out, his eyes shining.
Ghysbrecht started up in huge ire; but he sank into his chair again.
Ghysbrecht jumped up in a fit of anger, but then he sank back into his chair.
“He fears me not. He knows something, if not all.”
“He doesn't fear me. He knows something, if not everything.”
Then he called hastily to his trusty servant, and almost dragged him to a window.
Then he quickly called for his loyal servant and nearly pulled him to a window.
“See you yon man?” he cried. “Haste! follow him! But let him not see you. He is young, but old in craft. Keep him in sight all day. Let me know whither he goes, and what he does.”
“Do you see that man over there?” he yelled. “Quick! Follow him! But don’t let him see you. He’s young, but savvy. Keep an eye on him all day. Let me know where he goes and what he does.”
It was night when the servant returned.
It was nighttime when the servant came back.
“Well? well?” cried Van Swieten eagerly.
"Well? Well?" Van Swieten shouted excitedly.
“Master, the young man went from you to Sevenbergen.”
“Master, the young man left you for Sevenbergen.”
Ghysbrecht groaned.
Ghysbrecht complained.
“To the house of Peter the Magician.”
“To the house of Peter the Magician.”
CHAPTER VI
“Look into your own heart and write!” said Herr Cant; and earth's cuckoos echoed the cry. Look into the Rhine where it is deepest, and the Thames where it is thickest, and paint the bottom. Lower a bucket into a well of self-deception, and what comes up must be immortal truth, mustn't it? Now, in the first place, no son of Adam ever reads his own heart at all, except by the habit acquired, and the light gained, from some years perusal of other hearts; and even then, with his acquired sagacity and reflected light, he can but spell and decipher his own heart, not read it fluently. Half way to Sevenbergen Gerard looked into his own heart, and asked it why he was going to Sevenbergen. His heart replied without a moment's hesitation, “We are going out of curiosity to know why she jilted us, and to show her it has not broken our hearts, and that we are quite content with our honours and our benefice in prospectu, and don't want her nor ally of her fickle sex.”
“Look into your own heart and write!” said Herr Cant, and the earth's cuckoos echoed the cry. Look into the Rhine where it’s deepest, and the Thames where it’s thickest, and paint the bottom. Lower a bucket into a well of self-deception, and whatever comes up must be immortal truth, right? Well, first of all, no son of Adam ever truly reads his own heart at all, except through the habits learned and insights gained from years of reading other hearts; and even then, with his gained wisdom and reflected light, he can only spell out and decipher his own heart, not read it fluently. Halfway to Sevenbergen, Gerard looked into his own heart and asked it why he was going to Sevenbergen. His heart replied without any hesitation, “We’re going out of curiosity to find out why she jilted us, and to show her that it hasn’t broken our hearts, that we’re quite fine with our honors and prospects, and don’t want her or anyone from her fickle sex.”
He soon found out Peter Brandt's cottage; and there sat a girl in the doorway, plying her needle, and a stalwart figure leaned on a long bow and talked to her. Gerard felt an unaccountable pang at the sight of him. However, the man turned out to be past fifty years of age, an old soldier, whom Gerard remembered to have seen shoot at the butts with admirable force and skill. Another minute and the youth stood before them. Margaret looked up and dropped her work, and uttered a faint cry, and was white and red by turns. But these signs of emotion were swiftly dismissed, and she turned far more chill and indifferent than she would if she had not betrayed this agitation.
He soon located Peter Brandt's cottage, where a girl sat in the doorway, sewing, while a strong man leaned on a long bow and chatted with her. Gerard felt an inexplicable twinge at the sight of him. However, the man turned out to be over fifty years old, an old soldier, whom Gerard remembered seeing shoot at the targets with impressive skill and power. In another minute, the young man stood before them. Margaret looked up, dropped her work, let out a soft gasp, and alternated between pale and flushed. But these signs of emotion quickly faded, and she became much colder and more indifferent than she would have if she hadn't shown that agitation.
“What! is it you, Master Gerard? What on earth brings you here, I wonder?”
“What! Is that you, Master Gerard? What in the world brings you here, I wonder?”
“I was passing by and saw you; so I thought I would give you good day, and ask after your father.”
“I was walking by and noticed you, so I thought I’d say hi and ask about your dad.”
“My father is well. He will be here anon.”
“My dad is good. He'll be here soon.”
“Then I may as well stay till he comes.”
“Then I might as well wait here until he arrives.”
“As you will. Good Martin, step into the village and tell my father here is a friend of his.”
“As you wish. Good Martin, go into the village and tell my father that a friend of his is here.”
“And not of yours?”
"Is it not yours?"
“My father's friends are mine.”
"My dad's friends are mine."
“That is doubtful. It was not like a friend to promise to wait for me, and then make off the moment my back was turned. Cruel Margaret you little know how I searched the town for you; how for want of you nothing was pleasant to me.”
“That’s hard to believe. A friend wouldn’t promise to wait for me and then leave the moment I turned my back. Cruel Margaret, you have no idea how much I searched the town for you; without you, nothing was enjoyable for me.”
“These are idle words; if you had desired my father's company, or mine, you would have come back. There I had a bed laid for you, sir, at my cousin's, and he would have made much of you, and, who knows, I might have made much of you too. I was in the humour that day. You will not catch me in the same mind again, neither you nor any young man, I warrant me.”
“These are just empty words; if you wanted to spend time with my father or me, you would have come back. I had a bed set up for you at my cousin’s place, and he would have welcomed you warmly, and who knows, maybe I would have been interested in you too. I felt that way that day. You won’t find me in the same mood again, not you or any young man, I guarantee it.”
“Margaret, I came back the moment the Countess let me go; but you were not there.”
“Margaret, I returned right after the Countess released me; but you weren't there.”
“Nay, you did not, or you had seen Hans Cloterman at our table; we left him to bring you on.”
“Nah, you didn't, or you would have seen Hans Cloterman at our table; we left him to come get you.”
“I saw no one there, but only a drunken man, that had just tumbled down.”
“I didn’t see anyone there, just a drunk guy who had just fallen down.”
“At our table? How was he clad?”
“At our table? What was he wearing?”
“Nay, I took little heed: in sad-coloured garb.”
“Nah, I didn’t pay much attention: in dark-colored clothes.”
At this Margaret's face gradually warmed; but presently, assuming incredulity and severity, she put many shrewd questions, all of which Gerard answered most loyally. Finally, the clouds cleared, and they guessed how the misunderstanding had come about. Then came a revulsion of tenderness, all the more powerful that they had done each other wrong; and then, more dangerous still, came mutual confessions. Neither had been happy since; neither ever would have been happy but for this fortunate meeting.
At this, Margaret's expression slowly softened; but soon, taking on a tone of disbelief and seriousness, she asked a lot of sharp questions, all of which Gerard answered faithfully. Eventually, the tension lifted, and they figured out how the misunderstanding happened. Then a wave of affection swept over them, even stronger because they had wronged each other; and then, even more dangerously, they started confessing their feelings. Neither had been happy since; neither would have found happiness if not for this lucky encounter.
And Gerard found a MS. Vulgate lying open on the table, and pounced upon it like a hawk. MSS. were his delight; but before he could get to it two white hands quickly came flat upon the page, and a red face over them.
And Gerard found a Vulgate manuscript lying open on the table and jumped on it like a hawk. Manuscripts were his passion; but before he could reach it, two white hands quickly came down flat on the page, along with a red face above them.
“Nay, take away your hands, Margaret, that I may see where you are reading, and I will read there too at home; so shall my soul meet yours in the sacred page. You will not? Nay, then I must kiss them away.” And he kissed them so often, that for very shame they were fain to withdraw, and, lo! the sacred book lay open at,
“Nah, take your hands away, Margaret, so I can see what you're reading, and I’ll read it too at home; that way my soul can connect with yours in the sacred text. You won’t? Then I guess I have to kiss them away.” And he kissed them so many times that, out of sheer embarrassment, they felt compelled to pull away, and, lo! the sacred book lay open at,
“An apple of gold in a network of silver.”
“An apple of gold in a silver network.”
“There, now,” said she, “I had been hunting for it ever so long, and found it but even now—and to be caught!” and with a touch of inconsistency she pointed it out to Gerard with her white finger.
“There, now,” she said, “I’ve been looking for it forever, and just found it—and now I’m caught!” And with a hint of inconsistency, she pointed it out to Gerard with her pale finger.
“Ay,” said he, “but to-day it is all hidden in that great cap.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but today it’s all hidden under that big hat.”
“It is a comely cap, I'm told by some.”
“It’s a nice hat, I’ve heard from some people.”
“Maybe; but what it hides is beautiful.”
“Maybe, but what's hidden is beautiful.”
“It is not: it is hideous.”
“It’s not; it’s terrible.”
“Well, it was beautiful at Rotterdam.”
“Well, it was beautiful in Rotterdam.”
“Ay, everything was beautiful that day” (with a little sigh).
“Ay, everything was beautiful that day” (with a small sigh).
And now Peter came in, and welcomed Gerard cordially, and would have him to stay supper. And Margaret disappeared; and Gerard had a nice learned chat with Peter; and Margaret reappeared with her hair in her silver net, and shot a glance half arch, half coy, and glided about them, and spread supper, and beamed bright with gaiety and happiness. And in the cool evening Gerard coaxed her out, and she objected and came; and coaxed her on to the road to Tergou, and she declined, and came; and there they strolled up and down, hand in hand; and when he must go, they pledged each other never to quarrel or misunderstand one another again; and they sealed the promise with a long loving kiss, and Gerard went home on wings.
And then Peter walked in and warmly welcomed Gerard, inviting him to stay for dinner. Margaret left the room, and Gerard enjoyed a nice, intellectual conversation with Peter. Margaret returned with her hair in a silver net, casting a playful yet shy glance, moving gracefully around them as she set the table for dinner, radiating joy and happiness. Later, in the cool evening, Gerard persuaded her to go outside, and although she hesitated, she eventually agreed. He encouraged her to walk towards Tergou, and despite her reluctance, she joined him. They strolled hand in hand, and when it was time for him to leave, they promised each other they would never argue or misunderstand one another again. They sealed their promise with a long, loving kiss, and Gerard left feeling elated.
From that day Gerard spent most of his evenings with Margaret, and the attachment deepened and deepened on both sides, till the hours they spent together were the hours they lived; the rest they counted and underwent. And at the outset of this deep attachment all went smoothly. Obstacles there were, but they seemed distant and small to the eyes of hope, youth, and love. The feelings and passions of so many persons, that this attachment would thwart, gave no warning smoke to show their volcanic nature and power. The course of true love ran smoothly, placidly, until it had drawn these two young hearts into its current for ever.
From that day on, Gerard spent most of his evenings with Margaret, and their bond grew stronger and stronger on both sides, until the time they spent together became the time they truly lived; everything else was just something they dealt with. At the beginning of this deep connection, everything went well. There were obstacles, but they seemed far away and minor through the lenses of hope, youth, and love. The feelings and desires of so many people that this relationship would disrupt gave no warning signs to reveal their intense nature and impact. The path of true love flowed effortlessly and peacefully until it swept these two young hearts into its current forever.
And then—
And then—
CHAPTER VII
One bright morning unwonted velvet shone, unwonted feathers waved, and horses' hoofs glinted and ran through the streets of Tergou, and the windows and balconies were studded with wondering faces. The French ambassador was riding through to sport in the neighbouring forest.
One bright morning, unexpected velvet gleamed, unexpected feathers fluttered, and horses' hooves sparkled as they raced through the streets of Tergou. The windows and balconies were filled with amazed faces. The French ambassador was riding through to enjoy the nearby forest.
Besides his own suite, he was attended by several servants of the Duke of Burgundy, lent to do him honour and minister to his pleasure. The Duke's tumbler rode before him with a grave, sedate majesty, that made his more noble companions seem light, frivolous persons. But ever and anon, when respect and awe neared the oppressive, he rolled off his horse so ignobly and funnily, that even the ambassador was fain' to burst out laughing. He also climbed up again by the tail in a way provocative of mirth, and so he played his part. Towards the rear of the pageant rode one that excited more attention still—the Duke's leopard. A huntsman, mounted on a Flemish horse of giant prodigious size and power, carried a long box fastened to the rider's loins by straps curiously contrived, and on this box sat a bright leopard crouching. She was chained to the huntsman. The people admired her glossy hide and spots, and pressed near, and one or two were for feeling her, and pulling her tail; then the huntsman shouted in a terrible voice, “Beware! At Antwerp one did but throw a handful of dust at her, and the Duke made dust of him.”
Besides his own suite, he was accompanied by several servants of the Duke of Burgundy, who were there to honor him and cater to his enjoyment. The Duke's tumbler rode in front with a serious, dignified presence that made his more noble companions seem lighthearted and trivial. But every now and then, when the atmosphere grew too respectful and tense, he would tumble off his horse in such a clumsy and funny way that even the ambassador couldn't help but laugh. He would also climb back on by grabbing the tail in a way that was amusing, and so he played his role. Further back in the procession was something that drew even more attention—the Duke's leopard. A huntsman, riding a massive Flemish horse, carried a long box attached to him by cleverly designed straps, and on this box sat a striking leopard crouching. She was chained to the huntsman. The crowd admired her shiny coat and spots, moving closer to her, and a few even tried to touch her and pull her tail; then the huntsman yelled in a frightening voice, “Watch out! In Antwerp, someone just threw a handful of dust at her, and the Duke turned him to dust.”
“Gramercy!”
"Thanks a lot!"
“I speak sooth. The good Duke shut him up in prison, in a cell under ground, and the rats cleaned the flesh off his bones in a night. Served him right for molesting the poor thing.”
“I’m telling the truth. The kind Duke locked him up in a prison cell underground, and the rats stripped the flesh off his bones in one night. He deserved it for bothering the poor creature.”
There was a murmur of fear, and the Tergovians shrank from tickling the leopard of their sovereign.
There was a low murmur of fear, and the Tergovians hesitated to provoke the leopard of their ruler.
But an incident followed that raised their spirits again. The Duke's giant, a Hungarian seven feet four inches high, brought up the rear. This enormous creature had, like some other giants, a treble, fluty voice of little power. He was a vain fellow, and not conscious of this nor any defect. Now it happened he caught sight of Giles sitting on the top of the balcony; so he stopped and began to make fun of him.
But something happened that lifted their spirits again. The Duke's giant, a Hungarian who was seven feet four inches tall, brought up the rear. This huge guy had, like some other giants, a high, fluty voice that wasn’t very powerful. He was a vain person, completely unaware of this or any other flaw. Then he spotted Giles sitting on the balcony, so he stopped and started to make fun of him.
“Hallo! brother!” squeaked he, “I had nearly passed without seeing thee.”
“Hey! brother!” he squeaked, “I almost walked by without seeing you.”
“You are plain enough to see,” bellowed Giles in his bass tones.
“You're obvious enough to see,” shouted Giles in his deep voice.
“Come on my shoulder, brother,” squeaked Titan, and held out a shoulder of mutton fist to help him down.
“Come on my shoulder, brother,” squeaked Titan, and held out a fistful of mutton to help him down.
“If I do I'll cuff your ears,” roared the dwarf.
“If I do, I’ll smack your ears,” yelled the dwarf.
The giant saw the homuncule was irascible, and played upon him, being encouraged thereto by the shouts of laughter. For he did not see that the people were laughing not at his wit, but at the ridiculous incongruity of the two voices—the gigantic feeble fife, and the petty deep, loud drum, the mountain delivered of a squeak, and the mole-hill belching thunder.
The giant noticed that the little man was quick to anger and took advantage of it, spurred on by the sounds of laughter. He didn’t realize that the crowd was laughing not at his cleverness but at the absurd contrast of their two voices—the huge, weak sound of the fife and the small, booming sound of the drum, the mountain letting out a squeak and the molehill producing thunder.
The singular duet came to as singular an end. Giles lost all patience and self-command, and being a creature devoid of fear, and in a rage to boot, he actually dropped upon the giant's neck, seized his hair with one hand, and punched his head with the other. The giant's first impulse was to laugh, but the weight and rapidity of the blows soon corrected that inclination.
The unique duet ended just as uniquely. Giles completely lost his patience and composure, and being someone who had no fear, and angry to boot, he actually lunged at the giant's neck, grabbed his hair with one hand, and started punching his head with the other. The giant’s first reaction was to laugh, but the force and speed of the blows quickly changed that.
“He! he! Ah! ha! hallo! oh! oh! Holy saints! here! help! or I must throttle the imp. I can't! I'll split your skull against the—” and he made a wild run backwards at the balcony. Giles saw his danger, seized the balcony in time with both hands, and whipped over it just as the giant's head came against it with a stunning crack. The people roared with laughter and exultation at the address of their little champion. The indignant giant seized two of the laughers, knocked them together like dumb-bells, shook them and strewed them flat—Catherine shrieked and threw her apron over Giles—then strode wrathfully away after the party. This incident had consequences no one then present foresaw. Its immediate results were agreeable. The Tergovians turned proud of Giles, and listened with more affability to his prayers for parchment. For he drove a regular trade with his brother Gerard in this article. Went about and begged it gratis, and Gerard gave him coppers for it.
“He! he! Ah! ha! hello! oh! oh! Holy saints! help! or I must throttle the little demon. I can't! I'll smash your head against the—” and he made a wild run backward at the balcony. Giles saw the danger, grabbed the balcony with both hands, and leaped over it just as the giant's head slammed against it with a deafening crack. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers at their little hero's cleverness. The furious giant grabbed two of the laughing onlookers, banged them together like dumbbells, shook them, and flung them down—Catherine screamed and threw her apron over Giles—then stormed away after the group. This incident had consequences no one present could have predicted. Its immediate effects were positive. The Tergovians became proud of Giles and listened more kindly to his requests for parchment. He had a regular trade with his brother Gerard for this item. He would go around asking for it for free, and Gerard would give him coins for it.
On the afternoon of the same day, Catherine and her daughter were chatting together about their favourite theme, Gerard, his goodness, his benefice, and the brightened prospects of the whole family.
On the afternoon of the same day, Catherine and her daughter were talking together about their favorite subject, Gerard, his kindness, his benefits, and the improved outlook for the entire family.
Their good luck had come to them in the very shape they would have chosen; besides the advantages of a benefice such as the Countess Charolois would not disdain to give, there was the feminine delight at having a priest, a holy man, in their own family. “He will marry Cornelis and Sybrandt: for they can wed (good housewives), now, if they will. Gerard will take care of you and Giles, when we are gone.”
Their good luck had arrived in just the way they would have wished; in addition to the benefits of a position that Countess Charolois would gladly provide, there was the joy of having a priest, a holy man, in their own family. “He will marry Cornelis and Sybrandt: because they can get married (good housewives), now, if they want to. Gerard will look after you and Giles when we’re gone.”
“Yes, mother, and we can confess to him instead of to a stranger,” said Kate.
“Yes, mom, and we can confess to him instead of a stranger,” said Kate.
“Ay, girl! and he can give the sacred oil to your father and me, and close our eyes when our time comes.”
“Ay, girl! He can give the sacred oil to your dad and me, and close our eyes when our time comes.”
“Oh, mother! not for many, many years, I do pray Heaven. Pray speak not of that, it always makes me sad. I hope to go before you, mother dear. No; let us be gay to-day. I am out of pain, mother, quite out of all pain; it does seem so strange; and I feel so bright and happy, that—mother, Can you keep a secret?”
“Oh, mom! Not for many, many years, I swear, please don't talk about that, it always makes me sad. I hope to go before you, dear mom. No; let’s be cheerful today. I’m free from pain, completely free from all pain; it feels so strange; and I feel so bright and happy that—mom, can you keep a secret?”
“Nobody better, child. Why, you know I can.”
“Nobody can do it better, kid. You know I can.”
“Then I will show you something so beautiful. You never saw the like, I trow. Only Gerard must never know; for sure he means to surprise us with it; he covers it up so, and sometimes he carries it away altogether.”
“Then I’ll show you something so beautiful. You’ve never seen anything like it, I promise. But Gerard must never find out; he definitely plans to surprise us with it; he hides it so well, and sometimes he takes it completely away.”
Kate took her crutches, and moved slowly away, leaving her mother in an exalted state of curiosity. She soon returned with something in a cloth, uncovered it, and there was a lovely picture of the Virgin, with all her insignia, and wearing her tiara over a wealth of beautiful hair, which flowed loose over her shoulders. Catherine, at first, was struck with awe.
Kate grabbed her crutches and slowly walked away, leaving her mother filled with a sense of curiosity. She soon came back with something wrapped in a cloth, unveiled it, and there was a beautiful picture of the Virgin, complete with all her symbols, and wearing her tiara over a cascade of gorgeous hair that flowed freely over her shoulders. Catherine was initially taken aback in awe.
“It is herself,” she cried; “it is the Queen of Heaven. I never saw one like her to my mind before.”
“It’s her!” she exclaimed; “it’s the Queen of Heaven. I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”
“And her eyes, mother: lifted to the sky, as if they belonged there, and not to a mortal creature. And her beautiful hair of burning gold.”
“And her eyes, mom: looking up at the sky, as if they belonged there, not to a human being. And her gorgeous hair of fiery gold.”
“And to think I have a son that can make the saints live again upon a piece of wood!”
“And to think I have a son who can make the saints come alive again on a piece of wood!”
“The reason is, he is a young saint himself, mother. He is too good for this world; he is here to portray the blessed, and then to go away and be with them for ever.”
“The reason is, he’s a young saint himself, Mom. He’s too good for this world; he’s here to represent the blessed, and then to leave and be with them forever.”
Ere they had half done admiring it, a strange voice was heard at the door. By one of the furtive instincts of their sex they hastily hid the picture in the cloth, though there was no need, And the next moment in came, casting his eyes furtively around, a man that had not entered the house this ten years Ghysbrecht Van Swieten.
Before they had finished admiring it, a strange voice was heard at the door. By one of the instinctive reactions typical of their gender, they quickly hid the picture in the cloth, even though it wasn't necessary. The next moment, a man who hadn't entered the house in ten years, Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, came in, glancing around furtively.
The two women were so taken by surprise, that they merely stared at him and at one another, and said, “The burgomaster!” in a tone so expressive, that Ghysbrecht felt compelled to answer it.
The two women were so caught off guard that they just stared at him and each other, saying, “The mayor!” in a way that made Ghysbrecht feel like he had to respond.
“Yes! I own the last time I came here was not on a friendly errand. Men love their own interest—Eli's and mine were contrary. Well, let this visit atone the last. To-day I come on your business and none of mine.” Catherine and her daughter exchanged a swift glance of contemptuous incredulity. They knew the man better than he thought.
“Yes! I admit the last time I came here wasn’t out of friendly intentions. Men always prioritize their own interests—Eli's and mine were at odds. Well, let this visit make up for the last one. Today, I'm here for your sake and not for mine.” Catherine and her daughter shared a quick look of dismissive disbelief. They knew him better than he realized.
“It is about your son Gerard.”
“It’s about your son, Gerard.”
“Ay! ay! you want him to work for the town all for nothing. He told us.”
“Ay! ay! you want him to work for the town for free. He told us.”
“I come on no such errand. It is to let you know he has fallen into bad hands.”
“I’m not here for that. I’m here to let you know he’s in a bad situation.”
“Now Heaven and the saints forbid! Man, torture not a mother! Speak out, and quickly: speak ere you have time to coin falsehood: we know thee.”
“Now Heaven and the saints forbid! Man, don’t torture a mother! Speak out, and fast: say what you need to say before you have a chance to make up lies: we know you.”
Ghysbrecht turned pale at this affront, and spite mingled with the other motives that brought him here. “Thus it is, then,” said he, grinding his teeth and speaking very fast. “Your son Gerard is more like to be father of a family than a priest: he is for ever with Margaret, Peter Brandt's red-haired girl, and loves her like a cow her calf.”
Ghysbrecht turned pale at this disrespect, and anger mixed with the other reasons that brought him here. “So that's how it is,” he said, gritting his teeth and speaking quickly. “Your son Gerard is more likely to be a family man than a priest: he's always with Margaret, Peter Brandt's red-haired girl, and loves her like a cow loves her calf.”
Mother and daughter both burst out laughing. Ghysbrecht stared at them.
Mother and daughter both erupted in laughter. Ghysbrecht stared at them.
“What! you knew it?”
"What! You knew about it?"
“Carry this tale to those who know not my son, Gerard. Women are nought to him.”
“Share this story with those who don’t know my son, Gerard. Women mean nothing to him.”
“Other women, mayhap. But this one is the apple of his eye to him, or will be, if you part them not, and soon. Come, dame, make me not waste time and friendly counsel: my servant has seen them together a score times, handed, and reading babies in one another's eyes like—you know, dame—you have been young, too.”
“Other women, maybe. But this one is the apple of his eye, or will be, if you don’t separate them soon. Come on, lady, don’t make me waste time with friendly advice: my servant has seen them together dozens of times, holding hands and seeing their futures in each other’s eyes like—you know, lady—you’ve been young too.”
“Girl, I am ill at ease. Yea, I have been young, and know how blind and foolish the young are. My heart! he has turned me sick in a moment. Kate, if it should be true?”
“Girl, I feel uneasy. Yes, I was young once and I know how blind and foolish young people can be. My heart! He has made me feel sick in an instant. Kate, what if it's true?”
“Nay, nay!” cried Kate eagerly. “Gerard might love a young woman: all young men do: I can't find what they see in them to love so; but if he did, he would let us know; he would not deceive us. You wicked man! No, dear mother, look not so! Gerard is too good to love a creature of earth. His love is for our Lady and the saints. Ah! I will show you the picture there: if his heart was earthly, could he paint the Queen of Heaven like that—look! look!” and she held the picture out triumphantly, and, more radiant and beautiful in this moment of enthusiasm than ever dead picture was or will be, over-powered the burgomaster with her eloquence and her feminine proof of Gerard's purity. His eyes and mouth opened, and remained open: in which state they kept turning, face and all as if on a pivot, from the picture to the women, and from the women to the picture.
“Nah, nah!” Kate exclaimed eagerly. “Gerard might love a young woman; all young men do. I can’t see what they find so lovable, but if he did, he would let us know; he wouldn’t lie to us. You wicked man! No, dear mother, don’t look like that! Gerard is too good to love someone from this world. His love is for Our Lady and the saints. Ah! I’ll show you the painting over there: if his heart were earthly, could he paint the Queen of Heaven like that—look! Look!” She held the painting out triumphantly, and, more radiant and beautiful in this moment of enthusiasm than any painting ever was or will be, she overwhelmed the burgomaster with her passion and her feminine proof of Gerard’s purity. His eyes and mouth opened and stayed that way, turning from the painting to the women and back to the painting as if on a pivot.
“Why, it is herself,” he gasped.
“Wow, it’s really her,” he said, surprised.
“Isn't it!” cried Kate, and her hostility was softened. “You admire it? I forgive you for frightening us.”
“Isn’t it?!” Kate exclaimed, her hostility fading. “You like it? I’ll forgive you for scaring us.”
“Am I in a mad-house?” said Ghysbrecht Van Swieten thoroughly puzzled. “You show me a picture of the girl; and you say he painted it; and that is a proof he cannot love her. Why, they all paint their sweethearts, painters do.”
“Am I going crazy?” said Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, completely confused. “You show me a picture of the girl, and you say he painted it, and that proves he can't love her. Well, all painters paint their sweethearts.”
“A picture of the girl?” exclaimed Kate, shocked. “Fie! this is no girl; this is our blessed Lady.”
“A picture of the girl?” Kate exclaimed, shocked. “No way! This isn’t a girl; this is our blessed Lady.”
“No, no; it is Margaret Brandt.”
“No, no; it’s Maggie Brandt.”
“Oh blind! It is the Queen of Heaven.”
“Oh blind! It’s the Queen of Heaven.”
“No; only of Sevenbergen village.”
“No; just Sevenbergen village.”
“Profane man! behold her crown!”
"Disrespectful man! Look at her crown!"
“Silly child! look at her red hair! Would the Virgin be seen in red hair? She who had the pick of all the colours ten thousand years before the world began.”
“Silly child! Look at her red hair! Would the Virgin be seen with red hair? She had the choice of all the colors ten thousand years before the world began.”
At this moment an anxious face was insinuated round the edge of the open door: it was their neighbour Peter Buyskens.
At that moment, an anxious face peeked around the edge of the open door: it was their neighbor, Peter Buyskens.
“What is to do?” said he in a cautious whisper. “We can hear you all across the street. What on earth is to do?”
“What’s going on?” he asked in a cautious whisper. “We can hear you all the way across the street. What in the world is happening?”
“Oh, neighbour! What is to do? Why, here is the burgomaster blackening our Gerard.”
“Oh, neighbor! What’s happening? Look, the mayor is tarnishing our Gerard.”
“Stop!” cried Van Swieten. “Peter Buyskens is come in the nick of time. He knows father and daughter both. They cast their glamour on him.”
“Stop!” yelled Van Swieten. “Peter Buyskens has arrived just in time. He knows both the father and daughter. They have their charm over him.”
“What! is she a witch too?”
“What! Is she a witch too?”
“Else the egg takes not after the bird. Why is her father called the magician? I tell you they bewitched this very Peter here; they cast unholy spells on him, and cured him of the colic: now, Peter, look and tell me who is that? and you be silent, women, for a moment, if you can; who is it, Peter?”
“Otherwise, the egg doesn't resemble the bird. Why is her father called the magician? I’m telling you, they enchanted this very Peter right here; they put evil spells on him and cured his stomach cramps. Now, Peter, look and tell me who that is? And you be quiet for a moment, women, if you can; who is it, Peter?”
“Well, to be sure!” said Peter, in reply; and his eye seemed fascinated by the picture.
“Well, for sure!” said Peter in response, and his eye appeared captivated by the image.
“Who is it?” repeated Ghysbrecht impetuously.
“Who is it?” Ghysbrecht asked eagerly.
Peter Buyskens smiled. “Why, you know as well as I do; but what have they put a crown on her for? I never saw her in a crown, for my part.”
Peter Buyskens smiled. “Well, you know as well as I do; but why have they put a crown on her? I’ve never seen her with a crown, for my part.”
“Man alive! Can't you open your great jaws, and just speak a wench's name plain out to oblige three people?”
"Come on! Can't you just open your mouth and say a woman's name clearly to help three people?"
“I'd do a great deal more to oblige one of you than that, burgomaster. If it isn't as natural as life!”
“I'd do a lot more to help you out than that, mayor. Isn’t it as natural as life?”
“Curse the man! he won't, he won't—curse him!”
“Damn the guy! He won't, he won't—damn him!”
“Why, what have I done now?”
“Why, what have I done this time?”
“Oh, sir!” said little Kate, “for pity's sake tell us; are these the features of a living woman, of—of—Margaret Brandt?”
“Oh, sir!” said little Kate, “please, for the love of God, tell us; are these the features of a living woman, of—of—Margaret Brandt?”
“A mirror is not truer, my little maid.”
“A mirror isn’t any more truthful, my little girl.”
“But is it she, sir, for very certain?”
“But is it really her, sir, for sure?”
“Why, who else should it be?”
“Why, who else could it be?”
“Now, why couldn't you say so at once?” snarled Ghysbrecht.
“Now, why couldn't you just say that right away?” snapped Ghysbrecht.
“I did say so, as plain as I could speak,” snapped Peter; and they growled over this small bone of contention so zealously, that they did not see Catherine and her daughter had thrown their aprons over their heads, and were rocking to and fro in deep distress. The next moment Elias came in from the shop, and stood aghast. Catherine, though her face was covered, knew his footstep.
“I said it as clearly as I could,” snapped Peter; and they argued over this minor issue so passionately that they didn’t notice Catherine and her daughter had thrown their aprons over their heads and were rocking back and forth in deep distress. The next moment, Elias came in from the shop and stood stunned. Catherine, even with her face covered, recognized his footsteps.
“That is my poor man,” she sobbed. “Tell him, good Peter Buyskens, for I have not the courage.”
“That is my poor man,” she cried. “Please tell him, good Peter Buyskens, because I don't have the strength.”
Elias turned pale. The presence of the burgomaster in his house, after so many years of coolness, coupled with his wife's and daughter's distress, made him fear some heavy misfortune.
Elias went pale. The burgomaster's presence in his home, after so many years of indifference, along with his wife's and daughter's distress, made him worry about some serious trouble.
“Richart! Jacob!” he gasped.
“Richart! Jacob!” he exclaimed.
“No, no!” said the burgomaster; “it is nearer home, and nobody is dead or dying, old friend.”
“No, no!” said the mayor; “it’s closer to home, and nobody is dead or dying, my old friend.”
“God bless you, burgomaster! Ah! something has gone off my breast that was like to choke me. Now, what is the matter?”
“God bless you, mayor! Ah! something has lifted off my chest that felt like it was choking me. Now, what’s going on?”
Ghysbrecht then told him all that he told the women, and showed the picture in evidence.
Ghysbrecht then shared everything he had told the women and showed the picture as proof.
“Is that all?” said Eli, profoundly relieved. “What are ye roaring and bellowing for? It is vexing—it is angering, but it is not like death, not even sickness. Boys will be boys. He will outgrow that disease: 'tis but skin-deep.”
“Is that it?” Eli said, feeling a huge sense of relief. “Why are you yelling and screaming? It's annoying—it’s frustrating, but it's not the end of the world, not even close to being sick. Boys will be boys. He’ll grow out of that phase: it’s just surface-level.”
But when Ghysbrecht told him that Margaret was a girl of good character; that it was not to be supposed she would be so intimate if marriage had not been spoken of between them, his brow darkened.
But when Ghysbrecht told him that Margaret was a girl of good character; that it shouldn't be assumed she would be so close if marriage hadn't been mentioned between them, his expression soured.
“Marriage! that shall never be,” said he sternly. “I'll stay that; ay, by force, if need be—as I would his hand lifted to cut his throat. I'd do what old John Koestein did t'other day.”
“Marriage! That will never happen,” he said firmly. “I'll prevent it; yes, by force if necessary—as I would if his hand was raised to cut his throat. I would do what old John Koestein did the other day.”
“And what is that, in Heaven's name?” asked the mother, suddenly removing her apron.
“And what is that, for heaven's sake?” asked the mother, suddenly taking off her apron.
It was the burgomaster who replied:
It was the mayor who replied:
“He made me shut young Albert Koestein up in the prison of the Stadthouse till he knocked under. It was not long: forty-eight hours, all alone, on bread and water, cooled his hot stomach. 'Tell my father I am his humble servant,' says he, 'and let me into the sun once more—the sun is worth all the wenches in the world.'”
“He made me lock up young Albert Koestein in the city hall prison until he gave in. It didn’t take long: forty-eight hours, all alone, on bread and water, calmed his fiery stomach. 'Tell my father I am his humble servant,' he says, 'and let me out into the sun again—the sun is worth all the girls in the world.'”
“Oh, the cruelty of men!” sighed Catherine.
“Oh, the cruelty of men!” Catherine sighed.
“As to that, the burgomaster has no choice: it is the law. And if a father says, 'Burgomaster, lock up my son,' he must do it. A fine thing it would be if a father might not lock up his own son.”
“As for that, the mayor has no choice: it’s the law. And if a father says, 'Mayor, lock up my son,' he has to do it. It would be quite a thing if a father couldn't lock up his own son.”
“Well, well! it won't come to that with me and my son. He never disobeyed me in his life: he never shall, Where is he? It is past supper-time. Where is he, Kate?”
“Well, well! That won't happen with me and my son. He’s never disobeyed me in his life, and he never will. Where is he? It’s past dinner time. Where is he, Kate?”
“Alas! I know not, father.”
"Unfortunately, I don't know, Dad."
“I know,” said Ghysbrecht; “he is at Sevenbergen. My servant met him on the road.”
“I know,” said Ghysbrecht; “he's at Sevenbergen. My servant ran into him on the road.”
Supper passed in gloomy silence. Evening descended—no Gerard! Eight o'clock came—no Gerard! Then the father sent all to bed, except Catherine.
Supper went by in a heavy silence. Night fell—still no Gerard! Eight o'clock arrived—still no Gerard! Then the dad told everyone to go to bed, except Catherine.
“You and I will walk abroad, wife, and talk over this new care.”
“You and I will go for a walk, my wife, and discuss this new concern.”
“Abroad, my man, at this time? Whither?”
“Abroad, my dude, at this time? Where to?”
“Why, on the road to Sevenbergen.”
“Why, on the way to Sevenbergen.”
“Oh no; no hasty words, father. Poor Gerard! he never vexed you before.”
“Oh no; no hasty words, Dad. Poor Gerard! He never upset you before.”
“Fear me not. But it must end; and I am not one that trusts to-morrow with to-day's work.”
“Don't be afraid of me. But it has to end; and I'm not someone who leaves today's work for tomorrow.”
The old pair walked hand in hand; for, strange is it may appear to some of my readers, the use of the elbow to couples walking was not discovered in Europe till centuries after this. They sauntered on a long time in silence. The night was clear and balmy. Such nights, calm and silent, recall the past from the dead.
The elderly couple strolled hand in hand; as odd as it may seem to some of my readers, the use of the elbow for couples walking wasn’t popularized in Europe until centuries later. They walked for a long time in silence. The night was clear and warm. Nights like this, calm and quiet, bring memories from the past back to life.
“It is a many years since we walked so late, my man,” said Catherine softly.
“It’s been many years since we walked this late, my man,” said Catherine softly.
“Ay, sweetheart, more than we shall see again (is he never coming, I wonder?)”
“Ay, sweetheart, more than we will see again (is he ever coming, I wonder?)”
“Not since our courting days, Eli.”
“Not since we were dating, Eli.”
“No. Ay, you were a buxom lass then.”
“No. Yeah, you were quite a tempting girl back then.”
“And you were a comely lad, as ever a girl's eye stole a look at. I do suppose Gerard is with her now, as you used to be with me. Nature is strong, and the same in all our generations.”
“And you were a handsome guy, as ever a girl's eye caught a glance at. I guess Gerard is with her now, just like you used to be with me. Nature is powerful, and it’s the same in all our generations.”
“Nay, I hope he has left her by now, confound her, or we shall be here all night.”
“Nah, I really hope he’s broken up with her by now, damn her, or we’ll be stuck here all night.”
“Eli!”
“Eli!”
“Well, Kate?”
"What's up, Kate?"
“I have been happy with you, sweetheart, for all our rubs—much happier, I trow, than if I had—been—a—a—nun. You won't speak harshly to the poor child? One can be firm without being harsh.”
“I have been happy with you, sweetheart, for all our moments—much happier, I think, than if I had—been—a—a—nun. You won't speak harshly to the poor child? One can be firm without being harsh.”
“Surely.”
"Of course."
“Have you been happy with me, my poor Eli?”
“Have you been happy with me, my poor Eli?”
“Why, you know I have. Friends I have known, but none like thee. Buss me, wife!”
“Of course, I have. I've known friends, but none like you. Kiss me, wife!”
“A heart to share joy and grief with is a great comfort to man or woman. Isn't it, Eli?”
“A heart to share joy and grief with is a great comfort to anyone. Right, Eli?”
“It is so, my lass.
"That's right, my girl."
'It doth joy double,
And halveth trouble,'
'It brings twice the joy, And cuts trouble in half,'
runs the byword. And so I have found it, sweetheart. Ah! here comes the young fool.”
runs the saying. And that's how I've experienced it, darling. Ah! here comes the young idiot.
Catherine trembled, and held her husband's hand tight.
Catherine trembled and held her husband's hand tightly.
The moon was bright, but they were in the shadow of some trees, and their son did not see them. He came singing in the moonlight, and his face shining.
The moon was bright, but they were in the shadow of some trees, and their son did not see them. He came singing in the moonlight, his face glowing.
CHAPTER VIII
While the burgomaster was exposing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret had a trouble of her own at Sevenbergen. It was a housewife's distress, but deeper than we can well conceive. She came to Martin Wittenhaagen, the old soldier, with tears in her eyes.
While the mayor was accusing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret was dealing with her own problems at Sevenbergen. It was the kind of distress a housewife faces, but it ran deeper than we can really understand. She approached Martin Wittenhaagen, the old soldier, with tears in her eyes.
“Martin, there's nothing in the house, and Gerard is coming, and he is so thoughtless. He forgets to sup at home. When he gives over work, then he runs to me straight, poor soul; and often he comes quite faint. And to think I have nothing to set before my servant that loves me so dear.”
“Martin, there's nothing in the house, and Gerard is coming, and he’s so thoughtless. He forgets to eat at home. When he finishes work, he comes straight to me, the poor guy; and often he arrives feeling faint. And to think I have nothing to serve my servant who cares for me so much.”
Martin scratched his head. “What can I do?”
Martin scratched his head. “What can I do?”
“It is Thursday; it is your day to shoot; sooth to Say, I counted on you to-day.”
“It’s Thursday; it’s your day to shoot; to be honest, I was counting on you today.”
“Nay,” said the soldier, “I may not shoot when the Duke or his friends are at the chase; read else. I am no scholar.” And he took out of his pouch a parchment with a grand seal. It purported to be a stipend and a licence given by Philip, Duke of Burgundy, to Martin Wittenhaagen, one of his archers, in return for services in the wars, and for a wound received at the Dukes side. The stipend was four merks yearly, to be paid by the Duke's almoner, and the licence was to shoot three arrows once a week, viz., on Thursday, and no other day, in any of the Duke's forests in Holland, at any game but a seven-year-old buck or a doe carrying fawn; proviso, that the Duke should not be hunting on that day, or any of his friends. In this case Martin was not to go and disturb the woods on peril of his salary and his head, and a fine of a penny.
“Sorry,” said the soldier, “I can’t shoot when the Duke or his friends are out hunting; read this instead. I’m no scholar.” He pulled out a parchment with a grand seal from his pouch. It claimed to be a stipend and a license given by Philip, Duke of Burgundy, to Martin Wittenhaagen, one of his archers, in exchange for his service in the wars and for a wound he received fighting alongside the Duke. The stipend was four merks a year, to be paid by the Duke's almoner, and the license allowed him to shoot three arrows once a week, specifically on Thursday, and no other day, in any of the Duke's forests in Holland, targeting any game except a seven-year-old buck or a doe carrying a fawn; provided that the Duke or any of his friends were not hunting that day. If that happened, Martin could not disturb the woods under penalty of losing his pay and his head, plus a fine of a penny.
Margaret sighed and was silent.
Margaret sighed and fell silent.
“Come, cheer up, mistress,” said he; “for your sake I'll peril my carcass; I have done that for many a one that was not worth your forefinger. It is no such mighty risk either. I'll but step into the skirts of the forest here. It is odds but they drive a hare or a fawn within reach of my arrow.”
“Come on, cheer up, my lady,” he said; “I'll risk my life for you; I've done it for many people who weren't worth your little finger. It's not really that big of a risk either. I'll just step into the edge of the forest here. It's likely they'll flush out a hare or a fawn within range of my arrow.”
“Well, if I let you go, you must promise me not to go far, and not to be seen; far better Gerard went supperless than ill should come to you, faithful Martin.”
"Well, if I let you go, you have to promise me not to go too far and to stay out of sight; it’s much better for Gerard to miss supper than for anything bad to happen to you, loyal Martin."
The required promise given, Martin took his bow and three arrows, and stole cautiously into the wood: it was scarce a furlong distant. The horns were heard faintly in the distance, and all the game was afoot. “Come,” thought Martin, “I shall soon fill the pot, and no one be the wiser.” He took his stand behind a thick oak that commanded a view of an open glade, and strung his bow, a truly formidable weapon. It was of English yew, six feet two inches high, and thick in proportion; and Martin, broad-chested, with arms all iron and cord, and used to the bow from infancy, could draw a three-foot arrow to the head, and, when it flew, the eye could scarce follow it, and the bowstring twanged as musical as a harp. This bow had laid many a stout soldier low in the wars of the Hoecks and Cabbel-jaws. In those days a battlefield was not a cloud of smoke; the combatants were few, but the deaths many—for they saw what they were about; and fewer bloodless arrows flew than bloodless bullets now. A hare came cantering, then sat sprightly, and her ears made a capital V. Martin levelled his tremendous weapon at her. The arrow flew, the string twanged; but Martin had been in a hurry to pot her, and lost her by an inch: the arrow seemed to hit her, but it struck the ground close to her, and passed under her belly like a flash, and hissed along the short grass and disappeared. She jumped three feet perpendicular and away at the top of her speed. “Bungler!” said Martin. A sure proof he was not an habitual bungler, or he would have blamed the hare. He had scarcely fitted another arrow to his string when a wood-pigeon settled on the very tree he stood under. “Aha!” thought he, “you are small, but dainty.” This time he took more pains; drew his arrow carefully, loosed it smoothly, and saw it, to all appearance, go clean through the bird, carrying feathers skyward like dust. Instead of falling at his feet, the bird, whose breast was torn, not fairly pierced, fluttered feebly away, and, by a great effort, rose above the trees, flew some fifty yards and dead at last; but where, he could not see for the thick foliage.
The promise made, Martin grabbed his bow and three arrows, and quietly entered the woods, which were barely a furlong away. He could faintly hear the horns in the distance, and all the game was on the move. “Alright,” thought Martin, “I’ll fill the pot in no time, and no one will be the wiser.” He positioned himself behind a thick oak that offered a view of an open glade and strung his bow, which was a truly impressive weapon. Made of English yew, it stood six feet two inches tall and was sturdy for its size; Martin, broad-chested and well-built, had trained with a bow since childhood, able to draw a three-foot arrow all the way back, and when it shot, it flew so fast that the eye could barely follow it, the bowstring twanging as melodically as a harp. This bow had taken down many brave soldiers in the battles of the Hoecks and Cabbel-jaws. Back then, a battlefield wasn’t just a cloud of smoke; the fights had fewer participants, but many deaths—because they knew exactly what they were doing; fewer arrows flew without bloodshed than the bloodless bullets do today. A hare came bounding along, then stopped alertly, her ears shaped into a perfect V. Martin aimed his powerful weapon at her. The arrow flew, the string twanged; but in his eagerness to hit her, he missed by an inch: the arrow seemed to touch her but struck the ground just beside her, passing beneath her belly like a flash, hissing through the short grass before disappearing. She jumped three feet straight up and bolted away at full speed. “Amateur!” Martin muttered. This showed he wasn't a habitual amateur; otherwise, he would have blamed the hare. He had barely nocked another arrow when a wood-pigeon landed on the very tree he was under. “Aha!” he thought, “you may be small, but you’re still a prize.” This time he took more care; he drew his arrow carefully, released it smoothly, and saw it appear to cut right through the bird, sending feathers flying like dust. Instead of dropping at his feet, the bird, its breast torn but not completely penetrated, fluttered weakly away and, with a strong effort, climbed above the trees, flying about fifty yards before finally dropping dead out of sight among the thick foliage.
“Luck is against me,” said he despondingly. But he fitted another arrow, and eyed the glade keenly. Presently he heard a bustle behind him, and turned round just in time to see a noble buck cross the open, but too late to shoot at him. He dashed his bow down with an imprecation. At that moment a long spotted animal glided swiftly across after the deer; its belly seemed to touch the ground as it went. Martin took up his bow hastily: he recognized the Duke's leopard. “The hunters will not be far from her,” said he, “and I must not be seen. Gerard must go supperless this night.”
“Luck is not on my side,” he said sadly. But he nocked another arrow and carefully scanned the clearing. Soon, he heard a commotion behind him and turned just in time to see a majestic buck cross the open space, but he was too late to shoot. He slammed his bow down with a curse. At that moment, a long spotted animal quickly darted after the deer; its belly seemed to graze the ground as it moved. Martin grabbed his bow in a hurry: he recognized the Duke's leopard. “The hunters won't be far behind her,” he thought, “and I must not be seen. Gerard will go hungry tonight.”
He plunged into the wood, following the buck and leopard, for that was his way home. He had not gone far when he heard an unusual sound ahead of him—leaves rustling violently and the ground trampled. He hurried in the direction. He found the leopard on the buck's back, tearing him with teeth and claw, and the buck running in a circle and bounding convulsively, with the blood pouring down his hide. Then Martin formed a desperate resolution to have the venison for Margaret. He drew his arrow to the head, and buried it in the deer, who, spite of the creature on his back, bounded high into the air, and fell dead. The leopard went on tearing him as if nothing had happened.
He rushed into the woods, chasing after the buck and leopard since that was his way home. He hadn’t gone far when he heard an unusual noise ahead—a loud rustling of leaves and the ground being trampled. He quickly moved in that direction. He discovered the leopard on the buck’s back, ripping into him with its teeth and claws, while the buck ran in circles and jumped erratically, blood pouring down its fur. Then Martin made a desperate decision to get the venison for Margaret. He pulled his arrow back all the way and shot it into the deer, which, despite the creature on its back, leaped high into the air and fell dead. The leopard continued tearing into it as if nothing had happened.
Martin hoped that the creature would gorge itself with blood, and then let him take the meat. He waited some minutes, then walked resolutely up, and laid his hand on the buck's leg. The leopard gave a frightful growl, and left off sucking blood. She saw Martin's game, and was sulky and on her guard. What was to be done? Martin had heard that wild creatures cannot stand the human eye. Accordingly, he stood erect, and fixed his on the leopard: the leopard returned a savage glance, and never took her eye off Martin. Then Martin continuing to look the beast down, the leopard, brutally ignorant of natural history, flew at his head with a frightful yell, flaming eyes, and jaws and distended. He had but just time to catch her by the throat, before her teeth could crush his face; one of her claws seized his shoulder and rent it, the other, aimed at his cheek, would have been more deadly still, but Martin was old-fashioned, and wore no hat, but a scapulary of the same stuff as his jerkin, and this scapulary he had brought over his head like a hood; the brute's claw caught in the loose leather. Martin kept her teeth off his face with great difficulty, and griped her throat fiercely, and she kept rending his shoulder. It was like blunt reaping-hooks grinding and tearing. The pain was fearful; but, instead of cowing the old soldier, it put his blood up, and he gnashed his teeth with rage almost as fierce as hers, and squeezed her neck with iron force. The two pair of eyes flared at one another—and now the man's were almost as furious as the brute's. She found he was throttling her, and made a wild attempt to free herself, in which she dragged his cowl all over his face and blinded him, and tore her claw out of his shoulder, flesh and all; but still he throttled her with hand and arm of iron. Presently her long tail, that was high in the air, went down. “Aha!” cried Martin, joyfully, and gripped her like death; next, her body lost its elasticity, and he held a choked and powerless thing: he gripped it still, till all motion ceased, then dashed it to the earth; then, panting, removed his cowl: the leopard lay mute at his feet with tongue protruding and bloody paw; and for the first time terror fell on Martin. “I am a dead man: I have slain the Duke's leopard.” He hastily seized a few handfuls of leaves and threw them over her; then shouldered the buck, and staggered away, leaving a trail of blood all the way his own and the buck's. He burst into Peter's house a horrible figure, bleeding and bloodstained, and flung the deer's carcass down.
Martin hoped the creature would eat its fill of blood and then allow him to take the meat. After a few minutes, he approached confidently and placed his hand on the buck's leg. The leopard let out a terrifying growl and stopped drinking blood. She noticed Martin's trophy and became sullen and defensive. What was he supposed to do? Martin had heard that wild animals can't stand the human gaze. So, he stood tall and locked eyes with the leopard. The leopard responded with a fierce glare and never broke eye contact. As Martin continued to stare her down, the leopard, completely unaware of natural behavior, lunged at his head with a horrific yell, her eyes aflame and jaws wide open. He barely had time to grab her by the throat before her teeth could mash into his face; one of her claws dug into his shoulder, tearing it apart, and the other, aimed at his cheek, would have been even deadlier, but Martin was old-school and didn’t wear a hat—just a scapulary made of the same material as his tunic, which he had pulled over his head like a hood; the brute’s claw got caught in the loose leather. Martin struggled to keep her teeth away from his face, gripping her throat hard as she continued to shred his shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but instead of scaring the old soldier, it fueled his adrenaline, and he gnashed his teeth in rage that matched hers, squeezing her neck with all his strength. Their eyes blazed at each other—now the man's were almost as wild as the beast's. Sensing she was being choked, she made a desperate attempt to escape, dragging his hood over his face and blinding him while ripping her claw from his shoulder, flesh and all; yet he still held on with a grip of iron. Soon her long tail, which had been held high, dropped down. “Aha!” Martin shouted, filled with triumph, and tightened his hold as if he would never let go; then her body lost its strength, and he found himself holding a choked, powerless creature. He held on until all movement stopped, then hurled it to the ground; panting, he pulled off his hood: the leopard lay silent at his feet, tongue out and bloody paw exposed, and for the first time, fear washed over Martin. “I’m a dead man: I’ve killed the Duke's leopard.” He quickly gathered some leaves and tossed them over her, then slung the buck over his shoulder and staggered away, leaving a trail of blood from himself and the buck. He burst into Peter's house, a horrific sight, bleeding and covered in blood, and dropped the deer's carcass on the ground.
“There—no questions,” said he, “but broil me a steak on't, for I am faint.”
“There—no questions,” he said, “but grill me a steak, because I’m starving.”
Margaret did not see he was wounded; she thought the blood was all from the deer.
Margaret didn't notice he was hurt; she believed the blood was entirely from the deer.
She busied herself at the fire, and the stout soldier stanched and bound his own wound apart; and soon he and Gerard and Margaret were supping royally on broiled venison.
She focused on the fire, and the sturdy soldier took care of his own wound himself; soon, he, Gerard, and Margaret were enjoying a lavish dinner of grilled venison.
They were very merry; and Gerard, with wonderful thoughtfulness, had brought a flask of Schiedam, and under its influence Martin revived, and told them how the venison was got; and they all made merry over the exploit.
They were in great spirits, and Gerard, being really thoughtful, had brought a flask of Schiedam. With that, Martin perked up and shared how they got the venison, and they all celebrated the achievement.
Their mirth was strangely interrupted. Margaret's eye became fixed and fascinated, and her cheek pale with fear. She gasped, and could not speak, but pointed to the window with trembling finger. Their eyes followed hers, and there in the twilight crouched a dark form with eyes like glowworms.
Their joy was suddenly interrupted. Margaret's gaze became fixed and captivated, and her face turned pale with fear. She gasped and couldn’t speak, but pointed to the window with a trembling finger. Their eyes followed hers, and there in the dim light crouched a dark figure with eyes that looked like glowworms.
It was the leopard.
It was the leopard.
While they stood petrified, fascinated by the eyes of green fire, there sounded in the wood a single deep bay. Martin trembled at it.
While they stood frozen, captivated by the eyes of green fire, a single deep bay echoed through the woods. Martin trembled at the sound.
“They have lost her, and laid muzzled bloodhounds on her scent; they will find her here, and the venison. Good-bye, friends, Martin Wittenhaagen ends here.”
“They’ve lost her and set trained bloodhounds on her trail; they’ll find her here, along with the deer. Goodbye, friends, Martin Wittenhaagen ends here.”
Gerard seized his bow, and put it into the soldier's hands.
Gerard grabbed his bow and handed it to the soldier.
“Be a man,” he cried; “shoot her, and fling her into the wood ere they come up. Who will know?”
“Be a man,” he shouted; “shoot her and throw her into the woods before they arrive. Who will know?”
More voices of hounds broke out, and nearer.
More hound voices erupted, and they were closer.
“Curse her!” cried Martin; “I spared her once; now she must die, or I, or both more likely;” and he reared his bow, and drew his arrow to the head.
“Damn her!” shouted Martin; “I let her go once; now she has to die, or I will, or probably both of us;” and he lifted his bow and pulled his arrow back to the notch.
“Nay! nay!” cried Margaret, and seized the arrow. It broke in half: the pieces fell on each side the bow. The air at the same time filled with the tongues of the hounds: they were hot upon the scent.
“Nah! Nah!” shouted Margaret, grabbing the arrow. It snapped in two: the pieces dropped on either side of the bow. At that moment, the air was filled with the barking of the dogs: they were hot on the trail.
“What have you done, wench? You have put the halter round my throat.”
“What have you done, you girl? You’ve put the noose around my neck.”
“No!” cried Margaret. “I have saved you: stand back from the window, both! Your knife, quick!”
“No!” yelled Margaret. “I’ve saved you: step away from the window, both of you! Your knife, hurry!”
She seized his long-pointed knife, almost tore it out of his girdle, and darted from the room. The house was now surrounded with baying dogs and shouting men.
She grabbed his long, sharp knife, nearly yanking it out of his belt, and raced out of the room. The house was now surrounded by barking dogs and shouting men.
The glowworm eyes moved not.
The glowworm's eyes didn't move.
CHAPTER IX
Margaret cut off a huge piece of venison, and ran to the window and threw it out to the green eyes of fire. They darted on to it with a savage snarl; and there was a sound of rending and crunching: at this moment, a hound uttered a bay so near and loud it rang through the house; and the three at the window shrank together. Then the leopard feared for her supper, and glided swiftly and stealthily away with it towards the woods, and the very next moment horses and men and dogs came helter-skelter past the window, and followed her full cry. Martin and his companions breathed again: the leopard was swift, and would not be caught within a league of their house. They grasped hands. Margaret seized this opportunity, and cried a little; Gerard kissed the tears away.
Margaret cut off a big piece of venison, ran to the window, and threw it out to the green-eyed fire. They lunged at it with a fierce snarl, and there was a sound of tearing and crunching. At that moment, a hound let out a bay so close and loud it echoed through the house; the three at the window huddled together. Then the leopard got worried about her meal and quickly and quietly slipped away with it into the woods. Just then, horses, men, and dogs came rushing past the window, chasing after her. Martin and his friends sighed in relief: the leopard was fast and wouldn’t be caught within a league of their house. They held hands. Margaret took this chance to cry a little, and Gerard kissed her tears away.
To table once more, and Gerard drank to woman's wit: “'Tis stronger than man's force,” said he.
To table once more, and Gerard raised his glass to women's intelligence: “It's stronger than man's strength,” he said.
“Ay,” said Margaret, “when those she loves are in danger; not else.”
“Ay,” said Margaret, “only when those she loves are in danger; not otherwise.”
To-night Gerard stayed with her longer than usual, and went home prouder than ever of her, and happy as a prince. Some little distance from home, under the shadow of some trees, he encountered two figures: they almost barred his way.
To night, Gerard stayed with her longer than usual and went home prouder than ever of her, feeling as happy as a prince. A short distance from home, under the shade of some trees, he ran into two figures: they nearly blocked his path.
It was his father and mother.
It was his dad and mom.
Out so late! what could be the cause?
Out so late! What could be the reason?
A chill fell on him.
He felt a chill.
He stopped and looked at them: they stood grim and silent. He stammered out some words of inquiry.
He stopped and looked at them: they stood serious and quiet. He stumbled over his words, asking a question.
“Why ask?” said the father; “you know why we are here.”
“Why ask?” said the father; “you know why we’re here.”
“Oh, Gerard!” said his mother, with a voice full of reproach yet of affection.
“Oh, Gerard!” his mother said, her voice a mix of disappointment and love.
Gerard's heart quaked: he was silent.
Gerard's heart raced: he was quiet.
Then his father pitied his confusion, and said to him:
Then his father felt sorry for his confusion and said to him:
“Nay, you need not to hang your head. You are not the first young fool that has been caught by a red cheek and a pair of blue eyes.”
“Nah, you don’t need to hang your head. You’re not the first young idiot who’s been caught by a pretty blush and a pair of blue eyes.”
“Nay, nay!” put in Catherine, “it was witchcraft; Peter the Magician is well known for that.”
“Nah, nah!” Catherine interjected, “it was witchcraft; Peter the Magician is famous for that.”
“Come, Sir Priest,” resumed his father, “you know you must not meddle with women folk. But give us your promise to go no more to Sevenbergen, and here all ends: we won't be hard on you for one fault.”
“Come on, Father Priest,” his father continued, “you know you shouldn't get involved with women. Just promise us you won’t go back to Sevenbergen, and we’ll call it even: we won’t be too tough on you for one mistake.”
“I cannot promise that, father.”
"I can't promise that, Dad."
“Not promise it, you young hypocrite!”
“Don’t promise it, you young hypocrite!”
“Nay, father, miscall me not: I lacked courage to tell you what I knew would vex you; and right grateful am I to that good friend, whoever he be, that has let you wot. 'Tis a load off my mind. Yes, father, I love Margaret; and call me not a priest, for a priest I will never be. I will die sooner.”
“Nah, Dad, don’t call me names: I didn’t have the guts to tell you what I knew would upset you; and I’m really grateful to that good friend, whoever they are, for letting you know. It’s a relief off my mind. Yes, Dad, I love Margaret; and don’t call me a priest, because I’ll never be one. I’d rather die first.”
“That we shall see, young man. Come, gainsay me no more; you will learn what 'tis to disrespect a father.”
“That we’ll see, young man. Come on, don’t argue with me anymore; you’ll learn what it means to disrespect a father.”
Gerard held his peace, and the three walked home in gloomy silence, broken only by a deep sigh or two from Catherine.
Gerard stayed quiet, and the three of them walked home in heavy silence, interrupted only by a couple of deep sighs from Catherine.
From that hour the little house at Tergou was no longer the abode of peace. Gerard was taken to task next day before the whole family; and every voice was loud against him, except little Kate's and the dwarf's, who was apt to take his cue from her without knowing why. As for Cornelis and Sybrandt, they were bitterer than their father. Gerard was dismayed at finding so many enemies, and looked wistfully into his little sister's face: her eyes were brimming at the harsh words showered on one who but yesterday was the universal pet. But she gave him no encouragement: she turned her head away from him and said:
From that moment on, the little house at Tergou was no longer a peaceful place. The next day, Gerard faced the entire family, and every voice was raised against him, except for little Kate's and the dwarf's, who usually followed her lead without understanding why. Cornelis and Sybrandt were even more bitter than their father. Gerard was taken aback to see so many people turning against him and glanced hopefully at his little sister's face; her eyes were filled with tears at the harsh words directed at someone who just yesterday was everyone's favorite. But she didn’t offer him any comfort; she turned her head away from him and said:
“Dear, dear Gerard, pray to Heaven to cure you of this folly!”
“Dear, dear Gerard, please pray to Heaven to free you from this foolishness!”
“What, are you against me too?” said Gerard, sadly; and he rose with a deep sigh, and left the house and went to Sevenbergen.
“Wait, are you against me too?” Gerard said sadly. He stood up with a deep sigh, left the house, and headed to Sevenbergen.
The beginning of a quarrel, where the parties are bound by affection though opposed in interest and sentiment, is comparatively innocent: both are perhaps in the right at first starting, and then it is that a calm, judicious friend, capable of seeing both sides, is a gift from Heaven. For the longer the dissension endures, the wider and deeper it grows by the fallibility and irascibility of human nature: these are not confined to either side, and finally the invariable end is reached—both in the wrong.
The start of an argument, where the people involved care about each other even though they have different interests and feelings, is fairly harmless: they might both have valid points at the beginning. That’s when a calm, fair friend, who can understand both perspectives, is a blessing. Because as the disagreement goes on, it only gets broader and deeper due to the flaws and tempers of human nature: these issues aren’t limited to one side, and in the end, they both end up being wrong.
The combatants were unequally matched: Elias was angry, Cornelis and Sybrandt spiteful; but Gerard, having a larger and more cultivated mind, saw both sides where they saw but one, and had fits of irresolution, and was not wroth, but unhappy. He was lonely, too, in this struggle. He could open his heart to no one. Margaret was a high-spirited girl: he dared not tell her what he had to endure at home; she was capable of siding with his relations by resigning him, though at the cost of her own happiness. Margaret Van Eyck had been a great comfort to him on another occasion; but now he dared not make her his confidant. Her own history was well known. In early life she had many offers of marriage; but refused them all for the sake of that art, to which a wife's and mother's duties are so fatal: thus she remained single and painted with her brothers. How could he tell her that he declined the benefice she had got him, and declined it for the sake of that which at his age she had despised and sacrificed so lightly?
The fighters were not evenly matched: Elias was angry, while Cornelis and Sybrandt were spiteful; but Gerard, with his broader and more developed mindset, was able to see both sides when they could only see one. He often felt uncertain and was not angry, but unhappy. He was also alone in this battle. He couldn’t open up to anyone. Margaret was a strong-willed girl; he didn't dare tell her about what he was dealing with at home. She could easily side with his family by letting him go, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness. Margaret Van Eyck had once been a great source of comfort for him, but now he couldn’t bring himself to make her his confidante. Everyone knew her story. In her younger years, she received many marriage proposals but turned them all down for the sake of her art, which often stands in the way of a wife’s and mother’s responsibilities. So, she stayed single and painted with her brothers. How could he tell her that he turned down the position she had secured for him, and did so for the very thing she had scorned and sacrificed so easily at his age?
Gerard at this period bade fair to succumb. But the other side had a horrible ally in Catherine, senior. This good-hearted but uneducated woman could not, like her daughter, act quietly and firmly: still less could she act upon a plan. She irritated Gerard at times, and so helped him; for anger is a great sustainer of the courage: at others she turned round in a moment and made onslaughts on her own forces. To take a single instance out of many: one day that they were all at home, Catherine and all, Cornelis said: “Our Gerard wed Margaret Brandt? Why, it is hunger marrying thirst.”
Gerard was really struggling during this time. But on the other hand, he had a terrible ally in Catherine, senior. This good-hearted but uneducated woman couldn’t act quietly and decisively like her daughter; she also couldn’t stick to a plan. Sometimes, her irritation got to Gerard, which actually helped him because anger can be a powerful motivator. At other times, she would suddenly turn against her own side. For example, one day when they were all at home, Catherine and everyone else, Cornelis said, “Our Gerard marrying Margaret Brandt? That’s like hunger marrying thirst.”
“And what will it be when you marry?” cried Catherine. “Gerard can paint, Gerard can write, but what can you do to keep a woman, ye lazy loon? Nought but wait for your father's shoon. Oh we can see why you and Sybrandt would not have the poor boy to marry. You are afraid he will come to us for a share of our substance. And say that he does, and say that we give it him, it isn't yourn we part from, and mayhap never will be.”
“And what will you do when you get married?” Catherine exclaimed. “Gerard can paint, Gerard can write, but what can you do to keep a woman, you lazy fool? Nothing but wait for your father's shoes. Oh, we can see why you and Sybrandt wouldn’t want the poor guy to marry. You’re afraid he’ll come to us for a part of our money. And even if he does, and even if we give it to him, it’s not yours that we’re giving away, and maybe it never will be.”
On these occasions Gerard smiled slily, and picked up heart, and temporary confusion fell on Catherine's unfortunate allies. But at last, after more than six months of irritation, came the climax. The father told the son before the whole family he had ordered the burgomaster to imprison him in the Stadthouse rather than let him marry Margaret. Gerard turned pale with anger at this, but by a great effort held his peace. His father went on to say, “And a priest you shall be before the year is out, nilly-willy.”
On these occasions, Gerard smiled slyly, found his courage, and momentary confusion descended on Catherine's unfortunate allies. But finally, after more than six months of frustration, the climax arrived. The father told the son in front of the whole family that he had ordered the burgomaster to lock him up in the Stadthouse rather than let him marry Margaret. Gerard turned pale with anger at this, but with a great effort, he stayed silent. His father continued, “And you will become a priest before the year is out, like it or not.”
“Is it so?” cried Gerard. “Then, hear me, all. By God and St. Bavon I swear I will never be a priest while Margaret lives. Since force is to decide it, and not love and duty, try force, father; but force shall not serve you, for the day I see the burgomaster come for me, I leave Tergou for ever, and Holland too, and my father's house, where it seems I have been valued all these years, not for myself, but for what is to be got out of me.”
“Is that true?” Gerard exclaimed. “Then listen up, everyone. By God and St. Bavon, I swear I'll never become a priest while Margaret is alive. Since this is going to be settled through force instead of love and duty, go ahead and use force, father; but it won't work, because the day I see the burgomaster coming for me, I’m leaving Tergou for good, along with Holland and my father's house, where it seems I’ve been valued all these years, not for who I am, but for what I can provide.”
And he flung out of the room white with anger and desperation.
And he stormed out of the room, pale with anger and frustration.
“There!” cried Catherine, “that comes of driving young folks too hard. But men are crueller than tigers, even to their own flesh and blood. Now, Heaven forbid he should ever leave us, married or single.”
“There!” cried Catherine, “that's what happens when you push young people too hard. But men can be even crueler than tigers, even to their own family. Now, God forbid he ever leaves us, whether he's married or single.”
As Gerard came out of the house, his cheeks pale and his heart panting, he met Reicht Heynes: she had a message for him: Margaret Van Eyck desired to see him. He found the old lady seated grim as a judge. She wasted no time in preliminaries, but inquired coldly why he had not visited her of late: before he could answer, she said in a sarcastic tone, “I thought we had been friends, young sir.”
As Gerard left the house, his face pale and his heart racing, he ran into Reicht Heynes: she had a message for him. Margaret Van Eyck wanted to see him. He found the old lady sitting there, looking serious as a judge. She didn’t waste any time with small talk but coldly asked why he hadn’t visited her recently: before he could respond, she added with a sarcastic tone, “I thought we were friends, young man.”
At this Gerard looked the picture of doubt and consternation.
At this, Gerard looked completely unsure and worried.
“It is because you never told her you were in love,” said Reicht Heynes, pitying his confusion.
“It’s because you never told her you were in love,” said Reicht Heynes, feeling sorry for his confusion.
“Silence, wench! Why should he tell us his affairs? We are not his friends: we have not deserved his confidence.”
“Shut up, girl! Why should he share his business with us? We’re not his friends; we haven’t earned his trust.”
“Alas! my second mother,” said Gerard, “I did not dare to tell you my folly.”
“Unfortunately, my second mother,” said Gerard, “I didn’t have the courage to tell you about my mistake.”
“What folly? Is it folly to love?”
“What foolishness? Is it foolish to love?”
“I am told so every day of my life.”
“I hear that every day of my life.”
“You need not have been afraid to tell my mistress; she is always kind to true lovers.”
“You don’t need to be afraid to tell my mistress; she’s always nice to genuine lovers.”
“Madam—Reicht I was afraid because I was told...”
“Ma'am—I was afraid because I was told...”
“Well, you were told—?”
“Well, you were told—?”
“That in your youth you scorned love, preferring art.”
"Back in your youth, you rejected love and chose art instead."
“I did, boy; and what is the end of it? Behold me here a barren stock, while the women of my youth have a troop of children at their side, and grandchildren at their knee I gave up the sweet joys of wifehood and motherhood for what? For my dear brothers. They have gone and left me long ago. For my art. It has all but left me too. I have the knowledge still, but what avails that when the hand trembles. No, Gerard; I look on you as my son. You are good, you are handsome, you are a painter, though not like some I have known. I will not let you throw your youth away as I did mine: you shall marry this Margaret. I have inquired, and she is a good daughter. Reicht here is a gossip. She has told me all about it. But that need not hinder you to tell me.”
“I did, boy; and what’s the point of it all? Look at me, a barren woman, while the women I grew up with have a bunch of kids by their side and grandkids on their laps. I gave up the sweet joys of being a wife and a mother for what? For my dear brothers. They left me a long time ago. For my art. That's pretty much gone too. I still have the knowledge, but what good is that when my hand shakes? No, Gerard; I see you as my son. You’re kind, you’re handsome, and you’re a painter, though not like some I’ve known. I won’t let you waste your youth like I wasted mine: you will marry this Margaret. I’ve asked around, and she’s a good girl. Reicht here is a gossip. She’s told me everything about it. But you don’t have to let that stop you from telling me.”
Poor Gerard was overjoyed to be permitted to praise Margaret aloud, and to one who could understand what he loved in her.
Poor Gerard was really happy to be allowed to praise Margaret out loud, especially to someone who could appreciate what he loved about her.
Soon there were two pair of wet eyes over his story; and when the poor boy saw that, there were three.
Soon, there were two pairs of teary eyes listening to his story; and when the poor boy noticed that, there were three.
Women are creatures brimful of courage. Theirs is not exactly the same quality as manly courage; that would never do, hang it all; we should have to give up trampling on them. No; it is a vicarious courage. They never take part in a bull-fight by any chance; but it is remarked that they sit at one unshaken by those tremors and apprehensions for the combatants to which the male spectator--feeble-minded wretch!—is subject. Nothing can exceed the resolution with which they have been known to send forth men to battle: as some witty dog says,
Women are incredibly brave. Their courage isn’t quite the same as male bravery; that wouldn’t work, since we’d then have to stop dominating them. No, it’s a shared courage. They would never actually take part in a bullfight, yet it’s noted that they remain calm while the male spectators—poor fools!—are full of jitters and fears for the fighters. Nothing compares to the determination with which they’ve been known to send men off to war: as some clever person puts it,
“Les femmes sont tres braves avec le peur d'autrui.”
“Women are very brave in the face of others' fear.”
By this trait Gerard now profited. Margaret and Reicht were agreed that a man should always take the bull by the horns. Gerard's only course was to marry Margaret Brandt off-hand; the old people would come to after a while, the deed once done. Whereas, the longer this misunderstanding continued on its present footing, the worse for all parties, especially for Gerard.
By this trait, Gerard took advantage. Margaret and Reicht agreed that a man should always face challenges head-on. Gerard's only option was to marry Margaret Brandt right away; the older generation would eventually come around once it was done. Meanwhile, the longer this misunderstanding continued, the worse it would be for everyone involved, especially for Gerard.
“See how pale and thin they have made him amongst them.”
“Look at how pale and thin they've made him around them.”
“Indeed you are, Master Gerard,” said Reicht. “It makes a body sad to see a young man so wasted and worn. Mistress, when I met him in the street to-day, I had liked to have burst out crying: he was so changed.
“Indeed you are, Master Gerard,” said Reicht. “It makes me sad to see a young man so wasted and worn. Mistress, when I saw him in the street today, I almost burst into tears: he was so different.”
“And I'll be bound the others keep their colour; ah, Reicht? such as it is.”
“And I bet the others keep their color; huh, Reicht? just like it is.”
“Oh, I see no odds in them.”
“Oh, I don’t see any difference in them.”
“Of course not. We painters are no match for boors. We are glass, they are stone. We can't stand the worry, worry, worry of little minds; and it is not for the good of mankind we should be exposed to it. It is hard enough, Heaven knows, to design and paint a masterpiece, without having gnats and flies stinging us to death into the bargain.”
“Of course not. We painters can't compete with ignorant people. We are delicate like glass, while they are solid like stone. We can't handle the constant worry from narrow-minded folks, and it's not beneficial for society for us to be subjected to it. It's already tough enough, as anyone can see, to create and paint a masterpiece without being harassed by annoying distractions.”
Exasperated as Gerard was by his father's threat of violence, he listened to these friendly voices telling him the prudent course was rebellion. But though he listened, he was not convinced.
Exasperated as Gerard was by his father's threat of violence, he listened to these friendly voices telling him that the smart choice was to rebel. But even though he listened, he wasn't convinced.
“I do not fear my father's violence,” he said, “but I do fear his anger. When it came to the point he would not imprison me. I would marry Margaret to-morrow if that was my only fear. No; he would disown me. I should take Margaret from her father, and give her a poor husband, who would never thrive, weighed down by his parent's curse. Madam! I sometimes think if I could marry her secretly, and then take her away to some country where my craft is better paid than in this; and after a year or two, when the storm had blown over, you know, could come back with money in my purse, and say, 'My dear parents, we do not seek your substance, we but ask you to love us once more as you used, and as we have never ceased to love you'—but, alas! I shall be told these are the dreams of an inexperienced young man.”
“I’m not scared of my father's violence,” he said, “but I am scared of his anger. When it comes down to it, he wouldn’t lock me up. I’d marry Margaret tomorrow if that was my only concern. No; he would cut me off. I’d take Margaret from her father and give her a poor husband who’d never succeed, burdened by his parent's curse. Madam! Sometimes I think if I could marry her in secret and then take her to a place where my skills are valued more than here; and after a year or two, when things have calmed down, you know, I could come back with some money and say, ‘Dear parents, we’re not asking for your support, we just want you to love us again like you used to, and as we’ve never stopped loving you’—but, alas! I’ll just be told these are the dreams of a naive young man.”
The old lady's eyes sparkled.
The elderly woman's eyes sparkled.
“It is no dream, but a piece of wonderful common-sense in a boy; it remains to be seen whether you have spirit to carry out your own thought. There is a country, Gerard, where certain fortune awaits you at this moment. Here the arts freeze, but there they flourish, as they never yet flourished in any age or land.”
“It’s not a dream, but a bit of amazing common sense in a boy; we’ll see if you have the guts to follow through on your own ideas. There’s a place, Gerard, where a certain fortune is waiting for you right now. Here the arts are stagnant, but there they thrive like never before in any age or place.”
“It is Italy!” cried Gerard. “It is Italy!”
“It’s Italy!” shouted Gerard. “It’s Italy!”
“Ay, Italy! where painters are honoured like princes, and scribes are paid three hundred crowns for copying a single manuscript. Know you not that his Holiness the Pope has written to every land for skilful scribes to copy the hundreds of precious manuscripts that are pouring into that favoured land from Constantinople, whence learning and learned men are driven by the barbarian Turks?”
“Ay, Italy! where artists are celebrated like royalty, and writers are paid three hundred crowns just to copy a single manuscript. Don’t you know that His Holiness the Pope has reached out to every country for skilled writers to copy the hundreds of valuable manuscripts flooding into that blessed land from Constantinople, where scholars and knowledge are being pushed out by the barbarian Turks?”
“Nay, I know not that; but it has been the dream and hope of my life to visit Italy, the queen of all the arts; oh, madam! But the journey, and we are all so poor.”
“Nah, I don’t know about that; but it’s been my dream and hope my whole life to visit Italy, the queen of all the arts; oh, ma’am! But the trip, and we’re all so broke.”
“Find you the heart to go, I'll find the means. I know where to lay my hand on ten golden angels: they will take you to Rome: and the girl with you, if she loves you as she ought.”
“Once you find the courage to leave, I’ll figure out how. I know where I can get my hands on ten golden angels: they’ll take you to Rome, and the girl with you, if she loves you like she should.”
They sat till midnight over this theme. And, after that day, Gerard recovered his spirits, and seemed to carry a secret talisman against all the gibes and the harsh words that flew about his ears at home.
They sat until midnight discussing this topic. After that day, Gerard regained his confidence and seemed to have a secret charm that protected him from all the teasing and harsh words that swirled around him at home.
Besides the money she procured him for the journey, Margaret Van Eyck gave him money's worth. Said she, “I will tell you secrets that I learned from masters that are gone from me, and have left no fellow behind. Even the Italians know them not; and what I tell you now in Tergou you shall sell here in Florence. Note my brother Jan's pictures: time, which fades all other paintings, leaves his colours bright as the day they left the easel. The reason is, he did nothing blindly, in a hurry. He trusted to no hireling to grind his colours; he did it himself, or saw it done. His panel was prepared and prepared again—I will show you how—a year before he laid his colour on. Most of them are quite content to have their work sucked up and lost, sooner than not be in a hurry. Bad painters are always in a hurry. Above all, Gerard, I warn you use but little oil, and never boil it: boiling it melts that vegetable dross into its heart which it is our business to clear away; for impure oil is death to colour. No; take your oil and pour it into a bottle with water. In a day or two the water will turn muddy: that is muck from the oil. Pour the dirty water carefully away and add fresh. When that is poured away, you will fancy the oil is clear. You're mistaken. Reicht, fetch me that!” Reicht brought a glass trough with a glass lid fitting tight. “When your oil has been washed in bottle, put it into this trough with water, and put the trough in the sun all day. You will soon see the water turbid again. But mark, you must not carry this game too far, or the sun will turn your oil to varnish. When it is as clear as crystal, not too luscious, drain carefully, and cork it up tight. Grind your own prime colours, and lay them on with this oil, and they shall live. Hubert would put sand or salt in the water to clear the oil quicker. But Jan used to say, 'Water will do it best; give water time.' Jan Van Eyck was never in a hurry, and that is why the world will not forget him in a hurry.”
Besides the money she gave him for the trip, Margaret Van Eyck provided him with valuable insights. She said, “I will share secrets I learned from masters who are no longer with us and have left no one to carry on their knowledge. Even the Italians don’t know these things; what I tell you here in Tergou, you will sell in Florence. Pay attention to my brother Jan's paintings: time, which normally fades all other artwork, keeps his colors as bright as they were the day he finished them. The reason is that he never worked carelessly or rushed. He didn't trust anyone else to grind his colors; he did it himself or watched it being done. He prepared his panels meticulously—I'll show you how—at least a year before he applied any color to them. Most artists are satisfied to let their work deteriorate rather than take their time. Bad painters are always in a rush. Above all, Gerard, I advise you to use very little oil and never boil it: boiling causes the impurities to mix in, which we need to remove; impure oil ruins color. Instead, take your oil and pour it into a bottle with water. After a day or two, the water will become cloudy—this is the residue from the oil. Carefully pour away the dirty water and add fresh. When you do this, you might think the oil is clear, but you would be wrong. Reicht, bring me that!” Reicht brought a glass trough with a tightly fitting glass lid. “After you’ve washed the oil in the bottle, put it in this trough with water and place it in the sun all day. Soon enough, you will see the water become cloudy again. But be careful, don’t let this go too far or the sun will turn your oil into varnish. When your oil is as clear as crystal and not too thick, drain it carefully and seal it tightly. Grind your own primary colors and apply them with this oil, and they will last. Hubert would add sand or salt to the water to clarify the oil faster. But Jan would say, 'Water works best; just give it time.' Jan Van Eyck was never in a hurry, which is why the world won’t forget him anytime soon.”
This and several other receipts, quae nunc perscribere longum est, Margaret gave him with sparkling eyes, and Gerard received them like a legacy from Heaven, so interesting are some things that read uninteresting. Thus provided with money and knowledge, Gerard decided to marry and fly with his wife to Italy. Nothing remained now but to inform Margaret Brandt of his resolution, and to publish the banns as quietly as possible. He went to Sevenbergen earlier than usual on both these errands. He began with Margaret; told her of the Dame Van Eyck's goodness, and the resolution he had come to at last, and invited her co-operation.
This and several other recipes, which would take too long to write out now, Margaret gave him with sparkling eyes, and Gerard accepted them like a gift from above, as some things that seem boring can actually be really interesting. With money and knowledge in hand, Gerard decided to marry and run away with his wife to Italy. All that was left was to inform Margaret Brandt of his decision and to quietly announce the banns. He went to Sevenbergen earlier than usual for both tasks. He started with Margaret; he told her about Dame Van Eyck's kindness, his final decision, and asked for her support.
She refused it plump.
She flatly refused it.
“No, Gerard; you and I have never spoken of your family, but when you come to marriage—” She stopped, then began again. “I do think your father has no ill-will to me more than to another. He told Peter Buyskens as much, and Peter told me. But so long as he is bent on your being a priest (you ought have told me this instead of I you), I could not marry you, Gerard, dearly as I love you.”
“No, Gerard; we’ve never talked about your family, but when it comes to marriage—” She paused, then continued. “I truly believe your father doesn’t hold any grudge against me more than anyone else. He told Peter Buyskens that, and Peter shared it with me. But as long as he insists on you becoming a priest (you should have told me this instead of me telling you), I couldn’t marry you, Gerard, as much as I love you.”
Gerard strove in vain to shake this resolution. He found it very easy to make her cry, but impossible to make her yield. Then Gerard was impatient and unjust.
Gerard tried unsuccessfully to change his mind. He could easily make her cry, but he couldn't get her to give in. This made Gerard feel impatient and unfair.
“Very well!” he cried; “then you are on their side, and you will drive me to be a priest, for this must end one way or another. My parents hate me in earnest, but my lover only loves me in jest.”
“Alright!” he shouted; “so you’re on their side, and you’ll push me to become a priest, because this has to end one way or another. My parents genuinely hate me, but my lover only loves me as a joke.”
And with this wild, bitter speech, he flung away home again, and left Margaret weeping.
And with that intense, harsh comment, he stormed home, leaving Margaret in tears.
When a man misbehaves, the effect is curious on a girl who loves him sincerely. It makes her pity him. This, to some of us males, seems anything but logical. The fault is in our own eye; the logic is too swift for us. The girl argues thus:—“How unhappy, how vexed, how poor he must be to misbehave! Poor thing!”
When a guy acts out, it's interesting how it affects a girl who truly loves him. It makes her feel sorry for him. For some of us guys, this doesn’t seem logical at all. The problem is in our perspective; the reasoning is too quick for us. The girl thinks something like, “He must be so unhappy, so troubled, and so miserable to act this way! Poor thing!”
Margaret was full of this sweet womanly pity, when, to her great surprise, scarce an hour and a half after he left her, Gerard came running back to her with the fragments of a picture in his hand, and panting with anger and grief.
Margaret was overwhelmed with a warm, feminine sympathy when, to her surprise, just an hour and a half after he had left, Gerard came rushing back to her with pieces of a picture in his hand, breathing heavily from anger and sadness.
“There, Margaret! see! see! the wretches! Look at their spite! They have cut your portrait to pieces.”
“There, Margaret! Look! Look at those miserable people! Check out their bitterness! They’ve torn your portrait into shreds.”
Margaret looked, and, sure enough, some malicious hand had cut her portrait into five pieces. She was a good girl, but she was not ice; she turned red to her very forehead.
Margaret looked, and sure enough, some mean person had cut her portrait into five pieces. She was a nice girl, but she wasn’t cold; she blushed all the way to her forehead.
“Who did it?”
"Who did this?"
“Nay, I know not. I dared not ask; for I should hate the hand that did it, ay, till my dying day. My poor Margaret! The butchers, the ruffians! Six months' work cut out of my life, and nothing to show for it now. See, they have hacked through your very face; the sweet face that every one loves who knows it. Oh, heartless, merciless vipers!”
“Nah, I have no idea. I didn't dare to ask; I would hate the one who did it, yeah, until the day I die. My poor Margaret! Those butchers, those thugs! Six months of my life gone, and now I have nothing to show for it. Look, they’ve mutilated your beautiful face; the lovely face that everyone who knows you loves. Oh, heartless, merciless vipers!”
“Never mind, Gerard,” said Margaret, panting. “Since this is how they treat you for my sake—Ye rob him of my portrait, do ye? Well, then, he shall have the face itself, such as it is.”
“Forget it, Gerard,” said Margaret, breathing heavily. “Since this is how they treat you because of me—You take my portrait from him, do you? Well, then, he’ll get the real thing, face and all, as it is.”
“Oh, Margaret!”
“Oh, Maggie!”
“Yes, Gerard; since they are so cruel, I will be the kinder: forgive me for refusing you. I will be your wife: to-morrow, if it is your pleasure.”
“Yes, Gerard; since they are so cruel, I will be the kinder: forgive me for refusing you. I will be your wife: tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”
Gerard kissed her hands with rapture, and then her lips; and in a tumult of joy ran for Peter and Martin. They came and witnessed the betrothal; a solemn ceremony in those days, and indeed for more than a century later, though now abolished.
Gerard kissed her hands passionately, and then her lips; in a whirlwind of joy, he ran to get Peter and Martin. They came and witnessed the engagement; a serious ceremony in those days, and for more than a century afterward, even though it's now gone.
CHAPTER X
The banns of marriage had to be read three times, as in our days; with this difference, that they were commonly read on week-days, and the young couple easily persuaded the cure to do the three readings in twenty-four hours: he was new to the place, and their looks spoke volumes in their favour. They were cried on Monday at matins and at vespers; and, to their great delight, nobody from Tergou was in the church. The next morning they were both there, palpitating with anxiety, when, to their horror, a stranger stood up and forbade the banns, On the score that the parties were not of age, and their parents not consenting.
The marriage banns had to be read three times, just like today; the only difference being that they were usually read on weekdays, and the young couple easily convinced the priest to do all three readings in twenty-four hours: he was new to the area, and their expressions said a lot in their favor. They were announced on Monday during morning and evening services, and to their great relief, no one from Tergou was in the church. The next morning, they both showed up, anxious and nervous, when, to their horror, a stranger stood up and objected to the banns, claiming that the couple was not of age and their parents had not given their consent.
Outside the church door Margaret and Gerard held a trembling, and almost despairing consultation; but, before they could settle anything, the man who had done them so ill a turn approached, and gave them to understand that he was very sorry to interfere: that his inclination was to further the happiness of the young; but that in point of fact his only means of getting a living was by forbidding banns: what then? “The young people give me a crown, and I undo my work handsomely; tell the cure I was misinformed, and all goes smoothly.”
Outside the church door, Margaret and Gerard had a shaky and nearly hopeless discussion. But before they could figure anything out, the man who had caused them so much trouble came over and said he was really sorry to interrupt. He claimed that he wanted to promote the happiness of young people, but the truth was that the only way he made a living was by blocking marriages. So what? “The young folks give me a crown, and I clear things up nicely; I tell the priest I was mistaken, and everything goes smoothly.”
“A crown! I will give you a golden angel to do this,” said Gerard eagerly; the man consented as eagerly, and went with Gerard to the cure, and told him he had made a ridiculous mistake, which a sight of the parties had rectified. On this the cure agreed to marry the young couple next day at ten: and the professional obstructor of bliss went home with Gerard's angel. Like most of these very clever knaves, he was a fool, and proceeded to drink his angel at a certain hostelry in Tergou where was a green devoted to archery and the common sports of the day. There, being drunk, he bragged of his day's exploit; and who should be there, imbibing every word, but a great frequenter of the spot, the ne'er-do-weel Sybrandt. Sybrandt ran home to tell his father; his father was not at home; he was gone to Rotterdam to buy cloth of the merchants. Catching his elder brother's eye, he made him a signal to come out, and told him what he had heard.
“A crown! I’ll give you a golden angel for this,” Gerard said eagerly; the man eagerly agreed and went with Gerard to the priest, telling him he had made a silly mistake, which seeing the parties had fixed. The priest then agreed to marry the young couple the next day at ten, and the professional obstacle to happiness went home with Gerard's angel. Like many of these clever tricksters, he was a fool and went on to drink his angel at a tavern in Tergou where there was a green space for archery and the popular sports of the day. There, drunk, he bragged about his day's accomplishment, and who should be there, hanging on every word, but a regular at the place, the good-for-nothing Sybrandt. Sybrandt ran home to tell his father; but his father wasn’t home; he had gone to Rotterdam to buy cloth from the merchants. Catching his older brother's eye, he signaled for him to come outside and told him what he had heard.
There are black sheep in nearly every large family; and these two were Gerard's black brothers. Idleness is vitiating: waiting for the death of those we ought to love is vitiating; and these two one-idea'd curs were ready to tear any one to death that should interfere with that miserable inheritance which was their thought by day and their dream by night. Their parents' parsimony was a virtue; it was accompanied by industry, and its motive was love of their offspring; but in these perverse and selfish hearts that homely virtue was perverted into avarice, than which no more fruitful source of crimes is to be found in nature.
There are black sheep in almost every big family, and these two were Gerard's black brothers. Idleness is corrupting; waiting for the death of those we should care about is corrupting too. These two narrow-minded fools would gladly do anything to protect the pathetic inheritance that consumed their thoughts by day and haunted their dreams by night. Their parents' stinginess was a commendable trait; it came with hard work, and it was driven by love for their children. But in these twisted and selfish hearts, that simple virtue turned into greed, which is perhaps the most fertile source of crime found in nature.
They put their heads together, and agreed not to tell their mother, whose sentiments were so uncertain, but to go first to the burgomaster. They were cunning enough to see that he was averse to the match, though they could not divine why.
They joined forces and decided not to tell their mom, whose feelings were so unpredictable, but to go to the mayor first. They were smart enough to realize he was against the relationship, although they couldn't figure out why.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten saw through them at once; but he took care not to let them see through him. He heard their story, and putting on magisterial dignity and coldness, he said;
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten saw right through them immediately; however, he made sure they couldn’t see through him. He listened to their story, and adopting an authoritative demeanor and icy tone, he said;
“Since the father of the family is not here, his duty falleth on me, who am the father of the town. I know your father's mind; leave all to me; and, above all, tell not a woman a word of this, least of all the women that are in your own house: for chattering tongues mar wisest counsels.”
“Since the father of the family isn’t here, it’s up to me, who am the father of the town. I know what your father would want; leave everything to me; and, most importantly, don’t tell any woman about this, especially not the women in your own house: because gossiping can ruin the best plans.”
So he dismissed them, a little superciliously: he was ashamed of his confederates.
So he dismissed them, a bit arrogantly: he felt ashamed of his companions.
On their return home they found their brother Gerard seated on a low stool at their mother's knee: she was caressing his hair with her hand, speaking very kindly to him, and promising to take his part with his father and thwart his love no more. The main cause of this change of mind was characteristic of the woman. She it was who in a moment of female irritation had cut Margaret's picture to pieces. She had watched the effect with some misgivings, and had seen Gerard turn pale as death, and sit motionless like a bereaved creature, with the pieces in his hands, and his eyes fixed on them till tears came and blinded them. Then she was terrified at what she had done; and next her heart smote her bitterly; and she wept sore apart; but, being what she was, dared not own it, but said to herself, “I'll not say a word, but I'll make it up to him.” And her bowels yearned over her son, and her feeble violence died a natural death, and she was transferring her fatal alliance to Gerard when the two black sheep came in. Gerard knew nothing of the immediate cause; on the contrary, inexperienced as he was in the ins and outs of females, her kindness made him ashamed of a suspicion he had entertained that she was the depredator, and he kissed her again and again, and went to bed happy as a prince to think his mother was his mother once more at the very crisis of his fate.
On their way home, they found their brother Gerard sitting on a low stool at their mom's knee. She was gently stroking his hair and speaking to him kindly, promising to support him with their dad and not interfere with his love anymore. The main reason for this change of heart was typical of a woman. She had, in a moment of frustration, torn up Margaret's picture. She watched the impact with some concern and saw Gerard go pale and sit still like he had lost something precious, holding the torn pieces in his hands, staring at them until tears blurred his vision. Then she panicked at what she had done, and her heart ached painfully; she cried alone but, being who she was, didn’t admit it, telling herself, "I won’t say anything, but I’ll make it up to him." Her heart went out to her son, and her earlier anger faded away as she began to favor Gerard when the two troublemakers walked in. Gerard was unaware of the immediate reason for her change of heart; on the contrary, being inexperienced with women's emotions, her kindness made him feel guilty for thinking she was the one at fault. He kissed her over and over and went to bed feeling as happy as a prince, relieved that his mom was back to being his mom just when he needed her most.
The next morning, at ten o'clock, Gerard and Margaret were in the church at Sevenbergen, he radiant with joy, she with blushes. Peter was also there, and Martin Wittenhaagen, but no other friend. Secrecy was everything. Margaret had declined Italy. She could not leave her father; he was too learned and too helpless. But it was settled they should retire into Flanders for a few weeks until the storm should be blown over at Tergou. The cure did not keep them waiting long, though it seemed an age. Presently he stood at the altar, and called them to him. They went hand in hand, the happiest in Holland. The cure opened his book.
The next morning, at ten o'clock, Gerard and Margaret were in the church at Sevenbergen, he beaming with joy, she with a rosy glow on her cheeks. Peter was there, along with Martin Wittenhaagen, but no one else was present. Keeping things quiet was crucial. Margaret had turned down the trip to Italy. She couldn't leave her father; he was too knowledgeable and too vulnerable. But it was decided they would retreat to Flanders for a few weeks until things settled down in Tergou. The priest didn’t make them wait long, though it felt like an eternity. Soon he stood at the altar and called them over. They walked hand in hand, the happiest couple in Holland. The priest opened his book.
But ere he uttered a single word of the sacred rite, a harsh voice cried “Forbear!” And the constables of Tergou came up the aisle and seized Gerard in the name of the law. Martin's long knife flashed out directly.
But before he could say a single word of the sacred ceremony, a loud voice shouted, “Stop!” The constables of Tergou walked up the aisle and took hold of Gerard in the name of the law. Martin's long knife quickly appeared.
“Forbear, man!” cried the priest. “What! draw your weapon in a church, and ye who interrupt this holy sacrament, what means this impiety?”
“Hold on, man!” shouted the priest. “What! Are you drawing your weapon in a church? And you who are interrupting this sacred ceremony, what is this disrespect?”
“There is no impiety, father,” said the burgomaster's servant respectfully. “This young man would marry against his father's will, and his father has prayed our burgomaster to deal with him according to the law. Let him deny it if he can.”
“There’s no disrespect, father,” said the burgomaster's servant respectfully. “This young man wants to marry against his father’s wishes, and his father has asked our burgomaster to handle it according to the law. Let him deny it if he can.”
“Is this so, young man?”
"Is that true, young man?"
Gerard hung his head.
Gerard lowered his head.
“We take him to Rotterdam to abide the sentence of the Duke.”
“We're taking him to Rotterdam to serve the Duke’s sentence.”
At this Margaret uttered a cry of despair, and the young creatures, who were so happy a moment ago, fell to sobbing in one another's arms so piteously, that the instruments of oppression drew back a step and were ashamed; but one of them that was good-natured stepped up under pretence of separating them, and whispered to Margaret:
At this, Margaret let out a cry of despair, and the young ones, who had been so happy just a moment ago, fell to sobbing in each other's arms so pitifully that the oppressors stepped back, feeling ashamed. However, one of them, who was kind-hearted, approached under the pretense of separating them and whispered to Margaret:
“Rotterdam? it is a lie. We but take him to our Stadthouse.”
“Rotterdam? That's not true. We're just taking him to our City Hall.”
They took him away on horseback, on the road to Rotterdam; and, after a dozen halts, and by sly detours, to Tergou. Just outside the town they were met by a rude vehicle covered with canvas. Gerard was put into this, and about five in the evening was secretly conveyed into the prison of the Stadthouse. He was taken up several flights of stairs and thrust into a small room lighted only by a narrow window, with a vertical iron bar. The whole furniture was a huge oak chest.
They took him away on horseback, heading towards Rotterdam; and, after a dozen stops and some sneaky detours, to Tergou. Just outside the town, they were met by a rough vehicle covered with canvas. Gerard was put inside, and around five in the evening, he was secretly taken into the prison of the Stadthouse. He was led up several flights of stairs and shoved into a small room lit only by a narrow window with a vertical iron bar. The only piece of furniture was a large oak chest.
Imprisonment in that age was one of the highroads to death. It is horrible in its mildest form; but in those days it implied cold, unbroken solitude, torture, starvation, and often poison. Gerard felt he was in the hands of an enemy.
Imprisonment in that time was basically a path to death. It was terrible even in the best circumstances; but back then it meant extreme loneliness, torture, starvation, and often poison. Gerard felt like he was at the mercy of an enemy.
“Oh, the look that man gave me on the road to Rotterdam. There is more here than my father's wrath. I doubt I shall see no more the light of day.” And he kneeled down and commended his soul to God.
“Oh, the look that man gave me on the road to Rotterdam. There’s more going on here than just my father's anger. I doubt I will ever see the light of day again.” And he knelt down and entrusted his soul to God.
Presently he rose and sprang at the iron bar of the window, and clutched it. This enabled him to look out by pressing his knees against the wall. It was but for a minute; but in that minute he saw a sight such as none but a captive can appreciate.
Currently, he stood up and lunged at the iron bar of the window, grabbing it. This allowed him to look outside by pressing his knees against the wall. It was only for a minute; but in that minute, he saw a sight that only a captive can truly understand.
Martin Wittenhaagen's back.
Martin Wittenhaagen is back.
Martin was sitting, quietly fishing in the brook near the Stadthouse.
Martin was sitting quietly, fishing in the stream near the Stadthouse.
Gerard sprang again at the window, and whistled. Martin instantly showed that he was watching much harder than fishing. He turned hastily round and saw Gerard—made him a signal, and taking up his line and bow, went quickly off.
Gerard jumped up at the window again and whistled. Martin immediately proved he was paying more attention than to just fishing. He quickly turned around, saw Gerard, signaled back, and grabbed his line and bow before heading off quickly.
Gerard saw by this that his friends were not idle: yet had rather Martin had stayed. The very sight of him was a comfort. He held on, looking at the soldier's retiring form as long as he could, then falling back somewhat heavily wrenched the rusty iron bar, held only by rusty nails, away from the stone-work just as Ghysbrecht Van Swieten opened the door stealthily behind him. The burgomaster's eye fell instantly on the iron, and then glanced at the window; but he said nothing. The window was a hundred feet from the ground; and if Gerard had a fancy for jumping out, why should he balk it? He brought a brown loaf and a pitcher of water, and set them on the chest in solemn silence. Gerard's first impulse was to brain him with the iron bar and fly down the stairs; but the burgomaster seeing something wicked in his eye, gave a little cough, and three stout fellows, armed, showed themselves directly at the door.
Gerard realized that his friends weren’t just sitting around, but he still wished Martin had stayed. Just seeing him brought comfort. He kept watching the soldier leave until he couldn’t anymore, then he fell back a bit and pulled the rusty iron bar, which was only attached by some old nails, away from the stonework just as Ghysbrecht Van Swieten quietly opened the door behind him. The burgomaster’s gaze immediately fixated on the iron bar, then quickly darted to the window, but he didn’t say anything. The window was a hundred feet up; if Gerard felt like jumping out, why should he stop him? He brought a brown loaf of bread and a pitcher of water, placing them on the chest in complete silence. Gerard's first thought was to smash the burgomaster with the iron bar and rush down the stairs, but seeing something dark in his eyes, the burgomaster coughed lightly, and three sturdy armed men appeared right at the door.
“My orders are to keep you thus until you shall bind yourself by an oath to leave Margaret Brandt, and return to the Church, to which you have belonged from your cradle.”
“My instructions are to hold you here until you swear an oath to leave Margaret Brandt and return to the Church, which you've been a part of since you were born.”
“Death sooner.”
"Die sooner."
“With all my heart.” And the burgomaster retired.
“With all my heart.” And the mayor left.
Martin went with all speed to Sevenbergen; there he found Margaret pale and agitated, but full of resolution and energy. She was just finishing a letter to the Countess Charolois, appealing to her against the violence and treachery of Ghysbrecht.
Martin hurried to Sevenbergen, where he found Margaret looking pale and anxious, but full of determination and energy. She was just wrapping up a letter to Countess Charolois, asking for her help against the violence and deceit of Ghysbrecht.
“Courage!” cried Martin on entering. “I have found him. He is in the haunted tower, right at the top of it. Ay, I know the place: many a poor fellow has gone up there straight, and come down feet foremost.”
“Courage!” shouted Martin as he walked in. “I’ve found him. He’s in the haunted tower, all the way at the top. Yes, I know the place: many a poor soul has gone up there and come down feet first.”
He then told them how he had looked up and seen Gerard's face at a window that was like a slit in the wall.
He then told them how he had looked up and seen Gerard's face at a window that was like a narrow opening in the wall.
“Oh, Martin! how did he look?”
“Oh, Martin! How did he look?”
“What mean you? He looked like Gerard Eliassoen.”
“What do you mean? He looked like Gerard Eliassoen.”
“But was he pale?”
"But was he sickly?"
“A little.”
"A bit."
“Looked he anxious? Looked he like one doomed?”
“Did he look anxious? Did he seem like someone who was doomed?”
“Nay, nay; as bright as a pewter pot.”
“Nah, nah; as bright as a metal mug.”
“You mock me. Stay! then that must have been at sight of you. He counts on us. Oh, what shall we do? Martin, good friend, take this at once to Rotterdam.”
“You’re making fun of me. Stay! It must have been because of you. He’s relying on us. Oh, what are we going to do? Martin, my good friend, take this to Rotterdam immediately.”
Martin held out his hand for the letter.
Martin extended his hand for the letter.
Peter had sat silent all this time, but pondering, and yet, contrary to custom, keenly attentive to what was going on around him.
Peter had been sitting quietly the whole time, deep in thought, yet, unlike usual, quite alert to what was happening around him.
“Put not your trust in princes,” said he.
“Don’t put your trust in princes,” he said.
“Alas! what else have we to trust in?”
“Ah! what else can we rely on?”
“Knowledge.”
"Knowledge."
“Well-a-day, father! your learning will not serve us here.”
“Well, Dad! Your education isn't going to help us here.”
“How know you that? Wit has been too strong for iron bars ere to-day.
“How do you know that? Cleverness has overcome strong obstacles before today.”
“Ay, father; but nature is stronger than wit, and she is against us. Think of the height! No ladder in Holland might reach him.”
“Yeah, dad; but nature is stronger than cleverness, and she’s on the other side. Just think about the height! No ladder in Holland could reach him.”
“I need no ladder; what I need is a gold crown.”
“I don’t need a ladder; what I need is a gold crown.”
“Nay, I have money, for that matter. I have nine angels. Gerard gave them me to keep; but what do they avail? The burgomaster will not be bribed to let Gerard free.”
“Nah, I have money for that. I have nine angels. Gerard gave them to me to keep; but what good are they? The mayor won't be bribed to let Gerard go.”
“What do they avail? Give me but one crown, and the young man shall sup with us this night.”
“What do they get? Just give me one crown, and the young man will eat with us tonight.”
Peter spoke so eagerly and confidently, that for a moment Margaret felt hopeful; but she caught Martin's eye dwelling upon him with an expression of benevolent contempt.
Peter spoke so eagerly and confidently that for a moment Margaret felt hopeful; but she noticed Martin looking at him with an expression of kind contempt.
“It passes the powers of man's invention,” said she, with a deep sigh.
“It exceeds what any of us can create,” she said with a heavy sigh.
“Invention!” cried the old man. “A fig for invention. What need we invention at this time of day? Everything has been said that is to be said, and done that ever will be done. I shall tell you how a Florentine knight was shut up in a tower higher than Gerard's; yet did his faithful squire stand at the tower foot and get him out, with no other engine than that in your hand, Martin, and certain kickshaws I shall buy for a crown.”
“Invention!” shouted the old man. “Who needs invention at this point? Everything that can be said has already been said, and everything that can be done has already been done. Let me tell you about a Florentine knight who was locked in a tower even taller than Gerard's; yet his loyal squire stood at the foot of the tower and got him out, using nothing more than what's in your hand, Martin, and a few little things I’ll buy for a crown.”
Martin looked at his bow, and turned it round in his hand, and seemed to interrogate it. But the examination left him as incredulous as before.
Martin looked at his bow, turned it around in his hand, and seemed to question it. But the examination left him just as skeptical as before.
Then Peter told them his story, how the faithful squire got the knight out of a high tower at Brescia. The manoeuvre, like most things that are really scientific, was so simple, that now their wonder was they had taken for impossible what was not even difficult.
Then Peter shared his story about how the loyal squire rescued the knight from a tall tower in Brescia. The maneuver, like most truly scientific things, was so straightforward that now they were amazed they had considered something that wasn't even hard to be impossible.
The letter never went to Rotterdam. They trusted to Peter's learning and their own dexterity.
The letter never made it to Rotterdam. They relied on Peter's knowledge and their own skill.
It was nine o'clock on a clear moonlight night; Gerard, senior, was still away; the rest of his little family had been some time abed.
It was nine o'clock on a clear, moonlit night; Gerard, senior, was still out; the rest of his small family had been in bed for a while.
A figure stood by the dwarf's bed. It was white, and the moonlight shone on it.
A figure stood by the dwarf's bed. It was white, and the moonlight illuminated it.
With an unearthly noise, between a yell and a snarl, the gymnast rolled off his bed and under it by a single unbroken movement. A soft voice followed him in his retreat.
With a strange sound, somewhere between a shout and a growl, the gymnast tumbled off his bed and slid under it in one smooth motion. A gentle voice trailed after him as he hid.
“Why, Giles, are you afeard of me?”
“Why, Giles, are you scared of me?”
At this, Giles's head peeped cautiously up, and he saw it was only his sister Kate.
At this, Giles's head poked up cautiously, and he saw it was just his sister Kate.
She put her finger to her lips. “Hush! lest the wicked Cornelis or the wicked Sybrandt hear us.” Giles's claws seized the side of the bed, and he returned to his place by one undivided gymnastic.
She put her finger to her lips. “Shh! We don’t want the evil Cornelis or the evil Sybrandt to hear us.” Giles’s claws gripped the side of the bed as he returned to his spot with a single, smooth movement.
Kate then revealed to Giles that she had heard Cornelis and Sybrandt mention Gerard's name; and being herself in great anxiety at his not coming home all day, had listened at their door, and had made a fearful discovery. Gerard was in prison, in the haunted tower of the Stadthouse. He was there, it seemed, by their father's authority. But here must be some treachery; for how could their father have ordered this cruel act? He was at Rotterdam. She ended by entreating Giles to bear her company to the foot of the haunted tower, to say a word of comfort to poor Gerard, and let him know their father was absent, and would be sure to release him on his return.
Kate then told Giles that she had overheard Cornelis and Sybrandt mention Gerard's name. Feeling anxious because he hadn't come home all day, she listened at their door and made a terrifying discovery. Gerard was in prison, locked away in the haunted tower of the Stadthouse. It seemed that he was there by their father's order. But there had to be some betrayal; how could their father have commanded such a cruel act? He was in Rotterdam. She ended by pleading with Giles to accompany her to the base of the haunted tower to offer some comfort to poor Gerard and let him know their father was away but would surely free him upon his return.
“Dear Giles, I would go alone, but I am afeard of the spirits that men say do haunt the tower; but with you I shall not be afeard.”
“Dear Giles, I would go alone, but I’m afraid of the spirits that people say haunt the tower; but with you, I won’t be scared.”
“Nor I with you,” said Giles. “I don't believe there are any spirits in Tergou. I never saw one. This last was the likest one ever I saw; and it was but you, Kate, after all.”
“Neither do I,” said Giles. “I don't think there are any spirits in Tergou. I've never seen one. This last one was the closest I've ever seen; and it turned out to be you, Kate, after all.”
In less than half an hour Giles and Kate opened the housedoor cautiously and issued forth. She made him carry a lantern, though the night was bright. “The lantern gives me more courage against the evil spirits,” said she.
In less than half an hour, Giles and Kate carefully opened the house door and stepped outside. She made him carry a lantern, even though the night was bright. “The lantern gives me more confidence against the evil spirits,” she said.
The first day of imprisonment is very trying, especially if to the horror of captivity is added the horror of utter solitude. I observe that in our own day a great many persons commit suicide during the first twenty-four hours of the solitary cell. This is doubtless why our Jairi abstain so carefully from the impertinence of watching their little experiment upon the human soul at that particular stage of it.
The first day of being imprisoned is extremely difficult, especially when the nightmare of confinement is combined with the nightmare of complete loneliness. I've noticed that nowadays many people take their own lives within the first twenty-four hours of being in solitary confinement. This is probably why our Jairi are so careful not to intrude on their little experiment with the human spirit at that specific moment.
As the sun declined, Gerard's heart too sank and sank; with the waning light even the embers of hope went out. He was faint, too, with hunger; for he was afraid to eat the food Ghysbrecht had brought him; and hunger alone cows men. He sat upon the chest, his arms and his head drooping before him, a picture of despondency. Suddenly something struck the wall beyond him very sharply, and then rattled on the floor at his feet. It was an arrow; he saw the white feather. A chill ran through him—they meant then to assassinate him from the outside. He crouched. No more missiles came. He crawled on all fours, and took up the arrow; there was no head to it. He uttered a cry of hope: had a friendly hand shot it? He took it up, and felt it all over: he found a soft substance attached to it. Then one of his eccentricities was of grand use to him. His tinder-box enabled him to strike a light: it showed him two things that made his heart bound with delight, none the less thrilling for being somewhat vague. Attached to the arrow was a skein of silk, and on the arrow itself were words written.
As the sun set, Gerard's heart sank too; with the fading light, even the last glimmers of hope faded away. He was also weak from hunger; he was too afraid to eat the food Ghysbrecht had brought him, and hunger alone can break a person. He sat on the chest, his arms and head drooping in front of him, looking completely defeated. Suddenly, something hit the wall near him sharply and then clattered to the floor at his feet. It was an arrow; he saw the white feather. A chill ran through him—they were planning to assassinate him from outside. He crouched down. No more projectiles came. He crawled on all fours and picked up the arrow; it had no head. He let out a cry of hope: was it shot by a friendly hand? He examined it and felt something soft attached to it. Then one of his unusual habits proved to be very useful. His tinderbox allowed him to strike a light: it revealed two things that made his heart leap with joy, even if they were somewhat unclear. Attached to the arrow was a bundle of silk, and there were words written on the arrow itself.
How his eyes devoured them, his heart panting the while!
How his eyes absorbed them, his heart racing all the while!
Well beloved, make fast the silk to thy knife and lower to us: but hold thine end fast: then count an hundred and draw up.
Well beloved, secure the silk to your knife and lower it to us: but make sure to hold your end tightly: then count to a hundred and pull it up.
Gerard seized the oak chest, and with almost superhuman energy dragged it to the window: a moment ago he could not have moved it. Standing on the chest and looking down, he saw figures at the tower foot. They were so indistinct, they looked like one huge form. He waved his bonnet to them with trembling hand: then he undid the silk rapidly but carefully, and made one end fast to his knife and lowered it till it ceased to draw. Then he counted a hundred. Then pulled the silk carefully up: it came up a little heavier. At last he came to a large knot, and by that knot a stout whipcord was attached to the silk. What could this mean? While he was puzzling himself Margaret's voice came up to him, low but clear. “Draw up, Gerard, till you see liberty.” At the word Gerard drew the whipcord line up, and drew and drew till he came to another knot, and found a cord of some thickness take the place of the whipcord. He had no sooner begun to draw this up, than he found that he had now a heavy weight to deal with. Then the truth suddenly flashed on him, and he went to work and pulled and pulled till the perspiration rolled down him: the weight got heavier and heavier, and at last he was well-nigh exhausted: looking down, he saw in the moonlight a sight that revived him: it was as it were a great snake coming up to him out of the deep shadow cast by the tower. He gave a shout of joy, and a score more wild pulls, and lo! a stout new rope touched his hand: he hauled and hauled, and dragged the end into his prison, and instantly passed it through both handles of the chest in succession, and knotted it firmly; then sat for a moment to recover his breath and collect his courage. The first thing was to make sure that the chest was sound, and capable of resisting his weight poised in mid-air. He jumped with all his force upon it. At the third jump the whole side burst open, and out scuttled the contents, a host of parchments.
Gerard grabbed the oak chest and, with almost superhuman strength, dragged it to the window. Just moments before, he could hardly move it. Standing on the chest and looking down, he saw figures at the foot of the tower. They were so unclear that they looked like one giant shape. He waved his hat at them with a trembling hand, then quickly but carefully untied the silk and attached one end to his knife, lowering it until it stopped pulling. After counting to a hundred, he carefully pulled the silk back up; it felt a bit heavier. Eventually, he came across a large knot, and attached to that knot was a thick whipcord tied to the silk. What could this mean? While he was trying to figure it out, Margaret's voice called up to him, soft but clear. “Pull up, Gerard, until you see freedom.” At her words, Gerard pulled the whipcord up, and kept pulling until he reached another knot and found a thicker cord instead of the whipcord. As soon as he started to pull this up, he realized he was dealing with something heavy. Then the truth suddenly hit him, and he worked hard, pulling until sweat poured down his face: the weight grew heavier and heavier, and he was nearly exhausted. Looking down, he saw something that revitalized him in the moonlight: it appeared to be a large snake coming up toward him from the deep shadow of the tower. He shouted with joy and pulled wildly a few more times, and suddenly, a strong new rope touched his hand. He heaved and heaved, dragging the end into his prison, then quickly passed it through both handles of the chest one after the other and tied it securely. He then paused for a moment to catch his breath and gather his courage. The first thing was to make sure the chest was sturdy enough to hold his weight suspended in mid-air. He jumped on it with all his strength. On the third jump, the whole side burst open, and out spilled its contents—a flood of parchments.
After the first start and misgiving this gave him, Gerard comprehended that the chest had not burst, but opened: he had doubtless jumped upon some secret spring. Still it shook in some degree his confidence in the chest's powers of resistance; so he gave it an ally: he took the iron bar and fastened it with the small rope across the large rope, and across the window. He now mounted the chest, and from the chest put his foot through the window, and sat half in and half out, with one hand on that part of the rope which was inside. In the silent night he heard his own heart beat.
After the initial scare this caused him, Gerard realized that the chest hadn’t burst open; it had simply popped open because he must have stepped on some hidden mechanism. Still, this shook his confidence in the chest's ability to hold up, so he decided to be extra safe: he took the iron bar and secured it with the small rope across the large rope and the window. He climbed onto the chest, placed his foot through the window, and sat halfway in and halfway out, with one hand on the part of the rope that was inside. In the quiet night, he could hear his heart beating.
The free air breathed on his face, and gave him the courage to risk what we must all lose one day—for liberty. Many dangers awaited him, but the greatest was the first getting on to the rope outside. Gerard reflected. Finally, he put himself in the attitude of a swimmer, his body to the waist being in the prison, his legs outside. Then holding the inside rope with both hands, he felt anxiously with his feet for the outside rope, and when he had got it, he worked it in between the palms of his feet, and kept it there tight: then he uttered a short prayer, and, all the calmer for it, put his left hand on the sill and gradually wriggled out. Then he seized the iron bar, and for one fearful moment hung outside from it by his right hand, while his left hand felt for the rope down at his knees; it was too tight against the wall for his fingers to get round it higher up. The moment he had fairly grasped it, he left the bar, and swiftly seized the rope with the right hand too; but in this manoeuvre his body necessarily fell about a yard. A stifled cry came up from below. Gerard hung in mid-air. He clenched his teeth, and nipped the rope tight with his feet and gripped it with his hands, and went down slowly hand below hand. He passed by one huge rough stone after another. He saw there was green moss on one. He looked up and he looked down. The moon shone into his prison window: it seemed very near. The fluttering figures below seemed an awful distance. It made him dizzy to look down: so he fixed his eyes steadily on the wall close to him, and went slowly down, down, down.
The fresh air hit his face, giving him the courage to risk what we all have to lose someday—for freedom. Many dangers awaited him, but the biggest challenge was just getting onto the rope outside. Gerard thought it over. Finally, he positioned himself like a swimmer, with his body to the waist still inside the prison and his legs outside. Holding onto the inside rope with both hands, he anxiously searched for the outside rope with his feet, and once he found it, he wedged it between the soles of his feet to hold it tight. Then he said a quick prayer and, feeling calmer, placed his left hand on the sill and gradually wriggled out. He grabbed the iron bar, and for one terrifying moment, he dangled from it by his right hand while his left hand searched for the rope down by his knees; it was too pressed against the wall for him to grasp it higher up. When he finally got a hold of it, he let go of the bar and quickly grabbed the rope with his right hand too; however, in doing so, his body dropped about a yard. A muffled cry came from below. Gerard hung in mid-air. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the rope with his feet, and held onto it with his hands as he went down slowly, hand over hand. He passed by one huge, rough stone after another. He noticed green moss on one. He looked up and looked down. The moon shone through his prison window; it seemed very close. The moving figures below felt like they were miles away. It made him dizzy to look down, so he focused his gaze steadily on the wall next to him and continued to descend, down, down, down.
He passed a rusty, slimy streak on the wall: it was some ten feet long. The rope made his hands very hot. He stole another look up.
He walked past a rusty, slimy streak on the wall: it was about ten feet long. The rope made his hands feel very hot. He took another glance up.
The prison window was a good way off now.
The prison window was quite a distance away now.
Down—down—down—down.
Down—down—down—down.
The rope made his hands sore.
The rope made his hands hurt.
He looked up. The window was so distant, he ventured now to turn his eyes downward again; and there, not more than thirty feet below him, were Margaret and Martin, their faithful hands upstretched to catch him should he fall. He could see their eyes and their teeth shine in the moonlight. For their mouths were open, and they were breathing hard.
He looked up. The window was so far away that he finally turned his gaze downward again; and there, not more than thirty feet below him, were Margaret and Martin, their loyal hands raised to catch him if he fell. He could see their eyes and teeth shining in the moonlight. Their mouths were open, and they were breathing heavily.
“Take care, Gerard oh, take care! Look not down.”
“Be careful, Gerard, oh, be careful! Don’t look down.”
“Fear me not,” cried Gerard joyfully, and eyed the wall, but came down faster.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” Gerard shouted happily, glancing at the wall, but he came down quicker.
In another minute his feet were at their hands. They seized him ere he touched the ground, and all three clung together in one embrace.
In another minute, his feet were at their hands. They grabbed him before he hit the ground, and all three held on to each other in one hug.
“Hush! away in silence, dear one.”
“Shh! Be quiet, my dear.”
They stole along the shadow of the wall.
They crept along the shadow of the wall.
Now, ere they had gone many yards, suddenly a stream of light shot from an angle of the building, and lay across their path like a barrier of fire, and they heard whispers and footsteps close at hand.
Now, before they had gone very far, suddenly a beam of light burst from an angle of the building and lay across their path like a wall of fire, and they heard whispers and footsteps nearby.
“Back!” hissed Martin. “Keep in the shade.”
“Back!” Martin hissed. “Stay in the shade.”
They hurried back, passed the dangling rope, and made for a little square projecting tower. They had barely rounded it when the light shot trembling past them, and flickered uncertainly into the distance.
They rushed back, went past the hanging rope, and headed towards a small square tower. They had just rounded it when the light darted past them, flickering uncertainly into the distance.
“A lantern!” groaned Martin in a whisper. “They are after us.”
“A lantern!” Martin whispered, groaning. “They’re coming for us.”
“Give me my knife,” whispered Gerard. “I'll never be taken alive.”
“Give me my knife,” Gerard whispered. “I won’t be taken alive.”
“No, no!” murmured Margaret; “is there no way out where we are?”
“No, no!” whispered Margaret. “Is there no way out from where we are?”
“None! none! But I carry six lives at my shoulder;” and with the word, Martin strung his bow, and fitted an arrow to the string: “in war never wait to be struck: I will kill one or two ere they shall know where their death comes from:” then, motioning his companions to be quiet he began to draw his bow, and, ere the arrow was quite drawn to the head, he glided round the corner ready to loose the string the moment the enemy should offer a mark.
“None! None! But I carry six lives on my shoulders;” and with that, Martin strung his bow and fitted an arrow to the string: “In war, never wait to be hit: I’ll take out one or two before they even know where their death is coming from.” Then, signaling his companions to be quiet, he started to draw his bow, and before the arrow was fully drawn, he slid around the corner, ready to release the string the moment the enemy presented a target.
Gerard and Margaret held their breath in horrible expectation: they had never seen a human being killed.
Gerard and Margaret held their breath in dreadful anticipation; they had never seen a person die.
And now a wild hope, but half repressed, thrilled through Gerard, that this watchful enemy might be the burgomaster in person. The soldier, he knew, would send an arrow through a burgher or burgomaster, as he would through a boar in a wood.
And now a wild hope, though barely held back, raced through Gerard, that this watchful enemy could be the burgomaster himself. The soldier, he knew, would shoot an arrow at a townsman or the burgomaster just as easily as he would at a boar in the woods.
But who may foretell the future, however near? The bow, instead of remaining firm, and loosing the deadly shaft, was seen to waver first, then shake violently, and the stout soldier staggered back to them, his knees knocking and his cheeks blanched with fear. He let his arrow fall, and clutched Gerard's shoulder.
But who can predict the future, no matter how close it is? The bow, instead of staying steady and releasing the deadly arrow, was seen to tremble first, then shake violently, and the brave soldier staggered back to them, his knees shaking and his face drained of color from fear. He dropped his arrow and grabbed Gerard's shoulder.
“Let me feel flesh and blood,” he gasped. “The haunted tower! the haunted tower!”
“Let me feel flesh and blood,” he gasped. “The haunted tower! The haunted tower!”
His terror communicated itself to Margaret and Gerard. They gasped rather than uttered an inquiry.
His fear spread to Margaret and Gerard. They gasped instead of asking a question.
“Hush!” he cried, “it will hear you up the wall! it is going up the wall! Its head is on fire. Up the wall, as mortal creatures walk upon green sward. If you know a prayer, say it, for hell is loose to-night.”
“Hush!” he shouted, “it will hear you up the wall! It's going up the wall! Its head is on fire. Up the wall, just like humans walk on green grass. If you know a prayer, say it, because hell is loose tonight.”
“I have power to exorcise spirits,” said Gerard, trembling. “I will venture forth.”
“I can drive out spirits,” Gerard said, trembling. “I will go out.”
“Go alone then,” said Martin; “I have looked on't once, and live.”
“Go on your own then,” said Martin; “I've seen it once and I'm still alive.”
CHAPTER XI
The strange glance of hatred the burgomaster had cast on Gerard, coupled with his imprisonment, had filled the young man with a persuasion that Ghysbrecht was his enemy to the death, and he glided round the angle of the tower, fully expecting to see no supernatural appearance, but some cruel and treacherous contrivance of a bad man to do him a mischief in that prison, his escape from which could hardly be known.
The strange, hateful look the mayor had thrown at Gerard, along with his imprisonment, made the young man convinced that Ghysbrecht was determined to destroy him. He cautiously moved around the corner of the tower, fully expecting not to see any supernatural sight, but rather some cruel and deceitful scheme from a wicked person designed to harm him in that prison, from which his escape was unlikely to be discovered.
As he stole forth, a soft but brave hand crept into his; and Margaret was by his side, to share this new peril.
As he moved forward, a gentle yet courageous hand slipped into his; and Margaret was by his side, ready to face this new danger together.
No sooner was the haunted tower visible, than a sight struck their eyes that benumbed them as they stood. More than halfway up the tower, a creature with a fiery head, like an enormous glowworm, was steadily mounting the wall: the body was dark, but its outline visible through the glare from the head, and the whole creature not much less than four feet long.
No sooner did the haunted tower come into view than a sight struck them that left them paralyzed as they stood there. More than halfway up the tower, a creature with a fiery head, resembling a huge glowworm, was steadily climbing the wall: its body was dark, but it was outlined by the light from its head, and the entire creature was almost four feet long.
At the foot of the tower stood a thing in white, that looked exactly like the figure of a female. Gerard and Margaret palpitated with awe.
At the base of the tower stood a white figure that looked exactly like a woman. Gerard and Margaret were filled with awe.
“The rope! the rope! It is going up the rope,” gasped Gerard.
“The rope! The rope! It’s going up the rope,” gasped Gerard.
As they gazed, the glowworm disappeared in Gerard's late prison, but its light illuminated the cell inside and reddened the window. The white figure stood motionless below.
As they watched, the glowworm vanished in Gerard's old prison, but its light lit up the cell inside and turned the window red. The white figure stood still below.
Such as can retain their senses after the first prostrating effect of the supernatural are apt to experience terror in one of its strangest forms, a wild desire to fling themselves upon the terrible object. It fascinates them as the snake the bird. The great tragedian Macready used to render this finely in Macbeth, at Banquo's second appearance. He flung himself with averted head at the horrible shadow. This strange impulse now seized Margaret. She put down Gerard's hand quietly, and stood bewildered; then, all in a moment, with a wild cry, darted towards the spectre. Gerard, not aware of the natural impulse I have spoken of, never doubted the evil one was drawing her to her perdition. He fell on his knees.
Those who can keep their senses after the initial overwhelming impact of the supernatural often feel a strange kind of fear, a wild urge to throw themselves at the terrifying figure. It captivates them like a snake does a bird. The great actor Macready used to portray this brilliantly in Macbeth, during Banquo's second appearance. He would throw himself forward with his head turned away from the dreadful shadow. This unusual urge suddenly took hold of Margaret. She gently set Gerard's hand aside and stood there in confusion; then, all at once, with a frantic cry, she rushed toward the specter. Gerard, unaware of the instinct I mentioned, was convinced that the evil one was luring her to her doom. He dropped to his knees.
“Exorcizo vos. In nomine beatae Mariae, exorcizo vos.”
“I command you. In the name of blessed Mary, I command you.”
While the exorcist was shrieking his incantations in extremity of terror, to his infinite relief he heard the spectre utter a feeble cry of fear. To find that hell had also its little weaknesses was encouraging. He redoubled his exorcisms, and presently he saw the ghastly shape kneeling at Margaret's knees, and heard it praying piteously for mercy.
While the exorcist was shouting his incantations in extreme terror, to his great relief he heard the ghost let out a weak cry of fear. Discovering that even hell had its small vulnerabilities was encouraging. He intensified his exorcisms, and soon he saw the horrifying figure kneeling at Margaret's feet, pleading desperately for mercy.
Kate and Giles soon reached the haunted tower. Judge their surprise when they found a new rope dangling from the prisoner's window to the ground.
Kate and Giles quickly arrived at the haunted tower. Imagine their surprise when they saw a new rope hanging from the prisoner's window down to the ground.
“I see how it is,” said the inferior intelligence, taking facts as they came. “Our Gerard has come down this rope. He has got clear. Up I go, and see.”
“I get it now,” said the less intelligent one, accepting things as they were. “Our Gerard has come down this rope. He’s safe. Up I go, and check it out.”
“No, Giles, no!” said the superior intelligence, blinded by prejudice. “See you not this is glamour? This rope is a line the evil one casts out to wile thee to destruction. He knows the weaknesses of all our hearts; he has seen how fond you are of going up things. Where should our Gerard procure a rope? how fasten it in the sky like this? It is not in nature. Holy saints protect us this night, for hell is abroad.”
“No, Giles, no!” said the superior intelligence, blinded by bias. “Don’t you see this is an illusion? This rope is a line the devil throws out to lure you to destruction. He knows all our weaknesses; he has noticed how much you enjoy climbing things. Where could our Gerard get a rope? How could he tie it in the sky like this? It’s not natural. Holy saints protect us tonight, because hell is out there.”
“Stuff!” said the dwarf; “the way to hell is down, and this rope leads up. I never had the luck to go up such a long rope. It may be years ere I fall in with such a long rope all ready for me. As well be knocked on the head at once as never know happiness.”
“Stuff!” said the dwarf; “the way to hell is down, and this rope leads up. I’ve never been lucky enough to go up such a long rope. It could be years before I come across a rope this long and ready for me again. It’s just as well to be knocked out at once as to never know happiness.”
And he sprung on to the rope with a cry of delight, as a cat jumps with a mew on to a table where fish is. All the gymnast was on fire; and the only concession Kate could gain from him was permission to fasten the lantern on his neck first.
And he jumped onto the rope with a shout of joy, just like a cat leaps onto a table where there's fish. The gymnast was full of energy, and the only favor Kate could get from him was to let her attach the lantern to his neck first.
“A light scares the ill spirits,” said she.
“A light scares away the bad vibes,” she said.
And so, with his huge arms, and his legs like feathers, Giles went up the rope faster than his brother came down it. The light at the nape of his neck made a glowworm of him. His sister watched his progress, with trembling anxiety. Suddenly a female figure started out of the solid masonry, and came flying at her with more than mortal velocity.
And so, with his big arms and lightweight legs, Giles climbed the rope faster than his brother came down. The light at the back of his neck made him look like a glowworm. His sister watched him climb with nervous worry. Suddenly, a woman seemed to emerge from the solid wall and came rushing at her with incredible speed.
Kate uttered a feeble cry. It was all she could, for her tongue clove to her palate with terror. Then she dropped her crutches, and sank upon her knees, hiding her face and moaning:
Kate let out a weak cry. That was all she could manage, as fear had stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Then she dropped her crutches and fell to her knees, covering her face and moaning:
“Take my body, but spare my soul!”
“Take my body, but save my soul!”
Margaret (panting). “Why, it is a woman!”
Margaret (breathing heavily). “Oh, it’s a woman!”
Kate (quivering). “Why, it is a woman!”
Kate (shaking). “Wait, it’s a woman!”
Margaret. “How you scared me!”
Margaret. “You really scared me!”
Kate. “I am scared enough myself. Oh! oh! oh!”
Kate. “I’m scared enough already. Oh! oh! oh!”
“This is strange! But the fiery-headed thing? Yet it was with you, and you are harmless! But why are you here at this time of night?”
“This is weird! But the fiery-headed creature? Still, it was with you, and you’re not dangerous! But why are you here at this hour?”
“Nay, why are YOU?”
"No, why are YOU?"
“Perhaps we are on the same errand? Ah! you are his good sister, Kate!”
“Maybe we’re on the same mission? Oh! You’re his kind sister, Kate!”
“And you are Margaret Brandt.”
"And you're Margaret Brandt."
“Yes.
Yes.
“All the better. You love him; you are here. Then Giles was right. He has won free.”
“All the better. You love him; you’re here. Then Giles was right. He’s won his freedom.”
Gerard came forward, and put the question at rest. But all further explanation was cut short by a horrible unearthly noise, like a sepulchre ventriloquizing:
Gerard stepped up and settled the matter. But any further explanation was abruptly interrupted by a terrifying, otherworldly sound, like a tomb speaking.
“PARCHMENT!—PARCHMENT!—PARCHMENT!”
“Parchment!—Parchment!—Parchment!”
At each repetition, it rose in intensity. They looked up, and there was the dwarf, with his hands full of parchments, and his face lighted with fiendish joy and lurid with diabolical fire. The light being at his neck, a more infernal “transparency” never startled mortal eye. With the word, the awful imp hurled parchment at the astonished heads below. Down came records, like wounded wild-ducks; some collapsed, others fluttering, and others spread out and wheeling slowly down in airy circles. They had hardly settled, when again the sepulchral roar was heard—“Parchment—parchment!” and down pattered and sailed another flock of documents: another followed: they whitened the grass. Finally, the fire-headed imp, with his light body and horny hands, slid down the rope like a falling star, and (business before sentiment) proposed to his rescued brother an immediate settlement for the merchandise he had just delivered.
At each repetition, it got more intense. They looked up, and there was the dwarf, with his hands full of scrolls, and his face lit up with wicked joy and glowing with devilish fire. The light around his neck was more hellish than anything mortal eyes had ever seen. With a shout, the terrifying little creature threw scrolls at the surprised heads below. Down came the documents, like injured wild ducks; some plummeted, others flapped about, and others floated down in graceful circles. They had barely settled when the eerie roar was heard again—“Scrolls—scrolls!”—and another batch of documents came fluttering down: another followed: they blanketed the grass. Finally, the fire-headed imp, with his light body and claw-like hands, slid down the rope like a shooting star, and (business before feelings) suggested to his rescued brother an immediate payment for the goods he had just delivered.
“Hush!” said Gerard; “you speak too loud. Gather them up, and follow us to a safer place than this.”
“Hush!” said Gerard; “you’re speaking too loudly. Collect them and follow us to a safer spot than this.”
“Will you come home with me, Gerard?” said little Kate.
“Will you come home with me, Gerard?” asked little Kate.
“I have no home.”
“I don't have a home.”
“You shall not say so. Who is more welcome than you will be, after this cruel wrong, to your father's house?
"You shouldn't say that. Who would be more welcomed than you after this terrible wrong, into your father's house?"
“Father! I have no father,” said Gerard sternly. “He that was my father is turned my gaoler. I have escaped from his hands; I will never come within their reach again.”
“Dad! I don’t have a dad,” Gerard said firmly. “The man who was my dad has become my jailer. I’ve escaped from him; I will never let him get his hands on me again.”
“An enemy did this, and not our father.”
“An enemy did this, not our dad.”
And she told him what she had overheard Cornelis and Sybrandt say. But the injury was too recent to be soothed. Gerard showed a bitterness of indignation he had hitherto seemed incapable of.
And she told him what she had overheard Cornelis and Sybrandt say. But the injury was too fresh to be eased. Gerard showed a bitterness of anger that he had previously seemed incapable of.
“Cornelis and Sybrandt are two ill curs that have shown me their teeth and their heart a long while; but they could do no more. My father it is that gave the burgomaster authority, or he durst not have laid a finger on me, that am a free burgher of this town. So be it, then. I was his son. I am his prisoner. He has played his part. I shall play mine. Farewell the burgh where I was born, and lived honestly and was put in prison. While there is another town left in creation, I'll never trouble you again, Tergou.”
“Cornelis and Sybrandt are two nasty guys who have shown me their true colors for a long time; but they couldn't do any more harm. It was my father who gave the mayor authority, or else he wouldn't have dared to lay a finger on me, being a free citizen of this town. So be it, then. I was his son. Now I am his prisoner. He’s done his part. Now I’ll do mine. Goodbye to the town where I was born, lived honorably, and got imprisoned. As long as there’s another town in the world, I won't bother you again, Tergou.”
“Oh! Gerard! Gerard!”
“Oh my gosh! Gerard! Gerard!”
Margaret whispered her: “Do not gainsay him now. Give his choler time to cool!”
Margaret whispered to her, “Don’t argue with him right now. Let him calm down first!”
Kate turned quickly towards her. “Let me look at your face?” The inspection was favourable, it seemed, for she whispered: “It is a comely face, and no mischief-maker's.”
Kate turned quickly towards her. “Can I see your face?” The inspection seemed positive, as she whispered, “You have a lovely face, and you're not a troublemaker.”
“Fear me not,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “I could not be happy without your love, as well as Gerard's.”
“Don’t be afraid of me,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “I couldn’t be happy without your love, just like Gerard's.”
“These are comfortable words,” sobbed Kate. Then, looking up, she said, “I little thought to like you so well. My heart is willing, but my infirmity will not let me embrace you.”
“These are comforting words,” sobbed Kate. Then, looking up, she said, “I never thought I would like you so much. My heart is willing, but my weakness won’t let me embrace you.”
At this hint, Margaret wound gently round Gerard's sister, and kissed her lovingly.
At this suggestion, Margaret gently wrapped her arms around Gerard's sister and kissed her affectionately.
“Often he has spoken of you to me, Kate; and often I longed for this.”
“He's talked about you a lot, Kate, and I've often wished for this.”
“You, too, Gerard,” said Kate; “kiss me ere you go; for my heart lies heavy at parting with you this night.”
“You, too, Gerard,” Kate said; “kiss me before you leave; because my heart feels heavy saying goodbye to you tonight.”
Gerard kissed her, and she went on her crutches home. The last thing they heard of her was a little patient sigh. Then the tears came and stood thick in Margaret's eyes. But Gerard was a man, and noticed not his sister's sigh.
Gerard kissed her, and she went home on her crutches. The last thing they heard from her was a small, patient sigh. Then tears welled up in Margaret's eyes. But Gerard was a man and didn’t notice his sister’s sigh.
As they turned to go to Sevenbergen, the dwarf nudged Gerard with his bundle of parchments and held out a concave claw.
As they headed to Sevenbergen, the dwarf nudged Gerard with his stack of papers and extended a curved claw.
Margaret dissuaded Gerard. “Why take what is not ours?”
Margaret convinced Gerard, “Why take what isn’t ours?”
“Oh, spoil an enemy how you can.”
“Oh, ruin your enemy however you can.”
“But may they not make this a handle for fresh violence?”
"But could they use this as an excuse for more violence?"
“How can they? Think you I shall stay in Tergou after this? The burgomaster robbed me of my liberty; I doubt I should take his life for it, if I could.”
“How can they? Do you think I’ll stay in Tergou after this? The mayor took away my freedom; I doubt I would take his life for it, even if I could.”
“Oh, fie! Gerard.”
“Oh, come on! Gerard.”
“What! Is life worth more than liberty? Well, I can't take his life, so I take the first thing that comes to hand.”
“What! Is life worth more than freedom? Well, I can't take his life, so I'll take the first thing I can get my hands on.”
He gave Giles a few small coins, with which the urchin was gladdened, and shuffled after his sister. Margaret and Gerard were speedily joined by Martin, and away to Sevenbergen.
He gave Giles a few small coins, which made the kid happy, and then shuffled after his sister. Margaret and Gerard were soon joined by Martin, and off they went to Sevenbergen.
CHAPTER XII
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten kept the key of Gerard's prison in his pouch. He waited till ten of the clock ere he visited for he said to himself, “A little hunger sometimes does well it breaks 'em.” At ten he crept up the stairs with a loaf and pitcher, followed by his trusty servant well armed. Ghysbrecht listened at the door. There was no sound inside. A grim smile stole over his features. “By this time he will be as down-hearted as Albert Koestein was,” thought he. He opened the door.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten kept the key to Gerard's prison in his pocket. He waited until ten o'clock before he paid a visit because he thought to himself, “A little hunger does some good; it breaks them.” At ten, he quietly climbed the stairs with a loaf of bread and a pitcher, followed by his loyal servant, who was well armed. Ghysbrecht listened at the door. There was no sound inside. A grim smile spread across his face. “By now, he must be as depressed as Albert Koestein was,” he thought. He opened the door.
No Gerard.
No, Gerard.
Ghysbrecht stood stupefied.
Ghysbrecht stood in shock.
Although his face was not visible, his body seemed to lose all motion in so peculiar a way, and then after a little he fell trembling so, that the servant behind him saw there was something amiss, and crept close to him and peeped over his shoulder. At sight of the empty cell, and the rope, and iron bar, he uttered a loud exclamation of wonder; but his surprise doubled when his master, disregarding all else, suddenly flung himself on his knees before the empty chest, and felt wildly all over it with quivering hands, as if unwilling to trust his eyes in a matter so important.
Although his face was not visible, his body seemed to freeze in such a strange way, and after a moment, he fell to the ground trembling. The servant behind him noticed something was wrong, crept closer, and peeked over his shoulder. When he saw the empty cell, the rope, and the iron bar, he let out a loud shout of surprise; but his astonishment grew even more when his master, ignoring everything else, suddenly dropped to his knees in front of the empty chest and frantically touched it with shaking hands, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing in such an important situation.
The servant gazed at him in utter bewilderment.
The servant looked at him in complete confusion.
“Why, master, what is the matter?”
“Why, master, what’s up?”
Ghysbrecht's pale lips worked as if he was going to answer; but they uttered no sound: his hands fell by his side, and he stared into the chest.
Ghysbrecht's pale lips moved as if he was about to respond; but no sound came out: his hands dropped to his sides, and he stared into the chest.
“Why, master, what avails glaring into that empty box? The lad is not there. See here! note the cunning of the young rogue; he hath taken out the bar, and—”
“Why, master, what’s the point of staring into that empty box? The kid isn’t in there. Look! Check out the cleverness of the young trickster; he’s taken out the bar, and—”
“GONE! GONE! GONE!”
"GONE! GONE! GONE!"
“Gone! What is gone, Holy saints! he is planet-struck!”
“Gone! What’s gone, holy saints! He’s struck by a planet!”
“STOP THIEF!” shrieked Ghysbrecht, and suddenly turned, on his servant and collared him, and shook him with rage. “D'ye stand there, knave, and see your master robbed? Run! fly! A hundred crowns to him that finds it me again. No, no! 'tis in vain. Oh, fool! fool! to leave that in the same room with him. But none ever found the secret spring before. None ever would but he. It was to be. It is to be. Lost! lost!” and his years and infirmity now gained the better of his short-lived frenzy, and he sank on the chest muttering “Lost! lost!”
“STOP THIEF!” screamed Ghysbrecht, and suddenly turned to his servant, grabbing him and shaking him in anger. “Do you just stand there, you idiot, and watch your master get robbed? Run! Hurry! I’ll give a hundred crowns to whoever finds it for me again. No, no! It’s useless. Oh, how foolish! Foolish to leave that in the same room with him. But no one has ever found the secret mechanism before. No one ever would except him. It was meant to be. It is meant to be. Lost! Lost!” His age and frailty now overtook his brief moment of rage, and he sank onto the chest, mumbling “Lost! lost!”
“What is lost, master?” asked the servant kindly.
“What's lost, master?” the servant asked kindly.
“House and lands and good name,” groaned Ghysbrecht, and wrung his hands feebly.
“House and land and a good reputation,” groaned Ghysbrecht, wringing his hands weakly.
“WHAT?” cried the servant.
“What?” shouted the servant.
This emphatic word, and the tone of eager curiosity, struck on Ghysbrecht's ear and revived his natural cunning.
This strong word, along with the tone of eager curiosity, caught Ghysbrecht's attention and awakened his natural cleverness.
“I have lost the town records,” stammered he, and he looked askant at the man like a fox caught near a hen-roost.
“I’ve lost the town records,” he stammered, glancing nervously at the man like a fox caught near a chicken coop.
“Oh, is that all?”
"Oh, is that it?"
“Is't not enough? What will the burghers say to me? What will the burghs do?” Then he suddenly burst out again, “A hundred crowns to him who shall recover them; all, mind, all that were in this box. If one be missing, I give nothing.”
“Isn’t it enough? What will the townspeople say to me? What will the towns do?” Then he suddenly exclaimed again, “A hundred crowns to whoever retrieves them; all, remember, all that were in this box. If even one is missing, I’ll give nothing.”
“'Tis a bargain, master: the hundred crowns are in my pouch. See you not that where Gerard Eliassoen is, there are the pieces of sheepskin you rate so high?”
“It's a deal, sir: the hundred crowns are in my bag. Don't you see that where Gerard Eliassoen is, there are the pieces of sheepskin you value so much?”
“That is true; that is true, good Dierich: good faithful Dierich. All, mind, all that were in the chest.”
“That’s true; that’s true, good Dierich: good, loyal Dierich. Just remember, everything that was in the chest.”
“Master, I will take the constables to Gerard's house, and seize him for the theft.”
“Master, I’ll take the cops to Gerard's house and arrest him for the theft.”
“The theft? ay! good; very good. It is theft. I forgot that. So, as he is a thief now, we will put him in the dungeons below, where the toads are and the rats. Dierich, that man must never see daylight again. 'Tis his own fault; he must be prying. Quick, quick! ere he has time to talk, you know, time to talk.”
“The theft? Ah! Good; very good. It is theft. I forgot that. So, since he’s a thief now, we’ll put him in the dungeons below, where the toads are and the rats. Dierich, that man must never see daylight again. It’s his own fault; he must be snooping around. Quick, quick! Before he has the chance to talk, you know, time to talk.”
In less than half an hour Dierich Brower and four constables entered the hosier's house, and demanded young Gerard of the panic-stricken Catherine.
In under thirty minutes, Dierich Brower and four officers walked into the hosier's house and asked for young Gerard from the terrified Catherine.
“Alas! what has he done now?” cried she; “that boy will break my heart.”
“Wow! What has he done now?” she exclaimed; “that kid is going to break my heart.”
“Nay, dame, but a trick of youth,” said Dierich. “He hath but made off with certain skins of parchment, in a frolic doubtless but the burgomaster is answerable to the burgh for their safe keeping, so he is in care about them; as for the youth, he will doubtless be quit for a reprimand.”
“Nah, ma'am, just a prank by a kid,” said Dierich. “He’s just taken some parchment skins, probably as a joke, but the mayor is responsible for keeping them safe, so he’s worried about that; as for the kid, he’ll probably just get a scolding.”
This smooth speech completely imposed on Catherine; but her daughter was more suspicious, and that suspicion was strengthened by the disproportionate anger and disappointment Dierich showed the moment he learned Gerard was not at home, had not been at home that night.
This smooth speech completely influenced Catherine; but her daughter was more skeptical, and that skepticism grew stronger with Dierich's excessive anger and disappointment when he found out Gerard wasn't home and hadn't been home that night.
“Come away then,” said he roughly. “We are wasting time.” He added vehemently, “I'll find him if he is above ground.”
“Come on then,” he said roughly. “We're wasting time.” He added passionately, “I'll find him if he's above ground.”
Affection sharpens the wits, and often it has made an innocent person more than a match for the wily. As Dierich was going out, Kate made him a signal she would speak with him privately. He bade his men go on, and waited outside the door. She joined him.
Affection sharpens the intellect, and often it has made an innocent person more than a match for the cunning. As Dierich was leaving, Kate signaled him to speak privately. He told his men to go ahead and waited outside the door. She joined him.
“Hush!” said she; “my mother knows not. Gerard has left Tergou.”
“Hush!” she said. “My mom doesn't know. Gerard has left Tergou.”
“How?”
"How?"
“I saw him last night.”
"I saw him last night."
“Ay! Where?” cried Dierich eagerly.
“Ay! Where?” shouted Dierich eagerly.
“At the foot of the haunted tower.”
“At the base of the haunted tower.”
“How did he get the rope?”
“How did he get the rope?”
“I know not; but this I know; my brother Gerard bade me there farewell, and he is many leagues from Tergou ere this. The town, you know, was always unworthy of him, and when it imprisoned him, he vowed never to set foot in it again. Let the burgomaster be content, then. He has imprisoned him, and he has driven him from his birthplace and from his native land. What need now to rob him and us of our good name?”
“I don’t know; but this I do know: my brother Gerard said goodbye to me there, and he is many miles away from Tergou by now. The town, as you know, was always beneath him, and when it locked him up, he promised never to return. So, let the mayor be satisfied. He has locked him up and forced him away from his hometown and his native land. What’s the point in now taking away our good name?”
This might at another moment have struck Dierich as good sense; but he was too mortified at this escape of Gerard and the loss of a hundred crowns.
This might have seemed reasonable to Dierich at another time; however, he was too upset about Gerard's escape and the loss of a hundred crowns.
“What need had he to steal?” retorted he bitterly.
“What need did he have to steal?” he shot back bitterly.
“Gerard stole not the trash; he but took it to spite the burgomaster, who stole his liberty; but he shall answer to the Duke for it, he shall. As for these skins of parchment you keep such a coil about, look in the nearest brook or stye, and 'tis odds but you find them.”
“Gerard didn’t steal the trash; he just took it to annoy the mayor, who took away his freedom; but he’ll have to answer to the Duke for it, he will. As for those skins of parchment you’re making such a fuss over, just look in the nearest stream or pigsty, and you’ll probably find them.”
“Think ye so, mistress?—think ye so?” And Dierich's eyes flashed. “Mayhap you know 'tis so.”
“Do you really think so, ma'am?—do you think so?” And Dierich's eyes lit up. “Maybe you know it’s true.”
“This I know, that Gerard is too good to steal, and too wise to load himself with rubbish, going a journey.”
“This I know, that Gerard is too good to steal, and too wise to load himself with rubbish, going a journey.”
“Give you good day, then,” said Dierich sharply. “The sheepskin you scorn, I value it more than the skin of any in Tergou.”
“Have a good day, then,” Dierich said sharply. “The sheepskin you look down on, I value more than the skin of anyone in Tergou.”
And he went off hastily on a false scent.
And he hurried off after a misleading clue.
Kate returned into the house and drew Giles aside.
Kate went back into the house and pulled Giles aside.
“Giles, my heart misgives me; breathe not to a soul what I say to you. I have told Dirk Brower that Gerard is out of Holland, but much I doubt he is not a league from Tergou.”
“Giles, I have a bad feeling about this; don’t let anyone else hear what I’m telling you. I’ve told Dirk Brower that Gerard has left Holland, but I really doubt he’s more than a mile away from Tergou.”
“Why, where is he, then?”
“Where is he, then?”
“Where should he be, but with her he loves? But if so, he must not loiter. These be deep and dark and wicked men that seek him. Giles, I see that in Dirk Brower's eye makes me tremble. Oh, why cannot I fly to Sevenbergen and bid him away? Why am I not lusty and active like other girls? God forgive me for fretting at His will; but I never felt till now what it is to be lame and weak and useless. But you are strong, dear Giles,” added she coaxingly; “you are very strong.”
“Where else would he be but with the one he loves? But if that's the case, he can't waste time. These are deep, dark, and dangerous men who are looking for him. Giles, I can see something in Dirk Brower's eye that makes me shiver. Oh, why can't I just go to Sevenbergen and get him out of here? Why can't I be lively and energetic like other girls? God forgive me for being upset with His will; but I've never really understood what it feels like to be lame and weak and useless until now. But you’re strong, dear Giles,” she said sweetly; “you’re very strong.”
“Yes, I am strong,” thundered Perpusillus; then, catching sight of her meaning, “but I hate to go on foot,” he added sulkily.
“Yes, I’m strong,” thundered Perpusillus; then, realizing what she meant, “but I hate walking,” he added moodily.
“Alas! alas! who will help me if you will not? Dear Giles, do you not love Gerard?”
“Alas! Alas! Who will help me if you won’t? Dear Giles, don’t you love Gerard?”
“Yes, I like him best of the lot. I'll go to Sevenbergen on Peter Buyskens his mule. Ask you him, for he won't lend her me.”
"Yeah, I like him the most out of everyone. I'll head to Sevenbergen on Peter Buyskens's mule. Ask him, because he won't let me borrow her."
Kate remonstrated. The whole town would follow him. It would be known whither he was gone, and Gerard be in worse danger than before.
Kate protested. The whole town would track him down. Everyone would know where he had gone, and Gerard would be in even greater danger than before.
Giles parried this by promising to ride out of the town the opposite way, and not turn the mule's head towards Sevenbergen till he had got rid of the curious.
Giles responded by agreeing to leave town in the opposite direction and not turn the mule's head toward Sevenbergen until he had sent away the onlookers.
Kate then assented and borrowed the mule. She charged Giles with a short but meaning message, and made him repeat it after her over and over, till he could say it word for word.
Kate then agreed and borrowed the mule. She gave Giles a brief but important message and made him repeat it after her over and over until he could say it exactly.
Giles started on the mule, and little Kate retired, and did the last thing now in her power for her beloved brother—prayed on her knees long and earnestly for his safety.
Giles got on the mule, and little Kate stepped back and did the last thing she could for her beloved brother—she prayed on her knees, long and earnestly, for his safety.
CHAPTER XIII
Gerard and Margaret went gaily to Sevenbergen in the first flush of recovered liberty and successful adventure. But these soon yielded to sadder thoughts. Gerard was an escaped prisoner, and liable to be retaken and perhaps punished; and therefore he and Margaret would have to part for a time. Moreover, he had conceived a hatred to his native place. Margaret wished him to leave the country for a while, but at the thought of his going to Italy her heart fainted. Gerard, on the contrary, was reconciled to leaving Margaret only by his desire to visit Italy, and his strong conviction that there he should earn money and reputation, and remove every obstacle to their marriage. He had already told her all that the demoiselle Van Eyck had said to him. He repeated it, and reminded Margaret that the gold pieces were only given him to go to Italy with. The journey was clearly for Gerard's interest. He was a craftsman and an artist, lost in this boorish place. In Italy they would know how to value him. On this ground above all the unselfish girl gave her consent; but many tender tears came with it, and at that Gerard, young and loving as herself, cried bitterly with her, and often they asked one another what they had done, that so many different persons should be their enemies, and combine, as it seemed, to part them.
Gerard and Margaret happily headed to Sevenbergen, full of excitement from their newfound freedom and adventurous experiences. But soon, those feelings gave way to more somber thoughts. Gerard was an escaped prisoner, at risk of being captured and possibly punished, which meant he and Margaret would need to part for a while. Additionally, he had developed a dislike for his hometown. Margaret wanted him to leave the country for a bit, but the thought of him going to Italy made her heart sink. On the other hand, Gerard was only able to accept leaving Margaret because he longed to visit Italy, firmly believing that there he could make money and gain a good reputation, clearing the way for their marriage. He had already shared with her what demoiselle Van Eyck had told him. He repeated it and reminded Margaret that the gold coins were given to him solely for the trip to Italy. Clearly, the journey was in Gerard’s best interest. As a craftsman and artist, he felt lost in this dull place. In Italy, they would recognize his worth. For this reason, the selfless girl agreed, but there were many tears shed alongside her consent. Gerard, young and in love like her, wept with her, and they often questioned each other about why so many different people seemed to be against them, as if conspiring to keep them apart.
They sat hand in hand till midnight, now deploring their hard fate, now drawing bright and hopeful pictures of the future, in the midst of which Margaret's tears would suddenly flow, and then poor Gerard's eloquence would die away in a sigh.
They sat holding hands until midnight, sometimes lamenting their tough situation, other times painting bright and hopeful pictures of the future. In the middle of this, Margaret's tears would suddenly flow, and then poor Gerard's words would trail off into a sigh.
The morning found them resigned to part, but neither had the courage to say when; and much I doubt whether the hour of parting ever would have struck.
The morning came, and they accepted that they would have to part, but neither of them had the courage to say when; and I really doubt that the moment of parting would ever have arrived.
But about three in the afternoon, Giles, who had made a circuit of many miles to avoid suspicion, rode up to the door. They both ran out to him, eager with curiosity.
But around three in the afternoon, Giles, who had taken a long route to avoid raising any suspicions, rode up to the door. They both ran out to him, filled with curiosity.
“Brother Gerard,” cried he, in his tremendous tones, “Kate bids you run for your life. They charge you with theft; you have given them a handle. Think not to explain. Hope not for justice in Tergou. The parchments you took, they are but a blind. She hath seen your death in the men's eyes; a price is on your head. Fly! For Margaret's sake and all who love you, loiter not life away, but fly!”
“Brother Gerard,” he shouted in his powerful voice, “Kate tells you to run for your life. They accuse you of theft; you’ve given them a reason. Don’t think you can explain. Don’t expect justice in Tergou. The documents you took are just a cover. She has seen your death in the men’s eyes; there’s a bounty on your head. Run! For Margaret’s sake and everyone who loves you, don’t waste any time, just run!”
It was a thunder-clap, and left two white faces looking at one another, and at the terrible messenger.
It was a loud bang of thunder, leaving two pale faces staring at each other and at the frightening messenger.
Then Giles, who had hitherto but uttered by rote what Catherine bade him, put in a word of his own.
Then Giles, who had only repeated what Catherine told him so far, spoke up with his own thoughts.
“All the constables were at our house after you, and so was Dirk Brower. Kate is wise, Gerard. Best give ear to her rede, and fly!”
“All the officers were at our house after you, and so was Dirk Brower. Kate is smart, Gerard. It’s best to listen to her advice and get out of here!”
“Oh, yes, Gerard,” cried Margaret wildly. “Fly on the instant. Ah! those parchments; my mind misgave me: why did I let you take them?”
“Oh, yes, Gerard,” Margaret cried desperately. “Go right now. Ah! those documents; I had a feeling something was off: why did I let you take them?”
“Margaret, they are but a blind: Giles says so. No matter: the old caitiff shall never see them again; I will not go till I have hidden his treasure where he shall never find it.” Gerard then, after thanking Giles warmly, bade him farewell, and told him to go back and tell Kate he was gone. “For I shall be gone ere you reach home,” said he. He then shouted for Martin; and told him what had happened, and begged him to go a little way towards Tergou, and watch the road.
“Margaret, they’re just a distraction: Giles says so. It doesn’t matter: the old scoundrel will never see them again; I won’t leave until I’ve hidden his treasure where he’ll never find it.” Gerard then, after expressing his gratitude to Giles warmly, said goodbye and instructed him to go back and tell Kate he had left. “Because I’ll be gone before you get home,” he said. He then called for Martin; and told him what had happened, and asked him to go a bit toward Tergou to keep an eye on the road.
“Ay!” said Martin, “and if I see Dirk Brower or any of his men, I will shoot an arrow into the oak-tree that is in our garden; and on that you must run into the forest hard by, and meet me at the weird hunter's spring. Then I will guide you through the wood.”
“Ay!” said Martin, “and if I see Dirk Brower or any of his men, I will shoot an arrow into the oak tree in our garden; and when I do, you must run into the nearby forest and meet me at the weird hunter's spring. Then I will guide you through the woods.”
Surprise thus provided against, Gerard breathed again. He went with Margaret, and while she watched the oak-tree tremblingly, fearing every moment to see an arrow strike among the branches, Gerard dug a deep hole to bury the parchments in.
Surprise handled, Gerard exhaled. He walked with Margaret, and while she anxiously watched the oak tree, fearing every second that an arrow would hit one of the branches, Gerard dug a deep hole to bury the parchments.
He threw them in, one by one. They were nearly all charters and records of the burgh; but one appeared to be a private deed between Floris Brandt, father of Peter, and Ghysbrecht.
He tossed them in, one by one. Most of them were charters and records of the town; but one seemed to be a private document between Floris Brandt, Peter's father, and Ghysbrecht.
“Why, this is as much yours as his,” said Gerard. “I will read this.”
“Why, this is just as much yours as it is his,” Gerard said. “I’ll read this.”
“Oh, not now, Gerard, not now,” cried Margaret. “Every moment you lose fills me with fear; and see, large drops of rain are beginning to fall, and the clouds lower.”
“Oh, not now, Gerard, not now,” Margaret exclaimed. “Every moment you waste fills me with fear; and look, big drops of rain are starting to fall, and the clouds are getting darker.”
Gerard yielded to this remonstrance; but he put the deed into his bosom, and threw the earth in over the others, and stamped it down. While thus employed there came a flash of lightning followed by a peal of distant thunder, and the rain came down heavily. Margaret and Gerard ran into the house, whither they were speedily followed by Martin.
Gerard gave in to this protest; however, he tucked the deed into his pocket, covered the others with dirt, and packed it down. While he was doing this, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a rumble of distant thunder, and then heavy rain started pouring down. Margaret and Gerard dashed into the house, quickly followed by Martin.
“The road is clear,” said he, “and a heavy storm coming on.”
“The road is clear,” he said, “but a big storm is on the way.”
His words proved true. The thunder came nearer and nearer till it crashed overhead: the flashes followed one another close, like the strokes of a whip, and the rain fell in torrents. Margaret hid her face not to see the lightning. On this, Gerard put up the rough shutter and lighted a candle. The lovers consulted together, and Gerard blessed the storm that gave him a few hours more with Margaret. The sun set unperceived, and still the thunder pealed, and the lightning flashed, and the rain poured. Supper was set; but Gerard and Margaret could not eat: the thought that this was the last time they should sup together choked them. The storm lulled a little. Peter retired to rest. But Gerard was to go at peep of day, and neither he nor Margaret could afford to lose an hour in sleep. Martin sat a while, too; for he was fitting a new string to his bow, a matter in which he was very nice.
His words turned out to be true. The thunder rolled closer and closer until it crashed overhead; the lightning flashed one after another, sharp like a whip, and the rain poured down in torrents. Margaret buried her face to avoid seeing the lightning. In response, Gerard closed the rough shutter and lit a candle. The lovers talked together, and Gerard welcomed the storm that gave him a few more hours with Margaret. The sun set without anyone noticing, and still the thunder rumbled, the lightning blazed, and the rain fell heavily. Dinner was prepared, but Gerard and Margaret couldn't eat; the thought that this was the last time they would share a meal together overwhelmed them. The storm calmed a bit. Peter went to bed. But Gerard had to leave at dawn, and neither he nor Margaret could afford to waste an hour sleeping. Martin stayed up for a while too, working on fitting a new string to his bow, a task he was very particular about.
The lovers murmured their sorrows and their love beside him.
The lovers whispered their sadness and affection next to him.
Suddenly the old man held up his hand to them to be silent.
Suddenly, the old man raised his hand to signal them to be quiet.
They were quiet and listened, and heard nothing. But the next moment a footstep crackled faintly upon the autumn leaves that lay strewn in the garden at the back door of the house. To those who had nothing to fear such a step would have said nothing; but to those who had enemies it was terrible. For it was a foot trying to be noiseless.
They were silent and listened, and heard nothing. But the next moment, a footstep crunched softly on the autumn leaves scattered in the garden behind the house. For those with nothing to fear, such a step wouldn’t mean a thing; but for those with enemies, it was frightening. Because it was a foot trying to be quiet.
Martin fitted an arrow to his string and hastily blew out the candle. At this moment, to their horror, they heard more than one footstep approach the other door of the cottage, not quite so noiselessly as the other, but very stealthily—and then a dead pause.
Martin nocked an arrow to his bowstring and quickly blew out the candle. At that moment, to their shock, they heard multiple footsteps coming toward the other door of the cottage, not as quietly as before, but still very sneakily—and then there was silence.
Their blood froze in their veins.
Their blood turned to ice.
“Oh, Kate, oh, Kate! You said fly on the instant.” And Margaret moaned and wrung her hands in anguish and terror and wild remorse for having kept Gerard.
“Oh, Kate, oh, Kate! You said to fly right away.” And Margaret groaned and twisted her hands in pain, fear, and deep regret for having held on to Gerard.
“Hush, girl!” said Martin, in a stern whisper.
“Hush, girl!” Martin said sharply in a whisper.
A heavy knock fell on the door.
A loud knock sounded at the door.
And on the hearts within.
And on the hearts inside.
CHAPTER XIV
As if this had been a concerted signal, the back door was struck as rudely the next instant. They were hemmed in. But at these alarming sounds Margaret seemed to recover some share of self-possession. She whispered, “Say he was here, but is gone.” And with this she seized Gerard and almost dragged him up the rude steps that led to her father's sleeping-room. Her own lay next beyond it.
As if that was a planned signal, the back door was knocked on just as fiercely the next moment. They were trapped. But at the sound of this commotion, Margaret appeared to regain some control. She whispered, “Say he was here, but he’s gone.” With that, she grabbed Gerard and nearly pulled him up the rough steps that led to her father's bedroom. Her own room was right next to it.
The blows on the door were repeated.
The knocks on the door happened again.
“Who knocks at this hour?”
“Who’s knocking at this hour?”
“Open, and you will see!”
"Open it to see!"
“I open not to thieves—honest men are all abed now.”
“I’m not opening the door for thieves—honest people are all in bed right now.”
“Open to the law, Martin Wittenhaagen, or you shall rue it.”
“Submit to the law, Martin Wittenhaagen, or you will regret it.”
“Why, that is Dirk Brower's voice, I trow. What make you so far from Tergou?”
“Why, that's Dirk Brower's voice, I think. What brings you so far from Tergou?”
“Open, and you will know.”
"Open up, and you’ll know."
Martin drew the bolt very slowly, and in rushed Dierich and four more. They let in their companion who was at the back door.
Martin slowly pulled back the bolt, and in rushed Dierich and four others. They let in their friend who was at the back door.
“Now, Martin, where is Gerard Eliassoen?”
“Hey, Martin, where’s Gerard Eliassoen?”
“Gerard Eliassoen? Why, he was here but now!”
“Gerard Eliassoen? He was just here!”
“Was here?” Dierich's countenance fell. “And where is he now?”
“Was he here?” Dierich's expression dropped. “And where is he now?”
“They say he has gone to Italy. Why, what is to do?”
“They say he’s gone to Italy. What’s going on?”
“No matter. When did he go? Tell me not that he went in such a storm as this!”
“No matter. When did he leave? Don’t tell me he left in a storm like this!”
“Here is a coil about Gerard Eliassoen,” said Martin contemptuously. Then he lighted the candle, and seating himself coolly by the fire, proceeded to whip some fine silk round his bow-string at the place where the nick of the arrow frets it.
“Here’s a coil about Gerard Eliassoen,” Martin said with disdain. Then he lit the candle, casually sat down by the fire, and began to wrap some fine silk around his bowstring at the spot where the arrow rubs against it.
“I'll tell you,” said he carelessly. “Know you his brother Giles?—a little misbegotten imp, all head and arms? Well, he came tearing over here on a mule, and bawled out something, I was too far off to hear the creature's words, but only its noise. Any way, he started Gerard. For as soon as he was gone, there was such crying and kissing, and then Gerard went away. They do tell me he has gone to Italy—mayhap you know where that is, for I don't.”
"I'll tell you," he said casually. "Do you know his brother Giles?—a little mischief-maker, all head and arms? Well, he came rushing over here on a mule, shouting something, but I was too far away to catch his words, just the noise he made. Anyway, he got Gerard all worked up. As soon as he left, there was a lot of crying and kissing, and then Gerard took off. I've heard he went to Italy—maybe you know where that is, because I don't."
Dierich's countenance fell lower and lower at this account. There was no flaw in it, A cunninger man than Martin would perhaps have told a lie too many and raised suspicion. But Martin did his task well. He only told the one falsehood he was bade to tell, and of his own head invented nothing.
Dierich's expression grew more and more disheartened as he heard this. There was no flaw in it. A more cunning man than Martin might have told one lie too many and raised suspicion. But Martin did his job well. He only told the one lie he was asked to tell and didn't invent anything on his own.
“Mates,” said Dierich, “I doubt he speaks sooth. I told the burgomaster how 'twould be. He met the dwarf galloping Peter Buyskens's mule from Sevenbergen. 'They have sent that imp to Gerard,' says he, 'so, then, Gerard is at Sevenbergen.' 'Ah, master!' says I, ''tis too late now. We should have thought of Sevenbergen before, instead of wasting our time hunting all the odd corners of Tergou for those cursed parchments that we shall never find till we find the man that took 'em. If he was at Sevenbergen,' quoth I, 'and they sent the dwarf to him, it must have been to warn him we are after him. He is leagues away by now,' quoth I. Confound that chalk-faced girl! she has outwitted us bearded men; and so I told the burgomaster, but he would not hear reason. A wet jerkin apiece, that is all we shall get, mates, by this job.”
“Mates,” Dierich said, “I doubt he's telling the truth. I warned the mayor about this. He saw the dwarf riding Peter Buyskens's mule from Sevenbergen. 'They've sent that little guy to Gerard,' he said, 'so Gerard is at Sevenbergen.' 'Ah, master!' I replied, 'it's too late now. We should have thought of Sevenbergen earlier instead of wasting our time searching all over Tergou for those cursed documents that we won't find until we catch the guy who took them. If he’s at Sevenbergen,' I said, 'and they sent the dwarf to him, it must have been to warn him we’re after him. He’s miles away by now,' I added. Damn that chalk-faced girl! She’s outsmarted us bearded men; and I told the mayor that, but he wouldn’t listen. We’ll be lucky to get a wet jerkin out of this job, mates.”
Martin grinned coolly in Dierich's face.
Martin grinned confidently in Dierich's face.
“However,” added the latter, “to content the burgomaster, we will search the house.”
“However,” added the latter, “to satisfy the mayor, we will search the house.”
Martin turned grave directly.
Martin went serious immediately.
This change of countenance did not escape Dierich. He reflected a moment.
This change in expression didn't go unnoticed by Dierich. He thought for a moment.
“Watch outside two of you, one on each side of the house, that no one jump from the upper windows. The rest come with me.”
“Two of you keep an eye outside, one on each side of the house, to make sure no one jumps from the upper windows. The rest of you come with me.”
And he took the candle and mounted the stairs, followed by three of his comrades.
And he took the candle and climbed the stairs, followed by three of his friends.
Martin was left alone.
Martin was left by himself.
The stout soldier hung his head. All had gone so well at first; and now this fatal turn! Suddenly it occurred to him that all was not yet lost. Gerard must be either in Peter's room or Margaret's; they were not so very high from the ground. Gerard would leap out. Dierich had left a man below; but what then? For half a minute Gerard and he would be two to one, and in that brief space, what might not be done?
The tough soldier hung his head. Everything had started off well, and now this disastrous twist! Suddenly, it hit him that all wasn't lost yet. Gerard must be either in Peter's room or Margaret's; they weren't too far off the ground. Gerard could jump out. Dierich had left a guy below; but what then? For half a minute, they would be two against one, and in that short time, what could they accomplish?
Martin then held the back door ajar and watched. The light shone in Peter's room. “Curse the fool!” said he, “is he going to let them take him like a girl?”
Martin then held the back door slightly open and watched. The light was on in Peter's room. “Damn it!” he said, “is he really going to let them take him like that?”
The light now passed into Margaret's bedroom. Still no window was opened. Had Gerard intended to escape that way, he would not have waited till the men were in the room. Martin saw that at once, and left the door, and came to the foot-stair and listened.
The light now streamed into Margaret's bedroom. No window had been opened yet. If Gerard meant to escape that way, he wouldn't have waited until the men were in the room. Martin noticed this right away, stepped away from the door, and went to the foot of the stairs to listen.
He began to think Gerard must have escaped by the window while all the men were in the house. The longer the silence continued, the stronger grew this conviction. But it was suddenly and rudely dissipated.
He started to believe that Gerard must have slipped out through the window while everyone else was inside. The longer the silence dragged on, the more he became convinced of this. But then, it was abruptly and harshly shattered.
Faint cries issued from the inner bedroom—Margaret's.
Faint cries came from the inner bedroom—Margaret's.
“They have taken him,” groaned Martin; “they have got him.”
“They’ve taken him,” Martin groaned. “They’ve got him.”
It now flashed across Martin's mind that if they took Gerard away, his life was not worth a button; and that, if evil befell him, Margaret's heart would break. He cast his eyes wildly round like some savage beast seeking an escape, and in a twinkling formed a resolution terribly characteristic of those iron times and of a soldier driven to bay. He stepped to each door in turn, and imitating Dierich Brower's voice, said sharply, “Watch the window!” He then quietly closed and bolted both doors. He then took up his bow and six arrows; one he fitted to his string, the others he put into his quiver. His knife he placed upon a chair behind him, the hilt towards him; and there he waited at the foot of the stair with the calm determination to slay those four men, or be slain by them. Two, he knew, he could dispose of by his arrows, ere they could get near him, and Gerard and he must take their chance hand-to-hand with the remaining pair. Besides, he had seen men panic-stricken by a sudden attack of this sort. Should Brower and his men hesitate but an instant before closing with him, he should shoot three instead of two, and then the odds would be on the right side.
It suddenly hit Martin that if they took Gerard away, his life wouldn't be worth anything; and if something bad happened to him, Margaret's heart would shatter. He glanced around wildly, like a wild animal looking for a way out, and quickly made a decision that was typical of those harsh times and a soldier backed into a corner. He walked to each door and, mimicking Dierich Brower's voice, ordered sharply, “Watch the window!” Then he quietly closed and locked both doors. He picked up his bow and six arrows; he fitted one to the string and placed the others in his quiver. He put his knife on a chair behind him, with the hilt facing him; and there he stood at the foot of the stairs, determined to either kill those four men or be killed by them. He knew he could take out two of them with his arrows before they got close, and he and Gerard would have to face the other two in a direct fight. Plus, he had seen men freeze up in a sudden attack like this. If Brower and his men hesitated for even a moment before charging at him, he could shoot three instead of two, and then the odds would be in his favor.
He had not long to wait. The heavy steps sounded in Margaret's room, and came nearer and nearer.
He didn’t have to wait long. The loud footsteps echoed in Margaret's room and got closer and closer.
The light also approached, and voices.
The light came closer, along with voices.
Martin's heart, stout as it was, beat hard, to hear men coming thus to their death, and perhaps to his; more likely so than not: for four is long odds in a battlefield of ten feet square, and Gerard might be bound perhaps, and powerless to help. But this man, whom we have seen shake in his shoes at a Giles-o'-lanthorn, never wavered in this awful moment of real danger, but stood there, his body all braced for combat, and his eye glowing, equally ready to take life and lose it. Desperate game! to win which was exile instant and for life, and to lose it was to die that moment upon that floor he stood on.
Martin's heart, strong as it was, raced when he heard men coming to their deaths, and maybe his own; more likely than not: four is a long shot on a battlefield just ten feet square, and Gerard might be tied up and unable to help. But this man, who we’ve seen tremble at a harmless scare, didn’t flinch in this terrifying moment of real danger. He stood there, his body ready for battle, and his eyes alight, equally prepared to take life or lose his own. It was a desperate gamble! To win meant immediate exile for life, and to lose meant dying right there on the floor he stood on.
Dierich Brower and his men found Peter in his first sleep. They opened his cupboards, they ran their knives into an alligator he had nailed to his wall; they looked under his bed: it was a large room, and apparently full of hiding-places, but they found no Gerard.
Dierich Brower and his men discovered Peter while he was sound asleep. They rummaged through his cupboards, stabbed at an alligator he had mounted on his wall, and searched under his bed. It was a spacious room, seemingly filled with hiding spots, but they didn’t find Gerard.
Then they went on to Margaret's room, and the very sight of it was discouraging—it was small and bare, and not a cupboard in it; there was, however, a large fireplace and chimney. Dierich's eye fell on these directly. Here they found the beauty of Sevenbergen sleeping on an old chest not a foot high, and no attempt made to cover it; but the sheets were snowy white, and so was Margaret's own linen. And there she lay, looking like a lily fallen into a rut.
Then they went to Margaret's room, and just seeing it was discouraging—it was small and empty, with no storage at all; however, there was a large fireplace and chimney. Dierich immediately noticed these. There they found the beauty of Sevenbergen resting on an old chest that was barely a foot high, with no attempt to cover it; but the sheets were pristine white, as was Margaret's own linen. And there she lay, looking like a lily that had fallen into a ditch.
Presently she awoke, and sat up in the bed, like one amazed; then, seeing the men, began to scream faintly, and pray for mercy.
Presently, she woke up and sat up in bed, looking surprised. Then, noticing the men, she started to scream softly and begged for mercy.
She made Dierich Brower ashamed of his errand.
She made Dierich Brower feel embarrassed about his task.
“Here is a to-do,” said he, a little confused. “We are not going to hurt you, my pretty maid. Lie you still, and shut your eyes, and think of your wedding-night, while I look up this chimney to see if Master Gerard is there.”
“Here’s something to do,” he said, a bit confused. “We’re not going to hurt you, my lovely lady. Just lie still, close your eyes, and think about your wedding night while I check up this chimney to see if Master Gerard is up there.”
“Gerard! in my room?”
“Gerard! in my room?”
“Why not? They say that you and he—”
“Why not? They say that you and he—”
“Cruel! you know they have driven him away from me—driven him from his native place. This is a blind. You are thieves; you are wicked men; you are not men of Sevenbergen, or you would know Margaret Brandt better than to look for her lover in this room of all others in the world. Oh, brave! Four great hulking men to come, armed to the teeth, to insult one poor honest girl! The women that live in your own houses must be naught, or you would respect them too much to insult a girl of good character.”
“Cruel! You know they've driven him away from me—driven him from his hometown. This is a cover-up. You’re thieves; you’re wicked men; you’re not men of Sevenbergen, or you’d know Margaret Brandt better than to look for her lover in this room of all places. Oh, how brave! Four big guys coming in, armed to the teeth, to insult one poor honest girl! The women living in your own homes must be worthless, or you’d respect them enough not to insult a girl of good character.”
“There! come away, before we hear worse,” said Dierich hastily. “He is not in the chimney. Plaster will mend what a cudgel breaks; but a woman's tongue is a double-edged dagger, and a girl is a woman with her mother's milk still in her.” And he beat a hasty retreat. “I told the burgomaster how 'twould be.”
“There! Let's get out of here before we hear something worse,” Dierich said quickly. “He's not hiding in the chimney. Plaster can fix what a club breaks; but a woman’s words are a double-edged sword, and a girl is just a woman who still has her mother's milk in her.” And he made a quick getaway. “I warned the mayor this would happen.”
CHAPTER XV
Where is the woman that cannot act a part? Where is she who will not do it, and do it well, to save the man she loves? Nature on these great occasions comes to the aid of the simplest of the sex, and teaches her to throw dust in Solomon's eyes. The men had no sooner retired than Margaret stepped out of bed, and opened the long chest on which she had been lying down in her skirt and petticoat and stockings, and nightdress over all; and put the lid, bed-clothes and all, against the wall: then glided to the door and listened. The footsteps died away through her father's room and down the stairs.
Where's the woman who can't play a role? Where's the one who wouldn't do it, and do it well, to save the man she loves? Nature, in these critical moments, helps the simplest women and teaches them how to fool even the wisest. As soon as the men left, Margaret got out of bed, opened the large chest she had been resting on in her skirt, petticoat, stockings, and nightdress; she pushed the lid, blankets and all, against the wall. Then she quietly went to the door and listened. The footsteps faded away through her father’s room and down the stairs.
Now in that chest there was a peculiarity that it was almost impossible for a stranger to detect. A part of the boarding of the room had been broken, and Gerard being applied to to make it look neater, and being short of materials, had ingeniously sawed away a space sufficient just to admit Margaret's soi-disant bed, and with the materials thus acquired he had repaired the whole room. As for the bed or chest, it really rested on the rafters a foot below the boards. Consequently it was full two feet deep, though it looked scarce one.
Now in that chest, there was something unusual that was nearly impossible for a stranger to notice. A section of the room's boarding had been damaged, and Gerard, asked to make it look nicer, had cleverly cut away just enough space to fit Margaret's so-called bed. With the materials he gathered from this, he had repaired the entire room. As for the bed or chest, it was actually resting on the rafters a foot below the floorboards. Because of this, it was a full two feet deep, even though it appeared to be barely one.
All was quiet. Margaret kneeled and gave thanks to Heaven. Then she glided from the door and leaned over the chest, and whispered tenderly, “Gerard!”
All was quiet. Margaret knelt and gave thanks to Heaven. Then she glided from the door and leaned over the chest, whispering tenderly, “Gerard!”
Gerard did not reply.
Gerard didn't reply.
She then whispered a little louder, “Gerard, all is safe, thank Heaven! You may rise; but oh! be cautious!”
She then whispered a bit louder, “Gerard, everything is safe, thank God! You can get up; but oh! be careful!”
Gerard made no reply.
Gerard stayed silent.
She laid her hand upon his shoulder—“Gerard!”
She placed her hand on his shoulder—“Gerard!”
No reply.
No response.
“Oh, what is this?” she cried, and her hands ran wildly over his face and his bosom. She took him by the shoulders; she shook him; she lifted him; but he escaped from her trembling hands, and fell back, not like a man, but like a body. A great dread fell on her. The lid had been down. She had lain upon it. The men had been some time in the room. With all the strength of frenzy she tore him out of the chest. She bore him in her arms to the window. She dashed the window open. The sweet air came in. She laid him in it and in the moonlight. His face was the colour of ashes; his body was all limp and motionless. She felt his heart. Horror! it was as still as the rest! Horror of horrors! she had stifled him with her own body.
“Oh, what is this?” she shouted, her hands frantically exploring his face and chest. She grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him, and lifted him, but he slipped away from her shaking hands and fell back, not like a man, but like a lifeless body. A deep fear washed over her. The lid had been closed. She had lain on it. The men had been in the room for a while. With all the strength of panic, she pulled him out of the chest. She carried him in her arms to the window. She flung the window open. The fresh air rushed in. She laid him in it and in the moonlight. His face was ashen; his body was completely limp and motionless. She checked his heart. Oh no! It was as still as the rest! The horror of horrors! She had suffocated him with her own body.
The mind cannot all at once believe so great and sudden and strange a calamity. Gerard, who had got alive into that chest scarce five minutes ago, how could he be dead?
The mind can't just accept such a huge, sudden, and strange disaster all at once. Gerard, who had just gotten into that chest barely five minutes ago, how could he be dead?
She called him by all the endearing names that heart could think or tongue could frame. She kissed him and fondled him and coaxed him and implored him to speak to her.
She called him all the sweet names she could think of. She kissed him, cuddled him, and urged him to talk to her.
No answer to words of love, such as she had never uttered to him before, nor thought she could utter. Then the poor creature, trembling all over, began to say over that ashy face little foolish things that were at once terrible and pitiable.
No response to words of love, which she had never said to him before, nor thought she could ever say. Then the poor soul, shaking all over, started to mutter little silly things to that pale face that were both disturbing and sad.
“Oh, Gerard! I am very sorry you are dead. I am very sorry I have killed you. Forgive me for not letting the men take you; it would have been better than this. Oh, Gerard! I am very, very sorry for what I have done.” Then she began suddenly to rave.
“Oh, Gerard! I’m so sorry you’re gone. I’m so sorry I killed you. Please forgive me for not letting the men take you; that would have been better than this. Oh, Gerard! I’m really, really sorry for what I did.” Then she suddenly started to rave.
“No! no! such things can't be, or there is no God. It is monstrous. How can my Gerard be dead? How can I have killed my Gerard? I love him. Oh, God! you know how I love him. He does not. I never told him. If he knew my heart, he would speak to me, he would not be so deaf to his poor Margaret. It is all a trick to make me cry out and betray him; but no! I love him too well for that. I'll choke first.” And she seized her own throat, to check her wild desire to scream in her terror and anguish.
“No! No! That can't be true, or else there’s no God. It's just outrageous. How could my Gerard be dead? How could I have killed my Gerard? I love him. Oh, God! You know how much I love him. He doesn't know. I never told him. If he understood my heart, he would talk to me; he wouldn’t be so deaf to his poor Margaret. It's all a trick to make me cry out and betray him; but no! I love him too much for that. I’d rather choke.” And she grabbed her own throat to stop herself from screaming in her terror and anguish.
“If he would but say one word. Oh, Gerard! don't die without a word. Have mercy on me and scold me, but speak to me: if you are angry with me, scold me! curse me! I deserve it: the idiot that killed the man she loved better than herself. Ah I am a murderess. The worst in all the world. Help! help! I have murdered him. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!”
“If you would just say one word. Oh, Gerard! don’t die without saying something. Please have mercy on me and scold me, but just speak to me: if you’re angry with me, then yell at me! Curse me! I deserve it: the fool who killed the man she loved more than herself. Ah, I am a murderer. The worst one in the whole world. Help! Help! I’ve killed him. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!”
She tore her hair, and uttered shriek after shriek, so wild, so piercing, they fell like a knell upon the ears of Dierich Brower and his men. All started to their feet and looked at one another.
She pulled at her hair and let out scream after scream, so wild and so piercing, they hit Dierich Brower and his men like a death knell. Everyone jumped to their feet and glanced at each other.
CHAPTER XVI
Martin Wittenhaagen, standing at the foot of the stairs with his arrow drawn nearly to the head and his knife behind him, was struck with amazement to see the men come back without Gerard: he lowered his bow and looked open-mouthed at them. They, for their part, were equally puzzled at the attitude they had caught him in.
Martin Wittenhaagen stood at the bottom of the stairs, his arrow drawn back almost all the way and a knife hidden behind him. He was astonished to see the men return without Gerard; he lowered his bow and stared at them in shock. They, in turn, were just as confused by the position they found him in.
“Why, mates, was the old fellow making ready to shoot at us?”
“Why, guys, was the old man getting ready to shoot at us?”
“Stuff!” said Martin, recovering his stolid composure; “I was but trying my new string. There! I'll unstring my bow, if you think that.”
“Stuff!” Martin replied, regaining his calm demeanor. “I was just testing my new string. There! I’ll take the string off my bow if that’s what you think.”
“Humph!” said Dierich suspiciously, “there is something more in you than I understand: put a log on, and let us dry our hides a bit ere we go.”
“Humph!” Dierich said suspiciously, “there’s more to you than I get: throw a log on the fire, and let’s warm up a bit before we leave.”
A blazing fire was soon made, and the men gathered round it, and their clothes and long hair were soon smoking from the cheerful blaze. Then it was that the shrieks were heard in Margaret's room. They all started up, and one of them seized the candle and ran up the steps that led to the bedrooms.
A roaring fire was quickly started, and the men huddled around it, their clothes and long hair soon smelling of smoke from the warm glow. That's when the screams were heard coming from Margaret's room. They all jumped up, and one of them grabbed the candle and dashed up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Martin rose hastily too, and being confused by these sudden screams, and apprehending danger from the man's curiosity, tried to prevent him from going there.
Martin quickly got up, and feeling confused by the sudden screams and sensing danger from the man’s curiosity, he tried to stop him from going over there.
At this Dierich threw his arms round him from behind, and called on the others to keep him. The man that had the candle got clear away, and all the rest fell upon Martin, and after a long and fierce struggle, in the course of which they were more than once all rolling on the floor, with Martin in the middle, they succeeded in mastering the old Samson, and binding him hand and foot with a rope they had brought for Gerard.
At this, Dierich wrapped his arms around him from behind and shouted for the others to hold him down. The guy with the candle managed to escape, and the rest piled onto Martin. After a long and intense fight, during which they all ended up rolling on the floor with Martin in the center, they finally overwhelmed the old Samson, tying him up hand and foot with a rope they had brought for Gerard.
Martin groaned aloud. He saw the man had made his way to Margaret's room during the struggle, and here was he powerless.
Martin groaned loudly. He noticed that the man had gotten to Margaret's room during the fight, and he felt helpless.
“Ay, grind your teeth, you old rogue,” said Dierich, panting with the struggle. “You shan't use them.”
“Ay, grind your teeth, you old rascal,” said Dierich, out of breath from the struggle. “You won’t be using them.”
“It is my belief, mates, that our lives were scarce safe while this old fellow's bones were free.”
“It’s my belief, friends, that our lives were hardly safe while this old guy’s bones were loose.”
“He makes me think this Gerard is not far off,” put in another.
“He makes me think that this Gerard isn't too far away,” another person added.
“No such luck,” replied Dierich. “Hallo, mates. Jorian Ketel is a long time in that girl's bedroom. Best go and see after him, some of us.”
“No such luck,” replied Dierich. “Hey, guys. Jorian Ketel has been in that girl’s bedroom for a while. We should go check on him.”
The rude laugh caused by this remark had hardly subsided, when hasty footsteps were heard running along over head.
The rude laughter triggered by this comment had barely died down when hurried footsteps were heard running overhead.
“Oh, here he comes, at last. Well, Jorian, what is to do now up there?”
“Oh, here he comes, finally. Well, Jorian, what's happening up there now?”
CHAPTER XVII
Jorian Ketel went straight to Margaret's room, and there, to his infinite surprise, he found the man he had been in search of, pale and motionless, his head in Margaret's lap, and she kneeling over him, mute now, and stricken to stone. Her eyes were dilated yet glazed, and she neither saw the light nor heard the man, nor cared for anything on earth, but the white face in her lap.
Jorian Ketel went straight to Margaret's room, and there, to his shock, he found the man he had been looking for, pale and still, his head in Margaret's lap, and she was kneeling over him, silent now, and frozen in place. Her eyes were wide yet blank, and she saw neither the light nor heard the man, nor cared about anything else in the world except the white face in her lap.
Jorian stood awe-struck, the candle shaking in his hand.
Jorian stood in awe, the candle trembling in his hand.
“Why, where was he, then, all the time?”
“Why, where was he all that time?”
Margaret heeded him not. Jorian went to the empty chest and inspected it. He began to comprehend. The girl's dumb and frozen despair moved him.
Margaret ignored him. Jorian walked over to the empty chest and looked it over. He started to understand. The girl’s silent and frozen despair touched him.
“This is a sorry sight,” said he; “it is a black night's work: all for a few skins! Better have gone with us than so. She is past answering me, poor wench. Stop! let us try whether—”
“This is a sad sight,” he said; “it’s a terrible thing: all for a few skins! It would have been better to come with us than end up like this. She can’t respond to me anymore, poor girl. Wait! Let’s see if—”
He took down a little round mirror, no bigger than his hand, and put it to Gerard's mouth and nostrils, and held it there. When he withdrew it, it was dull.
He grabbed a small round mirror, about the size of his hand, and held it to Gerard's mouth and nostrils. When he took it away, it was fogged up.
“THERE IS LIFE IN HIM!” said Jorian Ketel to himself.
“HE’S ALIVE!” said Jorian Ketel to himself.
Margaret caught the words instantly, though only muttered, and it was if a statue should start into life and passion. She rose and flung her arms round Jorian's neck.
Margaret immediately heard the whispered words, and it was as if a statue suddenly came to life with emotion. She stood up and wrapped her arms around Jorian's neck.
“Oh, bless the tongue that tells me so!” and she clasped the great rough fellow again and again, eagerly, almost fiercely.
“Oh, bless the person who tells me that!” and she embraced the big, tough guy over and over, eagerly, almost fiercely.
“There, there! let us lay him warm, said Jorian; and in a moment he raised Gerard and laid him on the bed-clothes. Then he took out a flask he carried, and filled his hand twice with Schiedamze, and flung it sharply each time in Gerard's face. The pungent liquor co-operated with his recovery—he gave a faint sigh. Oh, never was sound so joyful to human ear! She flew towards him, but then stopped, quivering for fear she should hurt him. She had lost all confidence in herself.
“There, there! Let’s get him warm,” said Jorian; and in an instant, he lifted Gerard and placed him on the bed. Then he pulled out a flask he had and filled his hand twice with Schiedamze, throwing it sharply in Gerard's face each time. The strong liquor helped him recover—he let out a faint sigh. Oh, never was a sound so joyful to the human ear! She rushed toward him but then halted, trembling with fear that she might hurt him. She had lost all confidence in herself.
“That is right—let him alone,” said Jorian; “don't go cuddling him as you did me, or you'll drive his breath back again. Let him alone: he is sure to come to. 'Tisn't like as if he was an old man.”
"That's right—leave him alone," Jorian said. "Don't start cuddling him like you did with me, or you'll make him stop breathing again. Just let him be; he'll come around. It's not like he's an old man."
Gerard sighed deeply, and a faint streak of colour stole to his lips. Jorian made for the door. He had hardly reached it, when he found his legs seized from behind.
Gerard let out a deep sigh, and a slight hint of color appeared on his lips. Jorian was walking toward the door. He had barely gotten there when he felt his legs grabbed from behind.
It was Margaret! She curled round his knees like a serpent, and kissed his hand, and fawned on him. “You won't tell? You have saved his life; you have not the heart to thrust him back into his grave, to undo your own good work?”
It was Margaret! She wrapped around his knees like a snake and kissed his hand, acting all sweet on him. “You won’t say anything, will you? You’ve saved his life; you can’t possibly have the heart to push him back into his grave and undo your own good deed?”
“No, no! It is not the first time I have done you two a good turn; 'twas I told you in the church whither we had to take him. Besides, what is Dierich Brower to me? I'll see him hanged ere I'll tell him. But I wish you'd tell me where the parchments are! There are a hundred crowns offered for them. That would be a good windfall for my Joan and the children, you know.”
“No, no! This isn't the first time I've helped you two out; I told you in the church where we needed to take him. Besides, what do I care about Dierich Brower? I’d rather see him hanged than tell him anything. But I wish you’d let me know where the parchments are! There’s a hundred crowns offered for them. That would be a nice windfall for my Joan and the kids, you know.”
“Ah! they shall have those hundred crowns.
“Ah! they will get those hundred crowns.
“What! are the things in the house?” asked Jorian eagerly.
“What! What’s going on in the house?” asked Jorian eagerly.
“No; but I know where they are; and by God and St. Bavon I swear you shall have them to-morrow. Come to me for them when you will, but come alone.”
“No; but I know where they are; and I swear to God and St. Bavon that you’ll have them tomorrow. Come to me for them whenever you want, but come alone.”
“I were made else. What! share the hundred crowns with Dirk Brower? And now may my bones rot in my skin if I let a soul know the poor boy is here.”
“I was made different. What! Share the hundred crowns with Dirk Brower? And now I’ll let my bones rot in my skin if I let anyone know the poor boy is here.”
He then ran off, lest by staying longer he should excite suspicion, and have them all after him. And Margaret knelt, quivering from head to foot, and prayed beside Gerard and for Gerard.
He then ran away, afraid that if he stayed any longer, he’d raise suspicion and have them all chasing after him. And Margaret knelt, trembling all over, and prayed beside Gerard and for Gerard.
“What is to do?” replied Jorian to Dierich Brower's query; “why, we have scared the girl out of her wits. She was in a kind of fit.”
“What should we do?” replied Jorian to Dierich Brower's question; “well, we have scared the girl out of her mind. She was in a sort of seizure.”
“We had better all go and doctor her, then.”
"We should all go and help her, then."
“Oh, yes! and frighten her into the churchyard. Her father is a doctor, and I have roused him, and set him to bring her round. Let us see the fire, will ye?”
“Oh, yes! and scare her into the churchyard. Her dad is a doctor, and I've got him awake and ready to help her out. Can we see the fire, please?”
His off-hand way disarmed all suspicion. And soon after the party agreed that the kitchen of the “Three Kings” was much warmer than Peter's house, and they departed, having first untied Martin.
His casual demeanor put everyone at ease. Before long, the group decided that the kitchen of the “Three Kings” was much cozier than Peter's house, and they left after untieing Martin.
“Take note, mate, that I was right, and the burgomaster wrong,” said Dierich Brower at the door; “I said we should be too late to catch him, and we were too late.”
“Listen up, buddy, I was right and the mayor was wrong,” said Dierich Brower at the door; “I told you we would be too late to catch him, and we were too late.”
Thus Gerard, in one terrible night, grazed the prison and the grave.
Thus Gerard, in one horrifying night, brushed against both the prison and the grave.
And how did he get clear at last? Not by his cunningly contrived hiding-place, nor by Margaret's ready wit; but by a good impulse in one of his captors, by the bit of humanity left in a somewhat reckless fellow's heart, aided by his desire of gain. So mixed and seemingly incongruous are human motives, so shortsighted our shrewdest counsels.
And how did he finally manage to escape? Not because of his cleverly designed hiding spot, nor because of Margaret's quick thinking; but due to a good instinct in one of his captors, from the small bit of compassion left in a somewhat reckless guy's heart, combined with his desire for profit. Human motives are so mixed and seemingly contradictory, and our smartest plans can be so shortsighted.
They whose moderate natures or gentle fates keep them, in life's passage, from the fierce extremes of joy and anguish our nature is capable of, are perhaps the best, and certainly the happiest of mankind. But to such readers I should try in vain to convey what bliss unspeakable settled now upon these persecuted lovers, Even to those who have joyed greatly and greatly suffered, my feeble art can present but a pale reflection of Margaret's and Gerard's ecstasy.
Those whose calm personalities or gentle circumstances prevent them, in life’s journey, from experiencing the intense highs and lows that we are capable of, are probably the best, and definitely the happiest, among us. But for those readers, I would struggle to express the indescribable joy that has now come upon these tormented lovers. Even for those who have experienced great joy and immense suffering, my limited skills can only offer a faint glimpse of the ecstasy felt by Margaret and Gerard.
To sit and see a beloved face come back from the grave to the world, to health and beauty, by swift gradations; to see the roses return to the loved cheek, love's glance to the loved eye, and his words to the loved mouth—this was Margaret's—a joy to balance years of sorrow. It was Gerard's to awake from a trance, and find his head pillowed on Margaret's arm; to hear the woman he adored murmur new words of eloquent love, and shower tears and tender kisses and caresses on him. He never knew, till this sweet moment, how ardently, how tenderly, she loved him. He thanked his enemies. They wreathed their arms sweetly round each other, and trouble and danger seemed a world, an age behind them. They called each other husband and wife. Were they not solemnly betrothed? And had they not stood before the altar together? Was not the blessing of Holy Church upon their union?—her curse on all who would part them?
To sit and watch a beloved face come back from the dead to the world, to health and beauty, little by little; to see the roses return to that cherished cheek, love's sparkle in those beloved eyes, and his words on her treasured lips—this was Margaret's joy, enough to balance out years of sorrow. For Gerard, it was waking from a daze to find his head resting on Margaret's arm; to hear the woman he adored whisper new words of heartfelt love while showering him with tears, tender kisses, and caresses. He never realized, until this sweet moment, how intensely and affectionately she loved him. He felt grateful to his enemies. They wrapped their arms around each other lovingly, and all the trouble and danger felt like a distant memory, like a different era. They called each other husband and wife. Weren’t they officially engaged? Hadn’t they stood before the altar together? Wasn’t the blessing of Holy Church upon their union—her curse on anyone who would try to separate them?
But as no woman's nerves can bear with impunity so terrible a strain. presently Margaret turned faint, and sank on Gerard's shoulder, smiling feebly, but quite, quite unstrung. Then Gerard was anxious, and would seek assistance. But she held him with a gentle grasp, and implored him not to leave her for a moment.
But no woman can handle that kind of stress without it taking a toll on her nerves. Margaret soon felt faint and leaned against Gerard's shoulder, smiling weakly, but she was completely shaken. Gerard became worried and wanted to get help. However, she held onto him gently and begged him not to leave her for even a second.
“While I can lay my hand on you, I feel you are safe, not else. Foolish Gerard! nothing ails me. I am weak, dearest, but happy, oh! so happy!”
“Even though I can touch you, I feel you’re safe, nothing more. Silly Gerard! I’m perfectly fine. I’m weak, my dear, but happy, oh! so happy!”
Then it was Gerard's turn to support that dear head, with its great waves of hair flowing loose over him, and nurse her, and soothe her, quivering on his bosom, with soft encouraging words and murmurs of love, and gentle caresses. Sweetest of all her charms is a woman's weakness to a manly heart.
Then it was Gerard's turn to hold that dear head, with its beautiful hair flowing freely over him, and to care for her, comforting her as she trembled against his chest, with soft, encouraging words and whispers of love, and gentle touches. The most captivating of all her charms is a woman's vulnerability to a strong heart.
Poor things! they were happy. To-morrow they must part. But that was nothing to them now. They had seen Death, and all other troubles seemed light as air. While there is life there is hope; while there is hope there is joy. Separation for a year or two, what was it to them, who were so young, and had caught a glimpse of the grave? The future was bright, the present was Heaven: so passed the blissful hours.
Poor things! They were happy. Tomorrow they had to part. But that didn’t matter to them now. They had faced Death, and all other troubles felt as light as air. While there’s life, there’s hope; while there’s hope, there’s joy. Separation for a year or two—what did it mean for them, so young, who had seen the grave? The future was bright, the present was like Heaven: and so the blissful hours passed.
Alas! their innocence ran other risks besides the prison and the grave. They were in most danger from their own hearts and their inexperience, now that visible danger there was none.
Alas! their innocence faced other risks beyond prison and death. They were in greater danger from their own hearts and their lack of experience, now that there was no visible threat.
CHAPTER XVIII
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten could not sleep all night for anxiety. He was afraid of thunder and lightning, or he would have made one of the party that searched Peter's house. As soon as the storm ceased altogether, he crept downstairs, saddled his mule, and rode to the “Three Kings” at Sevenbergen. There he found his men sleeping, some on the chairs, some on the tables, some on the floor. He roused them furiously, and heard the story of their unsuccessful search, interlarded with praises of their zeal.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten couldn’t sleep all night because he was so anxious. He was scared of the thunder and lightning, or he would have joined the group searching Peter's house. Once the storm stopped completely, he quietly went downstairs, saddled his mule, and rode to the “Three Kings” in Sevenbergen. There, he found his men sleeping—some on chairs, some on tables, and some on the floor. He woke them up angrily and listened to their story about the unsuccessful search, mixed in with praises for their effort.
“Fool! to let you go without me,” cried the burgomaster. “My life on't he was there all the time. Looked ye under the girl's bed?”
“Fool! How could you let her go without me,” shouted the burgomaster. “I bet he was there the whole time. Did you check under the girl’s bed?”
“No; there was no room for a man there.”
“No, there was no space for a man there.”
“How know ye that, if ye looked not?” snarled Ghysbrecht. “Ye should have looked under her bed, and in it too, and sounded all the panels with your knives. Come, now, get up, and I shall show ye how to search.”
“How do you know that, if you didn’t look?” snapped Ghysbrecht. “You should have checked under her bed and in it as well, and tapped all the panels with your knives. Come on, get up, and I’ll show you how to search.”
Dierich Brower got up and shook himself. “If you find him, call me a horse and no man.”
Dierich Brower stood up and shook himself off. “If you find him, call me a horse and not a man.”
In a few minutes Peter's house was again surrounded.
In just a few minutes, Peter's house was surrounded again.
The fiery old man left his mule in the hands of Jorian Ketel, and, with Dierich Brower and the others, entered the house.
The angry old man left his mule with Jorian Ketel and, along with Dierich Brower and the others, went into the house.
The house was empty.
The house was vacant.
Not a creature to be seen, not even Peter. They went upstairs, and then suddenly one of the men gave a shout, and pointed through Peter's window, which was open. The others looked, and there, at some little distance, walking quietly across the fields with Margaret and Martin, was the man they sought. Ghysbrecht, with an exulting yell, descended the stairs and flung himself on his mule; and he and his men set off in hot pursuit.
Not a soul in sight, not even Peter. They went upstairs, and then suddenly one of the men shouted and pointed through Peter's open window. The others looked, and there, a little way off, walking calmly across the fields with Margaret and Martin, was the man they were looking for. Ghysbrecht let out an excited yell, rushed down the stairs, and jumped on his mule; then he and his men took off in a fast pursuit.
CHAPTER XIX
Gerard warned by recent peril, rose before daybreak and waked Martin. The old soldier was astonished. He thought Gerard had escaped by the window last night. Being consulted as to the best way for him to leave the country and elude pursuit, he said there was but one road safe. “I must guide you through the great forest to a bridle-road I know of. This will take you speedily to a hostelry, where they will lend you a swift horse; and then a day's gallop will take you out of Holland. But let us start ere the folk here quit their beds.”
Gerard, alerted by the recent danger, got up before dawn and woke Martin. The old soldier was surprised. He thought Gerard had escaped through the window the night before. When asked about the best way for him to leave the country and avoid capture, he said there was only one safe route. “I need to guide you through the big forest to a path I know. This will quickly lead you to an inn where they can provide you with a fast horse; then, a day of riding will get you out of Holland. But we should leave before the people here get out of bed.”
Peter's house was but a furlong and a half from the forest. They started, Martin with his bow and three arrows, for it was Thursday; Gerard with nothing but a stout oak staff Peter gave him for the journey.
Peter's house was just a little over a quarter of a mile from the forest. They set out, Martin carrying his bow and three arrows since it was Thursday; Gerard had nothing but a sturdy oak staff that Peter gave him for the trip.
Margaret pinned up her kirtle and farthingale, for the road was wet. Peter went as far as his garden hedge with them, and then with more emotion than he often bestowed on passing events, gave the young man his blessing.
Margaret pinned up her dress and petticoat, since the road was wet. Peter walked as far as his garden hedge with them, and then, with more emotion than he usually showed for everyday events, gave the young man his blessing.
The sun was peeping above the horizon as they crossed the stony field and made for the wood. They had crossed about half, when Margaret, who kept nervously looking back every now and then, uttered a cry, and, following her instinct, began to run towards the wood, screaming with terror all the way.
The sun was rising above the horizon as they walked across the rocky field and headed for the woods. They had covered about half the distance when Margaret, who kept glancing back nervously, let out a scream and, trusting her instincts, started running toward the woods, screaming in terror the entire way.
Ghysbrecht and his men were in hot pursuit.
Ghysbrecht and his crew were in hot pursuit.
Resistance would have been madness. Martin and Gerard followed Margaret's example. The pursuers gained slightly on them; but Martin kept shouting, “Only win the wood! only win the wood!”
Resistance would have been insane. Martin and Gerard took Margaret's lead. The pursuers were getting a bit closer; but Martin kept yelling, “Just reach the woods! Just reach the woods!”
They had too good a start for the men on foot, and their hearts bounded with hope at Martin's words, for the great trees seemed now to stretch their branches like friendly arms towards them, and their leaves like a screen.
They had too strong a start for the men on foot, and their hearts raced with hope at Martin's words, as the tall trees now appeared to extend their branches like welcoming arms towards them, and their leaves like a protective shield.
But an unforeseen danger attacked them. The fiery old burgomaster flung himself on his mule, and, spurring him to a gallop, he headed not his own men only, but the fugitives. His object was to cut them off. The old man came galloping in a semicircle, and got on the edge of the wood, right in front of Gerard; the others might escape for aught he cared.
But an unexpected threat came at them. The fiery old mayor jumped on his mule, and, spurring it to a run, he targeted not just his own men but also the escapees. His aim was to cut them off. The old man rode in a semicircle and positioned himself at the edge of the woods, right in front of Gerard; he didn't care if the others got away.
Margaret shrieked, and tried to protect Gerard by clasping him; but he shook her off without ceremony.
Margaret screamed and tried to shield Gerard by holding him close, but he brushed her off without any hesitation.
Ghysbrecht in his ardour forgot that hunted animals turn on the hunter; and that two men can hate, and two can long to kill the thing they hate.
Ghysbrecht, in his excitement, forgot that hunted animals can attack their hunter; and that two men can hate, and two can long to kill what they hate.
Instead of attempting to dodge him, as the burgomaster made sure he would, Gerard flew right at him, with a savage, exulting cry, and struck at him with all his heart, and soul and strength. The oak staff came down on Ghysbrecht's face with a frightful crash, and laid him under his mule's tail beating the devil's tattoo with his heels, his face streaming, and his collar spattered with blood.
Instead of trying to avoid him, as the mayor was certain he would, Gerard charged right at him with a fierce, triumphant shout and hit him with all his heart, soul, and strength. The wooden staff smashed down on Ghysbrecht's face with a terrifying thud, and he ended up beneath his mule, kicking his heels in fury, his face covered in blood, and his collar splattered with it.
The next moment the three were in the wood. The yell of dismay and vengeance that burst from Ghysbrecht's men at that terrible blow which felled their leader, told the fugitives that it was now a race for life or death.
The next moment, the three were in the woods. The shout of shock and rage that erupted from Ghysbrecht's men after that devastating blow that took down their leader made the escapees realize that it was now a race for their lives.
“Why run?” cried Gerard, panting. “You have your bow, and I have this,” and he shook his bloody staff.
“Why run?” gasped Gerard, out of breath. “You’ve got your bow, and I have this,” and he shook his bloody staff.
“Boy!” roared Martin; “the GALLOWS! Follow me,” and he fled into the wood. Soon they heard a cry like a pack of hounds opening on sight of the game. The men were in the wood, and saw them flitting amongst the trees. Margaret moaned and panted as she ran; and Gerard clenched his teeth and grasped his staff. The next minute they came to a stiff hazel coppice. Martin dashed into it, and shouldered the young wood aside as if it were standing corn.
“Boy!” shouted Martin; “the GALLOWS! Follow me,” and he ran into the woods. Soon they heard a cry like a pack of hounds catching the scent of their prey. The men were in the woods and saw them moving among the trees. Margaret groaned and gasped as she ran, and Gerard gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his staff. A moment later, they reached a dense hazel thicket. Martin rushed into it, pushing the young trees aside as if they were standing corn.
Ere they had gone fifty yards in it they came to four blind paths.
Ere they had gone fifty yards in it they came to four blind paths.
Martin took one. “Bend low,” said he. And, half creeping, they glided along. Presently their path was again intersected with other little tortuous paths. They took one of them. It seemed to lead back; but it soon took a turn, and, after a while, brought them to a thick pine grove, where the walking was good and hard. There were no paths here; and the young fir-trees were so thick, you could not see three yards before your nose.
Martin took one. “Bend low,” he said. And, crawling a bit, they moved quietly along. Soon, their path crossed other winding trails. They chose one of them. It seemed to lead back; but it quickly turned, and after a while, brought them to a dense pine grove, where the ground was firm and easy to walk on. There were no trails here, and the young fir trees were so thick that you couldn't see more than three yards in front of you.
When they had gone some way in this, Martin sat down; and, having learned in war to lose all impression of danger with the danger itself, took a piece of bread and a slice of ham out of his wallet, and began quietly to eat his breakfast.
When they had gone some distance in this, Martin sat down; and, having learned in battle to dismiss all feelings of danger along with the danger itself, took a piece of bread and a slice of ham out of his bag, and quietly started eating his breakfast.
The young ones looked at him with dismay. He replied to their looks.
The kids looked at him with concern. He responded to their expressions.
“All Sevenbergen could not find you now; you will lose your purse, Gerard, long before you get to Italy; is that the way to carry a purse?”
“None of the Sevenbergen can find you now; you’ll lose your purse, Gerard, long before you get to Italy. Is that really how you carry a purse?”
Gerard looked, and there was a large triangular purse, entangled by its chains to the buckle and strap of his wallet.
Gerard looked, and there was a large triangular purse, caught up in its chains with the buckle and strap of his wallet.
“This is none of mine,” said he. “What is in it, I wonder?” and he tried to detach it; but in passing through the coppice it had become inextricably entangled in his strap and buckle. “It seems loath to leave me,” said Gerard, and he had to cut it loose with his knife. The purse, on examination, proved to be well provided with silver coins of all sizes, but its bloated appearance was greatly owing to a number of pieces of brown paper folded and doubled. A light burst on Gerard. “Why, it must be that old thief's; and see! stuffed with paper to deceive the world!”
“This isn’t mine,” he said. “I wonder what’s inside?” He tried to pull it off, but as he moved through the thicket, it got tangled in his strap and buckle. “It seems reluctant to let me go,” Gerard remarked, and he had to cut it free with his knife. When he examined the purse, he found it was filled with silver coins of various sizes, but it looked inflated mainly because it was stuffed with several pieces of folded brown paper. A realization hit Gerard. “Oh, it must belong to that old thief; look! It’s packed with paper to fool people!”
The wonder was how the burgomaster's purse came on Gerard.
The amazing part was how the burgomaster's money ended up with Gerard.
They hit at last upon the right solution. The purse must have been at Ghysbrecht's saddle-bow, and Gerard rushing at his enemy, had unconsciously torn it away, thus felling his enemy and robbing him, with a single gesture.
They finally figured out the right answer. The purse must have been at Ghysbrecht's saddle-bow, and Gerard, charging at his enemy, had unknowingly ripped it away, taking down his opponent and stealing from him in one swift move.
Gerard was delighted at this feat, but Margaret was uneasy.
Gerard was thrilled by this achievement, but Margaret felt uneasy.
“Throw it away, Gerard, or let Martin take it back. Already they call you a thief. I cannot bear it.”
“Get rid of it, Gerard, or let Martin take it back. They're already calling you a thief. I can't stand it.”
“Throw it away! give it him back? not a stiver! This is spoil lawfully won in battle from an enemy. Is it not, Martin?”
“Throw it away! Give it back to him? Not a chance! This is loot rightfully taken in battle from an enemy. Isn’t that right, Martin?”
“Why, of course. Send him back the brown paper, and you will; but the purse or the coin—that were a sin.”
“Of course. Return the brown paper to him, and you can do that; but giving back the purse or the coin—that would be wrong.”
“Oh, Gerard!” said Margaret, “you are going to a distant land. We need the goodwill of Heaven. How can we hope for that if we take what is not ours?”
“Oh, Gerard!” said Margaret, “you’re going to a faraway place. We need the favor of Heaven. How can we expect that if we take what doesn’t belong to us?”
But Gerard saw it in a different light.
But Gerard saw it differently.
“It is Heaven that gives it me by a miracle, and I shall cherish it accordingly,” said this pious youth. “Thus the favoured people spoiled the Egyptians, and were blessed.”
“It’s Heaven that gives it to me as a miracle, and I will treasure it,” said this devout young man. “This is how the favored people took from the Egyptians and were blessed.”
“Take your own way,” said Margaret humbly; “you are wiser than I am. You are my husband,” added she, in a low murmuring voice; “is it for me to gainsay you?”
“Go your own way,” said Margaret modestly; “you know better than I do. You are my husband,” she added in a soft voice; “who am I to argue with you?”
These humble words from Margaret, who, till that day, had held the whip-hand, rather surprised Martin for the moment. They recurred to him some time afterwards, and then they surprised him less.
These simple words from Margaret, who had been in control until that day, surprised Martin for a moment. They came back to him later, and then they surprised him less.
Gerard kissed her tenderly in return for her wife-like docility, and they pursued their journey hand in hand, Martin leading the way, into the depths of the huge forest. The farther they went, the more absolutely secure from pursuit they felt. Indeed, the townspeople never ventured so far as this into the trackless part of the forest.
Gerard kissed her gently in response to her wifely submissiveness, and they continued their journey hand in hand, with Martin leading the way into the depths of the vast forest. The further they went, the more completely safe from being followed they felt. In fact, the townspeople never dared to venture this far into the untamed part of the forest.
Impetuous natures repent quickly. Gerard was no sooner out of all danger than his conscience began to prick him.
Impetuous people regret their actions fast. Gerard had barely escaped all danger when his conscience started to nag at him.
“Martin, would I had not struck quite so hard.”
“Martin, I wish I hadn’t hit you so hard.”
“Whom? Oh! let that pass, he is cheap served.”
“Who? Oh! forget it, he's not worth it.”
“Martin, I saw his grey hairs as my stick fell on him. I doubt they will not from my sight this while.”
“Martin, I saw his grey hairs as my stick hit him. I doubt I will forget this for a long time.”
Martin grunted with contempt. “Who spares a badger for his grey hairs? The greyer your enemy is, the older; and the older the craftier and the craftier the better for a little killing.”
Martin grunted with disdain. “Who cares about an old badger and his grey hairs? The greyer your enemy, the older they are; and the older, the craftier, and the craftier, the better for some quick killing.”
“Killing? killing, Martin? Speak not of killing!” and Gerard shook all over.
“Killing? Killing, Martin? Don’t talk about killing!” and Gerard shook all over.
“I am much mistook if you have not,” said Martin cheerfully.
“I’d be surprised if you haven’t,” Martin said cheerfully.
“Now Heaven forbid!”
“God forbid!”
“The old vagabond's skull cracked like a walnut. Aha!”
“The old drifter's skull shattered like a walnut. Aha!”
“Heaven and the saints forbid it!”
"Heaven and the saints can't allow it!"
“He rolled off his mule like a stone shot out of a cart. Said I to myself, 'There is one wiped out,'” and the iron old soldier grinned ruthlessly.
“He fell off his mule like a stone thrown from a cart. I thought to myself, 'That one is done for,'” and the hardened old soldier grinned cruelly.
Gerard fell on his knees and began to pray for his enemy's life.
Gerard dropped to his knees and started to pray for his enemy's life.
At this Martin lost his patience. “Here's mummery. What! you that set up for learning, know you not that a wise man never strikes his enemy but to kill him? And what is all this coil about killing of old men? If it had been a young one, now, with the joys of life waiting for him, wine, women, and pillage! But an old fellow at the edge of the grave, why not shove him in? Go he must, to-day or to-morrow; and what better place for greybeards? Now, if ever I should be so mischancy as to last so long as Ghysbrecht did, and have to go on a mule's legs instead of Martin Wittenhaagen's, and a back like this (striking the wood of his bow), instead of this (striking the string), I'll thank and bless any young fellow who will knock me on the head, as you have done that old shopkeeper; malison on his memory.
At this, Martin lost his patience. “This is nonsense. What! You who act like you’re educated, don’t you know that a wise man never strikes an enemy unless he intends to kill him? And what’s all this fuss about killing old men? If it were a young one, with all the joys of life ahead of him—drinks, women, and adventures! But an old guy at death's door, why not just push him in? He has to go, today or tomorrow; and what better place for old men? Now, if I were to be so unlucky as to live as long as Ghysbrecht did, having to go around on mule's legs instead of Martin Wittenhaagen's, and with a back like this (slapping the wood of his bow), instead of this (plucking the string), I’d be thankful to any young guy who would knock me on the head, just like you did with that old shopkeeper; curse his memory.”
“Oh, culpa mea! culpa mea!” cried Gerard, and smote upon his breast.
“Oh, my fault! my fault!” cried Gerard, pounding on his chest.
“Look there!” cried Martin to Margaret scornfully, “he is a priest at heart still—and when he is not in ire, St. Paul, what a milksop!”
“Look over there!” Martin said to Margaret with disdain, “he’s still a priest at heart—and when he’s not angry, Saint Paul, what a wimp!”
“Tush, Martin!” cried Margaret reproachfully: then she wreathed her arms round Gerard, and comforted him with the double magic of a woman's sense and a woman's voice.
“Tush, Martin!” Margaret said, sounding disapproving. Then she wrapped her arms around Gerard and comforted him with the soothing power of a woman’s intuition and her gentle voice.
“Sweetheart!” murmured she, “you forget: you went not a step out of the way to harm him, who hunted you to your death. You fled from him. He it was who spurred on you. Then did you strike; but in self-defence and a single blow, and with that which was in your hand. Malice had drawn knife, or struck again and again. How often have men been smitten with staves not one but many blows, yet no lives lost! If then your enemy has fallen, it is through his own malice, not yours, and by the will of God.”
“Sweetheart!” she murmured, “you forget: you didn’t take any steps to hurt him, the one who chased you to your death. You ran away from him. He was the one who pushed you. Then you struck back; but it was in self-defense with just a single blow, using what was in your hand. If someone is truly malicious, they would draw a weapon and keep attacking. How often have people been beaten with sticks, not just once but many times, and yet no one died! So if your enemy has fallen, it’s because of his own malice, not because of you, and by the will of God.”
“Bless you, Margaret; bless you for thinking so!”
“Thank you, Margaret; thank you for thinking that way!”
“Yes; but, beloved one, if you have had the misfortune to kill that wicked man, the more need is there that you fly with haste from Holland. Oh, let us on.”
“Yes; but, my dear, if you accidentally killed that evil man, then you need to escape from Holland quickly. Oh, let’s go.”
“Nay, Margaret,” said Gerard. “I fear not man's vengeance, thanks to Martin here and this thick wood: only Him I fear whose eye pierces the forest and reads the heart of man. If I but struck in self-defence, 'tis well; but if in hate, He may bid the avenger of blood follow me to Italy—to Italy? ay, to earth's remotest bounds.”
“Nah, Margaret,” said Gerard. “I’m not afraid of man’s revenge, thanks to Martin here and this thick forest: the only one I fear is Him whose gaze can see through the woods and knows the heart of man. If I strike out in self-defense, that’s fine; but if it’s out of hate, He might send the avenger of blood after me to Italy—to Italy? Yeah, to the farthest corners of the earth.”
“Hush!” said Martin peevishly. “I can't hear for your chat.”
“Hush!” Martin complained. “I can’t hear over your talking.”
“What is it?”
"What's that?"
“Do you hear nothing, Margaret; my ears are getting old.”
“Do you hear nothing, Margaret? My ears are getting older.”
Margaret listened, and presently she heard a tuneful sound, like a single stroke upon a deep ringing bell. She described it so to Martin.
Margaret listened, and soon she heard a melodic sound, like a single hit on a deep ringing bell. She explained it that way to Martin.
“Nay, I heard it,” said he.
"Nah, I heard it," he said.
“And so did I,” said Gerard; “it was beautiful. Ah! there it is again. How sweetly it blends with the air. It is a long way off. It is before us, is it not?”
“And so did I,” said Gerard; “it was beautiful. Ah! there it is again. How sweetly it blends with the air. It’s a long way off. It’s in front of us, right?”
“No, no! the echoes of this wood confound the ear of a stranger. It comes from the pine grove.”
“No, no! The sounds of this forest confuse the ears of a newcomer. It’s coming from the pine grove.”
“What! the one we passed?”
“What! The one we just passed?”
“Why, Martin, is this anything? You look pale.”
“Why, Martin, is this a big deal? You look pale.”
“Wonderful!” said Martin, with a sickly sneer. “He asks me is it anything? Come, on, on! at any rate, let us reach a better place than this.”
“Wonderful!” Martin said, with a sickly smirk. “He asks me if it's anything? Come on, let's at least get to a better place than this.”
“A better place—for what?”
“A better place—for what?”
“To stand at bay, Gerard,” said Martin gravely; “and die like soldiers, killing three for one.”
“To stand our ground, Gerard,” Martin said seriously; “and die like soldiers, taking down three for every one of us.”
“What's that sound?”
"What's that noise?"
“IT IS THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.”
“IT IS THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.”
“Oh, Martin, save him! Oh, Heaven be merciful What new mysterious peril is this?”
“Oh, Martin, save him! Oh, God, please be merciful. What new mysterious danger is this?”
CHAPTER XX
The courage, like the talent, of common men, runs in a narrow groove. Take them but an inch out of that, and they are done. Martin's courage was perfect as far as it went. He had met and baffled many dangers in the course of his rude life, and these familiar dangers he could face with Spartan fortitude, almost with indifference; but he had never been hunted by a bloodhound, nor had he ever seen that brute's unerring instinct baffled by human cunning. Here then a sense of the supernatural combined with novelty to ungenteel his heart. After going a few steps, he leaned on his bow, and energy and hope oozed out of him. Gerard, to whom the danger appeared slight in proportion as it was distant, urged him to flight.
The courage, like the talent, of ordinary people, works within a narrow path. Take them just an inch out of that, and they crumble. Martin's courage was solid as far as it went. He had confronted and overcome many dangers in his rough life, and he could face these familiar threats with Spartan resolve, almost with indifference; but he had never been chased by a bloodhound, nor had he witnessed that animal's relentless instinct outsmarted by human cleverness. In that moment, a sense of the supernatural mixed with the unfamiliar to unsettle his heart. After walking a few steps, he leaned on his bow, and energy and hope drained from him. Gerard, who saw the threat as minimal since it was still far away, urged him to run.
“What avails it?” said Martin sadly; “if we get clear of the wood we shall die cheap; here, hard by, I know a place where we may die dear.”
“What good is it?” Martin said sadly. “If we make it out of the woods, we’ll die easily; but right here, I know a place where we can die expensive.”
“Alas! good Martin,” cried Gerard, “despair not so quickly; there must be some way to escape.”
“Come on, good Martin,” Gerard exclaimed, “don’t lose hope so fast; there has to be a way out.”
“Oh, Martin!” cried Margaret, “what if we were to part company? Gerard's life alone is forfeit. Is there no way to draw the pursuit on us twain and let him go safe?”
“Oh, Martin!” cried Margaret, “what if we were to split up? Gerard’s life is at stake. Is there any way to lead the chase toward us and let him get away safely?”
“Girl, you know not the bloodhound's nature. He is not on this man's track or that; he is on the track of blood. My life on't they have taken him to where Ghysbrecht fell, and from the dead man's blood to the man that shed it that cursed hound will lead them, though Gerard should run through an army or swim the Meuse.” And again he leaned upon his bow, and his head sank.
“Girl, you don't understand the nature of the bloodhound. He’s not following this man or that; he’s after the scent of blood. I bet they’ve taken him to where Ghysbrecht fell, and from the dead man's blood to the man who spilled it, that cursed hound will lead them, even if Gerard has to run through an army or swim across the Meuse.” And again he leaned on his bow, and his head drooped.
The hound's mellow voice rang through the wood.
The dog's gentle voice echoed through the woods.
A cry more tunable
Was never halloed to, nor cheered with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, or in Thessaly.
A call more melodious
Was never heard, nor celebrated with a horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, or in Thessaly.Strange that things beautiful should be terrible and deadly' The eye of the boa-constrictor, while fascinating its prey, is lovely. No royal crown holds such a jewel; it is a ruby with the emerald's green light playing ever upon it. Yet the deer that sees it loses all power of motion, and trembles, and awaits his death and even so, to compare hearing with sight, this sweet and mellow sound seemed to fascinate Martin Wittenhaagen. He stood uncertain, bewildered, and unnerved. Gerard was little better now. Martin's last words had daunted him, He had struck an old man and shed his blood, and, by means of that very blood, blood's four-footed avenger was on his track. Was not the finger of Heaven in this?
It's strange how beautiful things can also be terrifying and deadly. The eye of the boa constrictor, while captivating its prey, is stunning. No royal crown has such a gem; it's a ruby with the emerald's green light sparkling on it. But the deer that looks into it loses all ability to move, trembling as it waits for its death. And to compare hearing with sight, this sweet and rich sound seemed to mesmerize Martin Wittenhaagen. He stood there unsure, confused, and shaken. Gerard wasn't feeling much better. Martin's last words had frightened him. He had attacked an old man and drawn his blood, and now, because of that very blood, a four-legged avenger was on his trail. Wasn’t there a divine hand in this?
Whilst the men were thus benumbed, the woman's brain was all activity. The man she loved was in danger.
While the men were completely frozen, the woman's mind was racing. The man she loved was in danger.
“Lend me your knife,” said she to Martin. He gave it her.
“Give me your knife,” she said to Martin. He handed it to her.
“But 'twill be little use in your hands,” said he.
“But it will be of little use in your hands,” he said.
Then Margaret did a sly thing. She stepped behind Gerard, and furtively drew the knife across her arm, and made it bleed freely; then stooping, smeared her hose and shoes; and still as the blood trickled she smeared them; but so adroitly that neither Gerard nor Martin saw. Then she seized the soldier's arm.
Then Margaret did something sneaky. She stepped behind Gerard and secretly dragged the knife across her arm, letting the blood flow freely. Then, bending down, she smeared her stockings and shoes with it; as the blood continued to drip, she kept smearing it on, but she did it so skillfully that neither Gerard nor Martin noticed. Then she grabbed the soldier's arm.
“Come, be a man!” she said, “and let this end. Take us to some thick place, where numbers will not avail our foes.”
“Come on, be a man!” she said, “and let’s finish this. Take us somewhere hidden, where our enemies won't have the advantage.”
“I am going,” said Martin sulkily. “Hurry avails not; we cannot shun the hound, and the place is hard by;” then turning to the left, he led the way, as men go to execution.
“I’m going,” Martin said sulkily. “Hurrying won’t help; we can’t escape the hound, and the place is nearby;” then turning to the left, he led the way, as if he were going to his execution.
He soon brought them to a thick hazel coppice, like the one that had favoured their escape in the morning.
He quickly led them to a dense hazel thicket, similar to the one that had helped them escape in the morning.
“There,” said he, “this is but a furlong broad, but it will serve our turn.”
“There,” he said, “this is only a furlong wide, but it will do the job.”
“What are we to do?”
"What should we do?"
“Get through this, and wait on the other side; then as they come straggling through, shoot three, knock two on the head, and the rest will kill us.”
"Get through this and wait on the other side; then as they come through one by one, shoot three, knock two on the head, and the rest will take us out."
“Is that all you can think of?” said Gerard.
“Is that all you can think about?” said Gerard.
“That is all.”
"That's all."
“Then, Martin Wittenhaagen, I take the lead, for you have lost your head. Come, can you obey so young a man as I am?”
“Then, Martin Wittenhaagen, I take charge because you've lost your mind. Come on, can you really take orders from someone as young as me?”
“Oh, yes, Martin,” cried Margaret, “do not gainsay Gerard! He is wiser than his years.”
“Oh, yes, Martin,” shouted Margaret, “don’t disagree with Gerard! He’s wiser than his age.”
Martin yielded a sullen assent.
Martin reluctantly agreed.
“Do then as you see me do,” said Gerard; and drawing his huge knife, he cut at every step a hazel shoot or two close by the ground, and turning round twisted them breast-high behind him among the standing shoots. Martin did the same, but with a dogged hopeless air. When they had thus painfully travelled through the greater part of the coppice, the bloodhound's deep bay came nearer and nearer, less and less musical, louder and sterner.
“Just do what I do,” said Gerard. He pulled out his big knife and cut a few hazel shoots close to the ground at every step, then twisted them behind him at chest height among the standing shoots. Martin did the same, but he looked defeated. As they trudged through most of the coppice, the bloodhound's deep bark grew closer, less melodic, and harder.
Margaret trembled.
Margaret shook.
Martin went down on his stomach and listened.
Martin lay flat on his stomach and listened.
“I hear a horse's feet.”
“I hear a horse’s hooves.”
“No,” said Gerard; “I doubt it is a mule's. That cursed Ghysbrecht is still alive: none other would follow me up so bitterly.”
“No,” said Gerard; “I don’t think it’s a mule’s. That cursed Ghysbrecht is still alive: no one else would pursue me so relentlessly.”
“Never strike your enemy but to slay him,” said Martin gloomily.
“Never hit your enemy unless you're going to kill him,” said Martin gloomily.
“I'll hit harder this time, if Heaven gives me the chance,” said Gerard.
“I'll hit harder this time, if Heaven gives me the chance,” said Gerard.
At last they worked through the coppice, and there was an open wood. The trees were large, but far apart, and no escape possible that way.
At last, they made their way through the thicket, and there was a clear area in the woods. The trees were big but spaced out, and there was no way to get out that direction.
And now with the hound's bay mingled a score of voices hooping and hallooing.
And now, alongside the hound's barking, was a chorus of voices shouting and cheering.
“The whole village is out after us,” said Martin.
“The whole village is coming after us,” said Martin.
“I care not,” said Gerard. “Listen, Martin. I have made the track smooth to the dog, but rough to the men, that we may deal with them apart. Thus the hound will gain on the men, and as soon as he comes out of the coppice we must kill him.”
“I don’t care,” said Gerard. “Listen, Martin. I've made the path easy for the dog but difficult for the men, so we can handle them separately. That way, the hound will get ahead of the men, and as soon as he comes out of the thicket, we need to take him down.”
“The hound? There are more than one.”
“The hound? There’s more than one.”
“I hear but one.”
"I only hear one."
“Ay! but one speaks, the others run mute; but let the leading hound lose the scent, then another shall give tongue. There will be two dogs, at least, or devils in dog's hides.”
“Ah! But when one speaks, the others go silent; but if the lead dog loses the trail, then another will bark. There will be at least two dogs, or devils in dog form.”
“Then we must kill two instead of one. The moment they are dead, into the coppice again, and go right back.”
“Then we need to kill two instead of one. As soon as they're dead, we head back into the thicket and go straight back.”
“That is a good thought, Gerard,” said Martin, plucking up heart.
“That’s a good thought, Gerard,” Martin said, feeling more encouraged.
“Hush! the men are in the wood.”
“Hush! The men are in the woods.”
Gerard now gave his orders in a whisper.
Gerard now gave his orders softly.
“Stand you with your bow by the side of the coppice—there, in the ditch. I will go but a few yards to yon oak-tree, and hide behind it; the dogs will follow me, and, as they come out, shoot as many as you can, the rest will I brain as they come round the tree.”
“Stand by the edge of the woods with your bow—in the ditch. I'm going to walk just a few yards to that oak tree and hide behind it; the dogs will follow me, and as they come out, shoot as many as you can. I'll take care of the rest as they circle the tree.”
Martin's eye flashed. They took up their places.
Martin's eye lit up. They took their positions.
The hooping and hallooing came closer and closer, and soon even the rustling of the young wood was heard, and every now and then the unerring bloodhound gave a single bay.
The shouting and cheering got louder and louder, and soon the sound of the young trees rustling could be heard, with the occasional sharp bark of the skilled bloodhound.
It was terrible! the branches rustling nearer and nearer, and the inevitable struggle for life and death coming on minute by minute, and that death-knell leading it. A trembling hand was laid on Gerard's shoulder. It made him start violently, strung up as he was.
It was awful! The branches rustled closer and closer, and the unavoidable fight for survival loomed closer with every passing minute, that death toll echoing ahead. A shaky hand was placed on Gerard's shoulder. It made him jump violently, on edge as he was.
“Martin says if we are forced to part company, make for that high ash-tree we came in by.”
“Martin says if we have to split up, head for that tall ash tree we came in by.”
“Yes! yes! yes! but go back for Heaven's sake! don't come here, all out in the open!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! But go back for heaven's sake! Don’t come here, all out in the open!”
She ran back towards Martin; but, ere she could get to him, suddenly a huge dog burst out of the coppice, and stood erect a moment. Margaret cowered with fear, but he never noticed her. Scent was to him what sight is to us. He lowered his nose an instant, and the next moment, with an awful yell, sprang straight at Gerard's tree and rolled head-over-heels dead as a stone, literally spitted with an arrow from the bow that twanged beside the coppice in Martin's hand. That same moment out came another hound and smelt his dead comrade. Gerald rushed out at him; but ere he could use his cudgel, a streak of white lightning seemed to strike the hound, and he grovelled in the dust, wounded desperately, but not killed, and howling piteously.
She ran back toward Martin, but before she could reach him, suddenly a huge dog burst out of the thicket and stood up for a moment. Margaret cowered in fear, but he didn't notice her. Scent was to him what sight is to us. He lowered his nose for an instant, and the next moment, with an awful howl, sprang straight at Gerard's tree and rolled head-over-heels, dead as a rock, literally pierced by an arrow from the bow that twanged beside the thicket in Martin's hand. At that same moment, another hound came out and sniffed his dead companion. Gerald rushed at him, but before he could use his club, a streak of white lightning seemed to hit the hound, and he collapsed in the dirt, seriously wounded but not dead, howling pitifully.
Gerard had not time to despatch him: the coppice rustled too near: it seemed alive. Pointing wildly to Martin to go back, Gerard ran a few yards to the right, then crept cautiously into the thick coppice just as three men burst out. These had headed their comrades considerably: the rest were following at various distances. Gerard crawled back almost on all-fours. Instinct taught Martin and Margaret to do the same upon their line of retreat. Thus, within the distance of a few yards, the pursuers and pursued were passing one another upon opposite tracks.
Gerard didn't have time to send him off: the thicket was rustling too close; it felt alive. He waved wildly for Martin to go back and then ran a few yards to the right before cautiously creeping into the thick brush just as three men came bursting out. These guys had outpaced their friends significantly; the others were following at different distances. Gerard crawled back almost on all fours. Instinct told Martin and Margaret to do the same as they retreated. So, within just a few yards, the pursuers and the ones being chased were crossing paths, moving in opposite directions.
A loud cry announced the discovery of the dead and the wounded hound. Then followed a babble of voices, still swelling as fresh pursuers reached the spot. The hunters, as usual on a surprise, were wasting time, and the hunted ones were making the most of it.
A loud shout signaled the discovery of the dead and injured hound. Then came a jumble of voices, growing louder as new pursuers arrived at the scene. The hunters, caught off guard as usual, were wasting time, while the hunted were taking full advantage of it.
“I hear no more hounds,” whispered Martin to Margaret, and he was himself again.
“I don’t hear any more hounds,” Martin whispered to Margaret, and he was himself again.
It was Margaret's turn to tremble and despair.
It was Margaret's turn to shake and feel hopeless.
“Oh, why did we part with Gerard? They will kill my Gerard, and I not near him.”
“Oh, why did we have to separate from Gerard? They’re going to hurt my Gerard, and I’m not close to him.”
“Nay, nay! the head to catch him is not on their shoulders. You bade him meet us at the ash-tree?”
“Nah, nah! They're not smart enough to catch him. You told him to meet us at the ash tree?”
“And so I did. Bless you, Martin, for thinking of that. To the ash-tree!”
“And so I did. Thank you, Martin, for thinking of that. To the ash-tree!”
“Ay! but with less noise.”
"Yeah! but quieter."
They were now nearly at the edge of the coppice, when suddenly they heard hooping and hallooing behind them. The men had satisfied themselves the fugitives were in the coppice, and were beating back.
They were almost at the edge of the thicket when they suddenly heard shouting and cheering behind them. The men had convinced themselves that the escapees were in the thicket and were driving them back.
“No matter,” whispered Martin to his trembling companion. “We shall have time to win clear and slip back out of sight by hard running. Ah!”
“No worries,” whispered Martin to his shaking friend. “We’ll have time to make a clean getaway and disappear if we run fast. Ah!”
He stooped suddenly; for just as he was going to burst out of the brushwood, his eye caught a figure keeping sentinel. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten seated on his mule; a bloody bandage was across his nose, the bridge of which was broken; but over this his eyes peered keenly, and it was plain by their expression he had heard the fugitives rustle, and was looking out for them. Martin muttered a terrible oath, and cautiously strung his bow, then with equal caution fitted his last arrow to the string. Margaret put her hands to her face, but said nothing. She saw this man must die or Gerard. After the first impulse she peered through her fingers, her heart panting to her throat.
He suddenly bent down; just as he was about to burst out of the underbrush, he spotted someone keeping watch. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten sitting on his mule; a bloody bandage was across his broken nose, but he keenly peered through it with alert eyes, clearly having heard the fugitives rustling and on the lookout for them. Martin muttered a harsh curse and carefully strung his bow, then with equal caution fitted his last arrow to the string. Margaret covered her face with her hands but said nothing. She realized that either this man or Gerard had to die. After the initial shock, she peeked through her fingers, her heart racing in her throat.
The bow was raised, and the deadly arrow steadily drawn to its head, when at that moment an active figure leaped on Ghysbrecht from behind so swiftly, it was like a hawk swooping on a pigeon. A kerchief went over the burgomaster, in a turn of the hand his head was muffled in it, and he was whirled from his seat and fell heavily upon the ground, where he lay groaning with terror; and Gerard jumped down after him.
The bow was drawn back, and the deadly arrow was pulled steadily to its tip when, in that instant, a quick figure sprang at Ghysbrecht from behind so swiftly that it resembled a hawk diving for a pigeon. A cloth was thrown over the burgomaster, and in a swift motion, his head was covered with it, and he was yanked from his seat, crashing heavily to the ground, where he lay moaning in fear; Gerard jumped down after him.
“Hist, Martin! Martin!”
“Hey, Martin! Martin!”
Martin and Margaret came out, the former openmouthed crying, “Now fly! fly! while they are all in the thicket; we are saved.”
Martin and Margaret came out, the former wide-eyed and crying, “Now fly! Fly! While they’re all in the thicket; we’re saved.”
At this crisis, when safety seemed at hand, as fate would have it, Margaret, who had borne up so bravely till now, began to succumb, partly from loss of blood.
At this critical moment, when safety seemed so close, as fate would have it, Margaret, who had held up so well until now, started to give in, partly due to blood loss.
“Oh, my beloved, fly!” she gasped. “Leave me, for I am faint.”
“Oh, my love, go!” she breathed. “Leave me, because I feel weak.”
“No! no!” cried Gerard. “Death together, or safety. Ah! the mule! mount her, you, and I'll run by your side.”
“No! No!” yelled Gerard. “We either die together or find safety. Ah! The mule! You get on her, and I’ll run by your side.”
In a moment Martin was on Ghysbrecht's mule, and Gerard raised the fainting girl in his arms and placed her on the saddle, and relieved Martin of his bow.
In an instant, Martin was on Ghysbrecht's mule, and Gerard picked up the fainting girl in his arms and set her on the saddle, then took Martin's bow from him.
“Help! treason! murder! murder!” shrieked Ghysbrecht, suddenly rising on his hams.
“Help! Betrayal! Murder! Murder!” screamed Ghysbrecht, suddenly getting up on his knees.
“Silence, cur,” roared Gerard, and trode him down again by the throat as men crush an adder.
“Shut up, you coward,” Gerard yelled, and pushed him down again by the throat like men crush a snake.
“Now, have you got her firm? Then fly! for our lives! for our lives!”
“Now, do you have her secured? Then go! For our lives! For our lives!”
But even as the mule, urged suddenly by Martin's heel, scattered the flints with his hind hoofs ere he got into a canter, and even as Gerard withdrew his foot from Ghysbrecht's throat to run, Dierich Brower and his five men, who had come back for orders, and heard the burgomaster's cries, burst roaring out of the coppice on them.
But just as the mule, suddenly prodded by Martin's heel, kicked up the flints with his back hooves before breaking into a canter, and as Gerard pulled his foot off Ghysbrecht's throat to run, Dierich Brower and his five men, who had returned for orders and heard the burgomaster's cries, burst out of the thicket, roaring at them.
CHAPTER XXI
Speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts; but there are emotions so simple and overpowering, that they rush out not in words, but eloquent sounds. At such moments man seems to lose his characteristics, and to be merely one of the higher animals; for these, when greatly agitated, ejaculate, though they cannot speak.
Speech is the well-known outlet for human thoughts; however, there are feelings so basic and intense that they come out not in words, but in expressive sounds. In those moments, a person seems to lose their individuality and become just one of the higher animals; because these creatures, when highly agitated, make exclamations even though they can't talk.
There was something terrible and truly animal, both in the roar of triumph with which the pursuers burst out of the thicket on our fugitives, and the sharp cry of terror with which these latter darted away. The pursuers hands clutched the empty air, scarce two feet behind them, as they fled for life. Confused for a moment, like lions that miss their spring, Dierich and his men let Gerard and the mule put ten yards between them. Then they flew after with uplifted weapons. They were sure of catching them; for this was not the first time the parties had measured speed. In the open ground they had gained visibly on the three this morning, and now, at last, it was a fair race again, to be settled by speed alone. A hundred yards were covered in no time. Yet still there remained these ten yards between the pursuers and the pursued.
There was something awful and truly primal in the roar of triumph that erupted as the hunters charged out of the thicket after our fleeing group, and in the sharp cry of fear that made them dart away. The hunters' hands grasped at empty air, barely two feet behind them as they ran for their lives. For a moment, confused like lions that missed their leap, Dierich and his men allowed Gerard and the mule to create a ten-yard gap. Then they took off after them with their weapons raised. They were confident they would catch up; this wasn’t the first time they had tested their speed against each other. Out in the open, they had clearly gained on the three earlier that morning, and now, finally, it was a fair race again, to be determined solely by speed. A hundred yards were covered in no time, yet those ten yards still separated the hunters from the hunted.
This increase of speed since the morning puzzled Dierich Brower. The reason was this. When three run in company, the pace is that of the slowest of the three. From Peter's house to the edge of the forest Gerard ran Margaret's pace; but now he ran his own; for the mule was fleet, and could have left them all far behind. Moreover, youth and chaste living began to tell. Daylight grew imperceptibly between the hunted ones and the hunters. Then Dierich made a desperate effort, and gained two yards; but in a few seconds Gerard had stolen them quietly back. The pursuers began to curse.
This increase in speed since the morning baffled Dierich Brower. The reason was simple. When three people run together, they go at the pace of the slowest one. From Peter's house to the edge of the forest, Gerard matched Margaret's pace; but now he was running at his own speed because the mule was fast and could have left them all far behind. Plus, youth and a clean lifestyle were starting to show their effects. The gap between the hunted and the hunters widened little by little. Then Dierich made a desperate push and gained two yards, but within seconds, Gerard had quietly reclaimed them. The pursuers started to curse.
Martin heard, and his face lighted up. “Courage, Gerard! courage, brave lad! they are straggling.”
Martin heard this, and his face brightened. “Stay strong, Gerard! Stay strong, brave guy! They're falling behind.”
It was so. Dierich was now headed by one of his men, and another dropped into the rear altogether.
It was true. Dierich was now led by one of his team, while another fell back completely.
They came to a rising ground, not sharp, but long; and here youth, and grit, and sober living told more than ever.
They reached an incline, not steep, but lengthy; and it was here that youth, determination, and a responsible lifestyle mattered more than ever.
Ere he reached the top, Dierich's forty years weighed him down like forty bullets. “Our cake is dough,” he gasped. “Take him dead, if you can't alive;” and he left running, and followed at a foot's pace. Jorian Ketel tailed off next; and then another, and so, one by one, Gerard ran them all to a standstill, except one who kept on stanch as a bloodhound, though losing ground every minute. His name, if I am not mistaken, was Eric Wouverman. Followed by him, they came to a rise in the wood, shorter, but much steeper than the last.
Before he reached the top, Dierich's forty years felt like a heavy burden. “Our cake is dough,” he gasped. “Get him dead if you can't catch him alive;” and he took off running, then slowed to a walk. Jorian Ketel fell back next; then another, and one by one, Gerard pushed them all to a halt, except for one who kept on like a determined bloodhound, even as he fell further behind. His name, if I remember right, was Eric Wouverman. Following him, they arrived at a rise in the woods, shorter but much steeper than the last.
“Hand on mane!” cried Martin.
“Hand on the mane!” cried Martin.
Gerard obeyed, and the mule helped him up the hill faster even than he was running before.
Gerard complied, and the mule got him up the hill even faster than he had been running before.
At the sight of this manoeuvre, Dierich's man lost heart, and, being now full eighty yards behind Gerard, and rather more than that in advance of his nearest comrade, he pulled up short, and, in obedience to Dierich's order, took down his crossbow, levelled it deliberately, and just as the trio were sinking out of sight over the crest of the hill, sent the bolt whizzing among them.
At the sight of this move, Dierich's man lost his nerve, and with Gerard now a full eighty yards ahead and his nearest teammate even further back, he stopped abruptly. Following Dierich's order, he took down his crossbow, aimed it carefully, and just as the three were disappearing over the hilltop, he fired a bolt at them.
There was a cry of dismay; and, next moment, as if a thunder-bolt had fallen on them, they were all lying on the ground, mule and all.
There was a scream of shock; and the next moment, as if a thunderbolt had struck them, they were all lying on the ground, mule and all.
CHAPTER XXII
The effect was so sudden and magical, that the shooter himself was stupefied for an instant. Then he hailed his companions to join him in effecting the capture, and himself set off up the hill; but, ere he had got half way, up rose the figure of Martin Wittenhaagen with a bent bow in his hand. Eric Wouverman no sooner saw him in this attitude, than he darted behind a tree, and made himself as small as possible. Martin's skill with that weapon was well known, and the slain dog was a keen reminder of it.
The effect was so sudden and magical that the shooter was momentarily stunned. Then he called out to his friends to help with the capture and started up the hill. But before he had gone halfway, Martin Wittenhaagen appeared with a drawn bow in his hand. As soon as Eric Wouverman saw him like that, he ducked behind a tree and hid as best as he could. Everyone knew Martin was skilled with that weapon, and the dead dog served as a sharp reminder of that.
Wouverman peered round the bark cautiously: there was the arrow's point still aimed at him. He saw it shine. He dared not move from his shelter.
Wouverman cautiously peeked around the tree trunk: the arrow's tip was still pointed at him. He saw it glimmer. He didn't dare to leave his hiding spot.
When he had been at peep-ho some minutes, his companions came up in great force.
When he had been peeking for a few minutes, his friends showed up in full force.
Then, with a scornful laugh, Martin vanished, and presently was heard to ride off on the mule.
Then, with a mocking laugh, Martin disappeared, and soon after, you could hear him riding away on the mule.
All the men ran up together. The high ground commanded a view of a narrow but almost interminable glade.
All the men rushed up together. The elevated ground provided a view of a narrow but seemingly endless clearing.
They saw Gerard and Margaret running along at a prodigious distance; they looked like gnats; and Martin galloping after them ventre a terre.
They saw Gerard and Margaret running far away; they looked like tiny bugs; and Martin was sprinting after them full speed.
The hunters were outwitted as well as outrun. A few words will explain Martin's conduct. We arrive at causes by noting coincidences; yet, now and then, coincidences are deceitful. As we have all seen a hare tumble over a briar just as the gun went off, and so raise expectations, then dash them to earth by scudding away untouched, so the burgomaster's mule put her foot in a rabbit-hole at or about the time the crossbow bolt whizzed innocuous over her head: she fell and threw both her riders. Gerard caught Margaret, but was carried down by her weight and impetus; and, behold, the soil was strewed with dramatis personae.
The hunters were outsmarted and outrun. A few words will clarify Martin's actions. We understand causes by recognizing patterns; however, sometimes patterns can be misleading. Just as we’ve all seen a hare stumble over a bush just as the gun fired, raising expectations only to crush them as it escapes unharmed, the burgomaster's mule stepped into a rabbit hole around the same time the crossbow bolt flew harmlessly over her head: she fell and threw both her riders off. Gerard caught Margaret, but was knocked down by her weight and force; and there, the ground was scattered with the characters involved.
The docile mule was up again directly, and stood trembling. Martin was next, and looking round saw there was but one in pursuit; on this he made the young lovers fly on foot, while he checked the enemy as I have recorded.
The obedient mule got back up right away and stood there shaking. Martin was next and, looking around, noticed that there was only one person chasing them; with this, he made the young lovers run on foot while he held off the pursuer as I’ve noted.
He now galloped after his companions, and when after a long race he caught them, he instantly put Gerard and Margaret on the mule, and ran by their side till his breath failed, then took his turn to ride, and so in rotation. Thus the runner was always fresh, and long ere they relaxed their speed all sound and trace of them was hopelessly lost to Dierich and his men. These latter went crestfallen back to look after their chief and their winged bloodhound.
He now rode after his friends, and when he finally caught up with them after a long chase, he immediately put Gerard and Margaret on the mule and ran alongside them until he got too tired, then took his turn to ride, and they kept swapping like that. This way, the runner was always fresh, and long before they slowed down, Dierich and his men had completely lost any sound or sign of them. The latter returned, feeling defeated, to check on their chief and their speedy bloodhound.
CHAPTER XXIII
Life and liberty, while safe, are little thought of: for why? they are matters of course. Endangered, they are rated at their real value. In this, too, they are like sunshine, whose beauty men notice not at noon when it is greatest, but towards evening, when it lies in flakes of topaz under shady elms. Yet it is feebler then; but gloom lies beside it, and contrast reveals its fire. Thus Gerard and Margaret, though they started at every leaf that rustled louder than its fellows, glowed all over with joy and thankfulness as they glided among the friendly trees in safety and deep tranquil silence, baying dogs and brutal voices yet ringing in their mind's ears.
Life and freedom, when secure, are often taken for granted: why is that? Because they feel normal. It's when they're threatened that we truly appreciate their worth. In this way, they're like sunshine; people don’t really notice it at its brightest, around noon, but rather in the evening when it shimmers like topaz under the trees. Yet, it’s weaker then; but the darkness around highlights its brilliance. Similarly, Gerard and Margaret, although they flinched at every sound that was louder than usual, were filled with joy and gratitude as they moved through the familiar trees in safety and deep quiet, the barking dogs and harsh voices still echoing in their memories.
But presently Gerard found stains of blood on Margaret's ankles.
But soon Gerard noticed blood stains on Margaret's ankles.
“Martin! Martin! help! they have wounded her: the crossbow!”
“Martin! Martin! Help! They’ve hurt her: the crossbow!”
“No, no!” said Margaret, smiling to reassure him; “I am not wounded, nor hurt at all.”
“No, no!” Margaret said, smiling to reassure him. “I’m not hurt or injured at all.”
“But what is it, then, in Heaven's name?” cried Gerard, in great agitation.
“But what is it, then, for Heaven's sake?” cried Gerard, in great agitation.
“Scold me not, then!” and Margaret blushed.
“Don't scold me, then!” and Margaret blushed.
“Did I ever scold you?”
"Have I ever scolded you?"
“No, dear Gerard. Well, then, Martin said it was blood those cruel dogs followed; so I thought if I could but have a little blood on my shoon, the dogs would follow me instead, and let my Gerard wend free. So I scratched my arm with Martin's knife—forgive me! Whose else could I take? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. You forgive me?” said she beseechingly, and lovingly and fawningly, all in one.
“No, dear Gerard. Well, then, Martin said that those cruel dogs were following blood; so I thought if I could just get a little blood on my shoes, the dogs would follow me instead and let my Gerard go free. So I scratched my arm with Martin's knife—please forgive me! Whose else could I use? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. Will you forgive me?” she said, pleadingly, lovingly, and with a hint of flattery, all at once.
“Let me see this scratch first,” said Gerard, choking with emotion. “There, I thought so. A scratch? I call it a cut—a deep, terrible, cruel cut.”
“Let me see this scratch first,” said Gerard, struggling with his emotions. “There, I knew it. A scratch? I’d call it a cut—a deep, awful, painful cut.”
Gerard shuddered at sight of it.
Gerard shuddered at the sight of it.
“She might have done it with her bodkin,” said the soldier. “Milksop! that sickens at sight of a scratch and a little blood.”
"She could have done it with her needle," said the soldier. "Coward! who gets queasy at the sight of a scratch and a bit of blood."
“No, no. I could look on a sea of blood, but not on hers. Oh, Margaret! how could you be so cruel?”
“No, no. I could look at a sea of blood, but not at hers. Oh, Margaret! how could you be so cruel?”
Margaret smiled with love ineffable. “Foolish Gerard,” murmured she, “to make so much of nothing.” And she flung the guilty arm round his neck. “As if I would not give all the blood in my heart for you, let alone a few drops from my arm.” And with this, under the sense of his recent danger, she wept on his neck for pity and love; and he wept with her.
Margaret smiled with deep love. “Silly Gerard,” she murmured, “to make such a big deal out of nothing.” And she wrapped her offending arm around his neck. “As if I wouldn’t give all the blood in my heart for you, not to mention a few drops from my arm.” With that, feeling the weight of his recent danger, she cried on his neck for compassion and love; and he cried with her.
“And I must part from her,” he sobbed; “we two that love so dear—one must be in Holland, one in Italy. Ah me! ah me! ah me!”
“And I have to say goodbye to her,” he cried; “we two who love each other so much—one has to be in Holland, one in Italy. Oh no! oh no! oh no!”
At this Margaret wept afresh, but patiently and silently. Instinct is never off its guard, and with her unselfishness was an instinct. To utter her present thoughts would be to add to Gerard's misery at parting, so she wept in silence.
At this, Margaret cried again, but she did it quietly and patiently. Her instincts were always alert, and her selflessness was part of that instinct. Speaking her current thoughts would only make Gerard's pain at leaving worse, so she cried in silence.
Suddenly they emerged upon a beaten path, and Martin stopped.
Suddenly, they came across a worn path, and Martin stopped.
“This is the bridle-road I spoke of,” said he hanging his head; “and there away lies the hostelry.”
“This is the bridle path I mentioned,” he said, looking down; “and over there is the inn.”
Margaret and Gerard cast a scared look at one another.
Margaret and Gerard exchanged a frightened glance.
“Come a step with me, Martin,” whispered Gerard. When he had drawn him aside, he said to him in a broken voice, “Good Martin, watch over her for me! She is my wife; yet I leave her. See Martin! here is gold—it was for my journey; it is no use my asking her to take it—she would not; but you will for her, will you not? Oh, Heaven! and is this all I can do for her? Money? But poverty is a curse. You will not let her want for anything, dear Martin? The burgomaster's silver is enough for me.”
“Take a step with me, Martin,” whispered Gerard. Once he had pulled him aside, he said in a shaky voice, “Good Martin, please look after her for me! She is my wife; yet I’m leaving her. Look, Martin! Here’s some gold—it was meant for my journey; I know she wouldn’t take it if I asked her— but you will on her behalf, won’t you? Oh, God! Is this all I can do for her? Money? But being poor is a curse. You won’t let her go without anything, right, dear Martin? The burgomaster's silver is enough for me.”
“Thou art a good lad, Gerard. Neither want nor harm shall come to her. I care more for her little finger than for all the world; and were she nought to me, even for thy sake would I be a father to her. Go with a stout heart, and God be with thee going and coming.” And the rough soldier wrung Gerard's hand, and turned his head away, with unwonted feeling.
"You are a good guy, Gerard. Nothing bad will happen to her. I care more about her little finger than the rest of the world; and even if she meant nothing to me, I would still be a father to her for your sake. Go with a brave heart, and may God be with you wherever you go." And the tough soldier shook Gerard's hand tightly and turned his head away, feeling unusually emotional.
After a moment's silence he was for going back to Margaret, but Gerard stopped him. “No, good Martin; prithee, stay here behind this thicket, and turn your head away from us, while I-oh, Martin! Martin!”
After a moment of silence, he wanted to go back to Margaret, but Gerard stopped him. “No, good Martin; please stay here behind this thicket, and turn your head away from us, while I—oh, Martin! Martin!”
By this means Gerard escaped a witness of his anguish at leaving her he loved, and Martin escaped a piteous sight. He did not see the poor young things kneel and renew before Heaven those holy vows cruel men had interrupted. He did not see them cling together like one, and then try to part, and fail, and return to one another, and cling again, like drowning, despairing creatures. But he heard Gerard sob, and sob, and Margaret moan.
By this way, Gerard avoided being a witness to the pain of leaving the one he loved, and Martin avoided a heartbreaking sight. He didn’t see the poor young couple kneel and renew the sacred vows that cruel people had interrupted. He didn’t see them hold onto each other tightly and then try to pull away, only to fail and come back together again, like drowning, desperate beings. But he could hear Gerard crying and crying, and Margaret moaning.
At last there was a hoarse cry, and feet pattered on the hard road.
At last, there was a raspy shout, and feet thudded on the hard road.
He started up, and there was Gerard running wildly, with both hands clasped above his head, in prayer, and Margaret tottering back towards him with palms extended piteously, as if for help, and ashy cheek and eyes fixed on vacancy.
He jumped up, and there was Gerard running frantically, both hands clasped above his head in prayer, while Margaret stumbled back towards him with her hands outstretched in desperation, looking pale and with her eyes staring blankly.
He caught her in his arms, and spoke words of comfort to her; but her mind could not take them in; only at the sound of his voice she moaned and held him tight, and trembled violently.
He caught her in his arms and spoke comforting words to her; but she couldn't process them; she only moaned at the sound of his voice, held him tightly, and trembled uncontrollably.
He got her on the mule, and put his arm around her, and so, supporting her frame, which, from being strong like a boy, had now turned all relaxed and powerless, he took her slowly and sadly home.
He helped her onto the mule and wrapped his arm around her. Supporting her body, which had gone from being strong like a boy to completely relaxed and helpless, he slowly and sorrowfully carried her home.
She did not shed one tear, nor speak one word.
She didn’t cry at all, nor did she say a single word.
At the edge of the wood he took her off the mule, and bade her go across to her father's house. She did as she was bid.
At the edge of the woods, he helped her off the mule and told her to go over to her father's house. She did as he asked.
Martin to Rotterdam. Sevenbergen was too hot for him.
Martin to Rotterdam. Sevenbergen was too much for him.
Gerard, severed from her he loved, went like one in a dream. He hired a horse and a guide at the little hostelry, and rode swiftly towards the German frontier. But all was mechanical; his senses felt blunted; trees and houses and men moved by him like objects seen through a veil. His companions spoke to him twice, but he did not answer. Only once he cried out savagely, “Shall we never be out of this hateful country?”
Gerard, separated from the one he loved, moved through life as if in a dream. He rented a horse and a guide at the small inn and rode quickly toward the German border. But everything felt automatic; his senses seemed dulled; trees, houses, and people passed by him like images seen through a fog. His companions spoke to him twice, but he didn’t respond. Only once did he shout angrily, “Will we never get out of this awful country?”
After many hours' riding they came to the brow of a steep hill; a small brook ran at the bottom.
After riding for many hours, they reached the top of a steep hill; a small stream flowed at the bottom.
“Halt!” cried the guide, and pointed across the valley. “Here is Germany.”
“Halt!” shouted the guide, pointing across the valley. “This is Germany.”
“Where?”
“Where at?”
“On t'other side of the bourn. No need to ride down the hill, I trow.”
“On the other side of the stream. No need to ride down the hill, I think.”
Gerard dismounted without a word, and took the burgomaster's purse from his girdle: while he opened it, “You will soon be out of this hateful country,” said his guide, half sulkily; “mayhap the one you are going to will like you no better; any way, though it be a church you have robbed, they cannot take you, once across that bourn.”
Gerard got off his horse without saying anything and took the burgomaster's purse from his belt. As he opened it, his guide said, somewhat grumpily, “You’ll soon be leaving this miserable country. Maybe the place you’re heading won’t treat you any better; still, even if you robbed a church, they can’t touch you once you cross that boundary.”
These words at another time would have earned the speaker an admonition or a cuff. They fell on Gerard now like idle air. He paid the lad in silence, and descended the hill alone. The brook was silvery; it ran murmuring over little pebbles, that glittered, varnished by the clear water; he sat down and looked stupidly at them. Then he drank of the brook; then he laved his hot feet and hands in it; it was very cold: it waked him. He rose, and taking a run, leaped across it into Germany. Even as he touched the strange land he turned suddenly and looked back. “Farewell, ungrateful country!” he cried. “But for her it would cost me nought to leave you for ever, and all my kith and kin, and—the mother that bore me, and—my playmates, and my little native town. Farewell, fatherland—welcome the wide world! omne so-lum for-ti p p-at-r-a.” And with these brave words in his mouth he drooped suddenly with arms and legs all weak, and sat down and sobbed bitterly upon the foreign soil.
These words would have gotten the speaker scolded or hit at another time. Now, they fell on Gerard like meaningless noise. He paid the boy silently and walked down the hill alone. The brook sparkled as it murmured over small pebbles that shone, polished by the clear water. He sat down and blankly stared at them. Then he drank from the brook; he splashed his hot feet and hands in it; it was very cold: it jolted him awake. He stood up, took a run, and jumped across into Germany. Just as he touched the unfamiliar land, he suddenly turned and looked back. “Goodbye, ungrateful country!” he shouted. “If it weren’t for her, it wouldn’t hurt me to leave you forever, along with all my family, and—the mother who gave birth to me, and—my childhood friends, and my little hometown. Goodbye, homeland—hello, wide world! omne so-lum for-ti p p-at-r-a.” And with those brave words in his mouth, he suddenly slumped down, feeling weak in his arms and legs, and sat down, sobbing bitterly on foreign soil.
When the young exile had sat a while bowed down, he rose and dashed the tears from his eyes like a man; and not casting a single glance more behind him, to weaken his heart, stepped out into the wide world.
When the young exile had sat for a while, feeling down, he got up and wiped the tears from his eyes like a man; and without looking back even once to weaken his resolve, he stepped out into the wide world.
His love and heavy sorrow left no room in him for vulgar misgivings. Compared with rending himself from Margaret, it seemed a small thing to go on foot to Italy in that rude age.
His deep love and intense sorrow left no space in him for petty doubts. Compared to the pain of separating from Margaret, walking to Italy in that rough time felt like a minor inconvenience.
All nations meet in a convent. So, thanks to his good friends the monks, and his own thirst of knowledge, he could speak most of the languages needed on that long road. He said to himself, “I will soon be at Rome; the sooner the better now.”
All countries come together in a meeting. So, thanks to his good friends the monks and his own desire to learn, he was able to speak most of the languages necessary for that long journey. He thought to himself, “I will be in Rome soon; the sooner the better now.”
After walking a good league, he came to a place where four ways met. Being country roads, and serpentine, they had puzzled many an inexperienced neighbour passing from village to village. Gerard took out a little dial Peter had given him, and set it in the autumn sun, and by this compass steered unhesitatingly for Rome inexperienced as a young swallow flying south; but unlike the swallow, wandering south alone.
After walking a good distance, he arrived at a spot where four roads intersected. Since they were rural paths and winding, they had confused many inexperienced locals traveling from one village to another. Gerard pulled out a small compass Peter had given him, set it in the autumn sun, and confidently headed towards Rome, inexperienced like a young swallow flying south; but unlike the swallow, wandering south all alone.
CHAPTER XXIV
Not far on this road he came upon a little group. Two men in sober suits stood leaning lazily on each side of a horse, talking to one another. The rider, in a silk doublet and bright green jerkin and hose, both of English cloth, glossy as a mole, lay flat on his stomach in the afternoon sun, and looked an enormous lizard. His velvet cloak (flaming yellow) was carefully spread over the horse's loins.
Not far down this road, he encountered a small group. Two men in formal suits leaned lazily on either side of a horse, chatting with each other. The rider, dressed in a silk doublet and bright green jacket and tights, all made of shiny English cloth, lay flat on his stomach in the afternoon sun, looking like a giant lizard. His velvet cloak, a bright yellow, was neatly spread over the horse’s back.
“Is aught amiss?” inquired Gerard.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Gerard.
“Not that I wot of,” replied one of the servants.
“Not that I know of,” replied one of the servants.
“But your master, he lies like a corpse. Are ye not ashamed to let him grovel on the ground?”
“But your master is lying there like a corpse. Aren't you ashamed to let him crawl on the ground?”
“Go to; the bare ground is the best cure for his disorder. If you get sober in bed, it gives you a headache; but you leap up from the hard ground like a lark in spring. Eh, Ulric?”
“Come on; the bare ground is the best remedy for his problem. If you try to get sober in bed, it just gives you a headache; but you jump up from the hard ground like a lark in spring. Right, Ulric?”
“He speaks sooth, young man,” said Ulric warmly.
“He speaks the truth, young man,” said Ulric warmly.
“What, is the gentleman drunk?”
"Is the guy drunk?"
The servants burst into a hoarse laugh at the simplicity of Gerard's question. But suddenly Ulric stopped, and eyeing him all over, said very gravely, “Who are you, and where born, that know not the Count is ever drunk at this hour?” And Gerard found himself a suspected character.
The servants let out a rough laugh at the simplicity of Gerard's question. But then Ulric suddenly stopped, looked him up and down, and said very seriously, “Who are you, and where were you born, that you don’t know the Count is always drunk at this time?” And Gerard realized he was seen as a suspicious person.
“I am a stranger,” said he, “but a true man, and one that loves knowledge; therefore ask I questions, and not for love of prying.”
“I’m a stranger,” he said, “but I’m a genuine person who loves knowledge; so I ask questions, not because I want to snoop.”
“If you be a true man,” said Ulric shrewdly, “then give us trinkgeld for the knowledge we have given you.”
“If you’re a true man,” Ulric said cleverly, “then give us a tip for the knowledge we’ve shared with you.”
Gerard looked blank, but putting a good face on it, said, “Trinkgeld you shall have, such as my lean purse can spare, an if you will tell me why ye have ta'en his cloak from the man and laid it on the beast.”
Gerard looked confused, but trying to stay positive, said, “You’ll get a tip, as much as my empty wallet can afford, but can you tell me why you took his cloak from the man and put it on the beast?”
Under the inspiring influence of coming trinkgeld, two solutions were instantly offered Gerard at once: the one was, that should the Count come to himself (which, being a seasoned toper, he was apt to do all in a minute), and find his horse standing sweating in the cold, while a cloak lay idle at hand, he would fall to cursing, and peradventure to laying on; the other, more pretentious, was, that a horse is a poor milksop, which, drinking nothing but water, has to be cockered up and warmed outside; but a master, being a creature ever filled with good beer, has a store of inward heat that warms him to the skin, and renders a cloak a mere shred of idle vanity.
Under the inspiring influence of some upcoming tips, two solutions were quickly proposed to Gerard: the first was that if the Count regained his senses (which, being a seasoned drinker, he was likely to do in a minute), and found his horse standing there, sweating in the cold with a cloak just lying around, he would start cursing and maybe even resort to hitting it; the second, more grandiose idea was that a horse is a weakling, needing pampering and warmth when it only drinks water. But a master, being someone always filled with good beer, has a natural warmth that keeps him comfortable, making a cloak nothing more than a piece of unnecessary fluff.
Each of the speakers fell in love with his theory, and, to tell the truth, both had taken a hair or two of the dog that had bitten their master to the brain; so their voices presently rose so high, that the green sot began to growl instead of snoring. In their heat they did not notice this.
Each of the speakers became really impressed with his theory, and, honestly, both had taken a bit of their own medicine; so their voices soon got so loud that the green drunk started to growl instead of snoring. In their excitement, they didn't notice this.
Ere long the argument took a turn that sooner or later was pretty sure to enliven a discussion in that age. Hans, holding the bridle with his right hand, gave Ulric a sound cuff with his left; Ulric returned it with interest, his right hand being free; and at it they went, ding dong, over the horse's mane, pommelling one another, and jagging the poor beast, till he ran backward, and trode with iron heel upon a promontory of the green lord; he, like the toad stung by Ithuriel's spear, started up howling, with one hand clapped to the smart and the other tugging at his hilt. The servants, amazed with terror, let the horse go; he galloped off whinnying, the men in pursuit of him crying out with fear, and the green noble after them, volleying curses, his naked sword in his hand, and his body rebounding from hedge to hedge in his headlong but zigzag career down the narrow lane.
Before long, the argument took a turn that was bound to spark a lively debate in that time. Hans, holding the reins with his right hand, gave Ulric a solid punch with his left; Ulric responded in kind, using his free right hand. They went at it, trading blows over the horse's mane, hitting each other and jabbing the poor animal until it jumped back and stepped with iron hooves on a patch of grass. The green noble, like a toad struck by Ithuriel's spear, sprang up howling, one hand pressed to his pain and the other clutching his sword. The servants, frozen in fear, let the horse go; it bolted away neighing, while the men chased after it, shouting in panic, and the green noble followed them, hurling curses, his sword drawn, bouncing from hedge to hedge in his frantic, zigzag dash down the narrow lane.
“In which hurtling” Gerard turned his back on them all, and went calmly south, glad to have saved the four tin farthings he had got ready for trinkgeld, but far too heavy hearted even to smile at their drunken extravagance.
“In which hurtling” Gerard turned his back on all of them and walked calmly south, relieved to have saved the four penny coins he had set aside for tips, but feeling too weighed down to even smile at their drunken excess.
The sun was nearly setting, and Gerard, who had now for some time been hoping in vain to find an inn by the way, was very ill at ease. To make matters worse, black clouds gathered over the sky.
The sun was almost setting, and Gerard, who had been trying in vain for a while to find an inn along the way, felt very uncomfortable. To make things worse, dark clouds were gathering in the sky.
Gerard quickened his pace almost to a run.
Gerard sped up his pace to nearly a run.
It was in vain; down came the rain in torrents, drenched the bewildered traveller, and seemed to extinguish the very sun-for his rays, already fading, could not cope with this new assailant.
It was pointless; the rain fell in torrents, soaking the confused traveler, and seemed to snuff out the sun itself—its rays, already dimming, couldn’t compete with this new adversary.
Gerard trudged on, dark, and wet, and in an unknown region. “Fool! to leave Margaret,” said he.
Gerard trudged on, feeling dark and wet in an unfamiliar area. “What a fool! to leave Margaret,” he said to himself.
Presently the darkness thickened.
Now the darkness thickened.
He was entering a great wood. Huge branches shot across the narrow road, and the benighted stranger groped his way in what seemed an interminable and inky cave with a rugged floor, on which he stumbled and stumbled as he went.
He was entering a vast forest. Large branches stretched across the narrow path, and the lost traveler felt his way through what seemed like an endless dark cave with a rough ground, where he kept tripping and stumbling as he moved.
On, and on, and on, with shivering limbs and empty stomach, and fainting heart, till the wolves rose from their lairs and bayed all round the wood.
On, and on, and on, with trembling limbs and an empty stomach, and a faint heart, until the wolves emerged from their dens and howled all around the woods.
His hair bristled; but he grasped his cudgel, and prepared to sell his life dear.
His hair stood on end; but he gripped his club and got ready to fight for his life.
There was no wind; and his excited ear heard light feet patter at times over the newly fallen leaves, and low branches rustle with creatures gliding swiftly past them.
There was no wind, and his eager ears caught the faint sound of light feet padding occasionally over the freshly fallen leaves, while low branches rustled with creatures quickly gliding by.
Presently in the sea of ink there was a great fiery star close to the ground. He hailed it as he would his patron saint. “CANDLE! a CANDLE!” he shouted, and tried to run. But the dark and rugged way soon stopped that. The light was more distant than he had thought. But at last, in the very heart of the forest, he found a house, with lighted candles and loud voices inside it. He looked up to see if there was a signboard. There was none. “Not an inn after all!” said he sadly. “No matter; what Christian would turn a dog out into this wood to-night?” and with this he made for the door that led to the voices. He opened it slowly, and put his head in timidly. He drew it out abruptly, as if slapped in the face, and recoiled into the rain and darkness.
Right now, in the sea of ink, there was a bright, fiery star close to the ground. He greeted it like it was his patron saint. “CANDLE! a CANDLE!” he yelled, and tried to run. But the dark and rough path quickly stopped him. The light was farther away than he had thought. Finally, deep in the forest, he found a house with lit candles and loud voices inside. He looked up to see if there was a sign. There wasn't one. “Not an inn after all!” he said sadly. “No matter; what kind of person would turn a dog out into this woods tonight?” With that, he headed for the door that led to the voices. He opened it slowly and peeked inside nervously. He pulled his head back abruptly, as if he had been slapped in the face, and recoiled into the rain and darkness.
He had peeped into a large but low room, the middle of which was filled by a huge round stove, or clay oven, that reached to the ceiling; round this, wet clothes were drying-some on lines, and some more compendiously, on rustics. These latter habiliments, impregnated with the wet of the day, but the dirt of a life, and lined with what another foot traveller in these parts call “rammish clowns,” evolved rank vapours and compound odours inexpressible, in steaming clouds.
He had looked into a spacious, low room, the center of which was occupied by a massive round stove, or clay oven, that extended up to the ceiling; around it, wet clothes were drying—some on lines and others more casually on rustic stands. These garments, soaked from the day’s rain and dirty from a hard life, and mingled with what another traveler in this area referred to as “rammish clowns,” released foul vapors and indescribable mixed odors in steaming clouds.
In one corner was a travelling family, a large one: thence flowed into the common stock the peculiar sickly smell of neglected brats. Garlic filled up the interstices of the air. And all this with closed window, and intense heat of the central furnace, and the breath of at least forty persons.
In one corner was a large traveling family: from them came the distinct sickly smell of neglected kids. Garlic permeated the air. And all this with the windows shut, the intense heat from the central furnace, and the breath of at least forty people.
They had just supped.
They just had dinner.
Now Gerard, like most artists, had sensitive organs, and the potent effluvia struck dismay into him. But the rain lashed him outside, and the light and the fire tempted him in.
Now Gerard, like most artists, had delicate senses, and the strong smells made him uneasy. But the rain whipped around him outside, and the light and warmth drew him in.
He could not force his way all at once through the palpable perfumes, but he returned to the light again and again, like the singed moth. At last he discovered that the various smells did not entirely mix, no fiend being there to stir them round. Odour of family predominated in two corners; stewed rustic reigned supreme in the centre; and garlic in the noisy group by the window. He found, too, by hasty analysis, that of these the garlic described the smallest aerial orbit, and the scent of reeking rustic darted farthest—a flavour as if ancient goats, or the fathers of all foxes, had been drawn through a river, and were here dried by Nebuchadnezzar.
He couldn’t push through the strong scents all at once, but he went back to the light again and again, like a singed moth. Eventually, he realized that the different smells didn’t fully blend, as there was no one there to mix them up. The smell of family filled two corners; a strong odor of stewed vegetables dominated the center; and garlic wafted from the loud group by the window. He also quickly figured out that garlic had the smallest reach in the air, while the strong smell of the rustic dish traveled the furthest—it was as if ancient goats, or the ancestors of all foxes, had been dragged through a river and were now drying out here like they had been in the time of Nebuchadnezzar.
So Gerard crept into a corner close to the door. But though the solidity of the main fetors isolated them somewhat, the heat and reeking vapours circulated, and made the walls drip; and the home-nurtured novice found something like a cold snake wind about his legs, and his head turn to a great lump of lead; and next, he felt like choking, sweetly slumbering, and dying, all in one.
So Gerard sneaked into a corner near the door. Even though the solid walls somewhat isolated them, the heat and foul odors were still circulating, making the walls sweat. The novice, raised in a comfortable home, felt something like a cold snake winding around his legs, and his head felt heavy like a lead weight. Then, he felt like he was choking, drifting into a sweet sleep, and dying—all at once.
He was within an ace of swooning, but recovered to a deep sense of disgust and discouragement; and settled to go back to Holland at peep of day. This resolution formed, he plucked up a little heart; and being faint with hunger, asked one of the men of garlic whether this was not an inn after all?
He was on the verge of fainting, but then he felt a wave of disgust and disappointment. He decided to head back to Holland at dawn. With that decision made, he found a bit of courage; and feeling weak from hunger, he asked one of the garlic sellers if this wasn't actually an inn after all?
“Whence come you, who know not 'The Star of the Forest'?” was the reply.
“Where do you come from, who doesn't know 'The Star of the Forest'?” was the reply.
“I am a stranger; and in my country inns have aye a sign.”
“I’m a stranger, and in my country, inns always have a sign.”
“Droll country yours! What need of a sign to a public-house—a place that every soul knows?”
“Funny little town of yours! What’s the need for a sign for a bar—a place that everyone knows?”
Gerard was too tired and faint for the labour of argument, so he turned the conversation, and asked where he could find the landlord?
Gerard was too tired and weak to argue, so he changed the subject and asked where he could find the landlord?
At this fresh display of ignorance, the native's contempt rose too high for words. He pointed to a middle-aged woman seated on the other side of the oven; and turning to his mates, let them know what an outlandish animal was in the room. Thereat the loud voices stopped, one by one, as the information penetrated the mass; and each eye turned, as on a pivot, following Gerard, and his every movement, silently and zoologically.
At this new show of ignorance, the native's contempt grew too strong for words. He pointed to a middle-aged woman sitting on the other side of the oven and turned to his friends, letting them know what an unusual creature was in the room. At that, the loud voices quieted down, one by one, as the news spread through the crowd; and every eye turned, like on a pivot, tracking Gerard and all his movements, silently and like a zoo animal.
The landlady sat on a chair an inch or two higher than the rest, between two bundles. From the first, a huge heap of feathers and wings, she was taking the downy plumes, and pulling the others from the quills, and so filling bundle two littering the floor ankle-deep, and contributing to the general stock a stuffy little malaria, which might have played a distinguished part in a sweet room, but went for nothing here. Gerard asked her if he could have something to eat.
The landlady sat on a chair a couple of inches higher than the others, between two bundles. From the first bundle, a large pile of feathers and wings, she was taking the soft plumes and pulling the others from the quills, filling the second bundle and covering the floor with a layer of feathers, creating a stuffy little mess that could have made a room feel cozy, but didn’t make an impact here. Gerard asked her if he could have something to eat.
She opened her eyes with astonishment. “Supper is over this hour and more.
She opened her eyes in disbelief. “Dinner has been over for an hour or more.
“But I had none of it, good dame.”
“But I didn't have any of it, good lady.”
“Is that my fault? You were welcome to your share for me.”
“Is that my fault? You were entitled to your part because of me.”
“But I was benighted, and a stranger; and belated sore against my will.”
“But I was lost and a stranger; and I was late against my will.”
“What have I to do with that? All the world knows 'The Star of the Forest' sups from six till eight. Come before six, ye sup well; come before eight, ye sup as pleases Heaven; come after eight, ye get a clean bed, and a stirrup cup, or a horn of kine's milk, at the dawning.”
“What does that have to do with me? Everyone knows 'The Star of the Forest' serves dinner from six to eight. If you come before six, you’ll eat well; if you come before eight, you’ll eat as you please; if you come after eight, you’ll get a clean bed and a cup of milk at dawn.”
Gerard looked blank. “May I go to bed, then, dame?” said he sulkily “for it is ill sitting up wet and fasting, and the byword saith, 'He sups who sleeps.'”
Gerard looked confused. “Can I go to bed now, ma'am?” he said in a sulky tone. “It's not good to sit here wet and hungry, and the saying goes, 'He who sleeps dines.'”
“The beds are not come yet,” replied the landlady. “You will sleep when the rest do. Inns are not built for one.”
“The beds haven’t arrived yet,” replied the landlady. “You’ll sleep when the others do. Inns aren’t made for just one person.”
It was Gerard's turn to be astonished. “The beds were not come! what, in Heaven's name, did she mean?” But he was afraid to ask for every word he had spoken hitherto had amazed the assembly, and zoological eyes were upon him—he felt them. He leaned against the wall, and sighed audibly.
It was Gerard's turn to be shocked. “The beds hadn't arrived! What on Earth did she mean?” But he was too scared to ask, as every word he had said so far had stunned everyone around him, and he could feel their curious gazes on him—he really felt them. He leaned against the wall and let out a deep sigh.
At this fresh zoological trait, a titter went round the watchful company.
At this new animal behavior, a giggle spread through the attentive group.
“So this is Germany,” thought Gerard; “and Germany is a great country by Holland. Small nations for me.”
“So this is Germany,” thought Gerard; “and Germany is a great country next to Holland. Small nations are more my style.”
He consoled himself by reflecting it was to be his last, as well as his first, night in the land. His reverie was interrupted by an elbow driven into his ribs. He turned sharp on his assailant, who pointed across the room. Gerard looked, and a woman in the corner was beckoning him. He went towards her gingerly, being surprised and irresolute, so that to a spectator her beckoning finger seemed to be pulling him across the floor with a gut-line. When he had got up to her, “Hold the child,” said she, in a fine hearty voice; and in a moment she plumped the bairn into Gerard's arms.
He comforted himself by thinking it was going to be both his last and first night in this place. His daydreaming was interrupted by an elbow jabbing his ribs. He quickly turned to confront his attacker, who pointed across the room. Gerard looked over and saw a woman in the corner gesturing for him to come over. He approached her cautiously, feeling surprised and uncertain, to the point where anyone watching might have thought her finger was reeling him in like a fish. When he reached her, she said in a warm, strong voice, “Hold the child,” and in an instant, she dropped the baby into Gerard's arms.
He stood transfixed, jelly of lead in his hands, and sudden horror in his elongated countenance.
He stood frozen, a heavy weight in his hands, and a look of sudden fear on his stretched face.
At this ruefully expressive face, the lynx-eyed conclave laughed loud and long.
At this sadly expressive face, the sharp-eyed group laughed loudly and for a long time.
“Never heed them,” said the woman cheerfully; “they know no better; how should they, bred an' born in a wood?” She was rummaging among her clothes with the two penetrating hands, one of which Gerard had set free. Presently she fished out a small tin plate and a dried pudding; and resuming her child with one arm, held them forth to Gerard with the other, keeping a thumb on the pudding to prevent it from slipping off.
“Don't pay attention to them,” the woman said cheerfully; “they don't know any better; how could they, raised in the woods?” She was searching through her clothes with two determined hands, one of which Gerard had freed. Soon, she pulled out a small tin plate and a dried pudding; and as she held her child with one arm, she extended the plate and pudding to Gerard with the other, keeping a thumb on the pudding to stop it from falling off.
“Put it in the stove,” said she; “you are too young to lie down fasting.”
“Put it in the stove,” she said; “you’re too young to go to bed hungry.”
Gerard thanked her warmly. But on his way to the stove, his eye fell on the landlady. “May I, dame?” said he beseechingly.
Gerard thanked her warmly. But on his way to the stove, he noticed the landlady. “Can I, ma’am?” he asked earnestly.
“Why not?” said she.
"Why not?" she said.
The question was evidently another surprise, though less startling than its predecessors.
The question was clearly another surprise, but not as shocking as the ones before it.
Coming to the stove, Gerard found the oven door obstructed by “the rammish clowns.” They did not budge. He hesitated a moment. The landlady saw, calmly put down her work, and coming up, pulled a hircine man or two hither, and pushed a hircine man or two thither, with the impassive countenance of a housewife moving her furniture. “Turn about is fair play,” she said; “ye have been dry this ten minutes and better.”
Coming to the stove, Gerard found the oven door blocked by "the silly clowns." They didn’t move. He paused for a moment. The landlady noticed, calmly set down her work, and approached, pulling a couple of rough guys this way and pushing a couple of them that way, with the calm expression of a housewife rearranging her furniture. "What's fair is fair," she said; "you've been waiting for ten minutes or more."
Her experienced eye was not deceived; Gorgonii had done stewing, and begun baking. Debarred the stove, they trundled home, all but one, who stood like a table, where the landlady had moved him to, like a table. And Gerard baked his pudding; and getting to the stove, burst into steam.
Her experienced eye wasn't fooled; Gorgonii had finished stewing and had started baking. Barred from the stove, they rolled home, except for one who stood still like a table, right where the landlady had placed him. And Gerard baked his pudding; then he reached the stove and burst into steam.
The door opened, and in flew a bundle of straw.
The door opened, and a bundle of straw flew in.
It was hurled by a hind with a pitchfork. Another and another came flying after it, till the room was like a clean farmyard. These were then dispersed round the stove in layers, like the seats in an arena, and in a moment the company was all on its back.
It was thrown by a deer with a pitchfork. One after another came flying after it, until the room looked like a tidy farmyard. They were then scattered around the stove in layers, like seats in an arena, and in no time the group was all on its back.
The beds had come.
The beds have arrived.
Gerard took out his pudding, and found it delicious. While he was relishing it, the woman who had given it him, and who was now abed, beckoned him again. He went to her bundle side. “She is waiting for you,” whispered the woman. Gerard returned to the stove, and gobbled. the rest of his sausage, casting uneasy glances at the landlady, seated silent as fate amid the prostrate multitude. The food bolted, he went to her, and said, “Thank you kindly, dame, for waiting for me.”
Gerard took out his pudding and found it delicious. As he enjoyed it, the woman who had given it to him and was now in bed beckoned him again. He went over to her side. “She’s waiting for you,” whispered the woman. Gerard returned to the stove and quickly finished the rest of his sausage, glancing nervously at the landlady, who sat silent as fate among the sprawled group. Once he finished eating, he went to her and said, “Thank you kindly, ma’am, for waiting for me.”
“You are welcome,” said she calmly, making neither much nor little of the favour; and with that began to gather up the feathers. But Gerard stopped her. “Nay, that is my task;” and he went down on his knees, and collected them with ardour. She watched him demurely.
“You're welcome,” she said calmly, not making a big deal out of the favor. With that, she started to pick up the feathers. But Gerard stopped her. “No, that’s my job;” and he knelt down, collecting them enthusiastically. She watched him quietly.
“I wot not whence ye come,” said she, with a relic of distrust; adding, more cordially, “but ye have been well brought up;—y' have had a good mother, I'll go bail.”
“I don’t know where you’re from,” she said, with a hint of distrust; adding, more warmly, “but you’ve been raised well; you’ve had a good mother, I guarantee.”
At the door she committed the whole company to Heaven, in a formula, and disappeared. Gerard to his straw in the very corner-for the guests lay round the sacred stove by seniority, i.e. priority of arrival.
At the door, she entrusted the entire group to Heaven, using a specific phrase, and vanished. Gerard settled into his spot in the far corner—since the guests were arranged around the sacred stove according to their seniority, meaning the order they arrived.
This punishment was a boon to Gerard, for thus he lay on the shore of odour and stifling heat, instead of in mid-ocean.
This punishment was a blessing for Gerard, because he got to lie on the shore with its scents and sweltering heat, instead of being out in the middle of the ocean.
He was just dropping off, when he was awaked by a noise; and lo there was the hind remorselessly shaking and waking guest after guest, to ask him whether it was he who had picked up the mistress's feathers.
He was just dozing off when he was awakened by a noise; and there was the servant resolutely shaking and waking up guest after guest to ask if it was them who had picked up the mistress's feathers.
“It was I,” cried Gerard.
“It was me,” cried Gerard.
“Oh, it was you, was it?” said the other, and came striding rapidly over the intermediate sleepers. “She bade me say, 'One good turn deserves another,' and so here's your nightcap,” and he thrust a great oaken mug under Gerard's nose.
“Oh, it was you, huh?” said the other, striding quickly over the sleeping people in between. “She told me to say, 'One good turn deserves another,' so here’s your nightcap,” and he shoved a big wooden mug under Gerard's nose.
“I thank her, and bless her; here goes—ugh!” and his gratitude ended in a wry face; for the beer was muddy, and had a strange, medicinal twang new to the Hollander.
"I thank her and bless her; here goes—ugh!" His gratitude ended in a grimace, because the beer was murky and had a weird, medicinal aftertaste that was unfamiliar to the Hollander.
“Trinke aus!” shouted the hind reproachfully.
“Drink up!” shouted the hind reproachfully.
“Enow is as good as a feast,” said the youth Jesuitically.
“Now is as good as a feast,” said the young man, in a wise way.
The hind cast a look of pity on this stranger who left liquor in his mug. “Ich brings euch,” said he, and drained it to the bottom.
The hind glanced at the stranger with pity for leaving his drink in the mug. “I'm bringing it to you,” he said, and finished it all.
And now Gerard turned his face to the wall and pulled up two handfuls of the nice clean straw, and bored in them with his finger, and so made a scabbard, and sheathed his nose in it. And soon they were all asleep; men, maids, wives, and children all lying higgledy-piggledy, and snoring in a dozen keys like an orchestra slowly tuning; and Gerard's body lay on straw in Germany, and his spirit was away to Sevenbergen.
And now Gerard faced the wall and grabbed two handfuls of the nice clean straw, poking his finger into it to create a makeshift scabbard, then covering his nose with it. Soon, everyone was asleep—men, women, wives, and children all sprawled out together, snoring in various pitches like an orchestra slowly tuning up; and Gerard's body rested on straw in Germany, while his spirit drifted away to Sevenbergen.
When he woke in the morning he found nearly all his fellow-passengers gone. One or two were waiting for dinner, nine o'clock; it was now six. He paid the landlady her demand, two pfenning, or about an English halfpenny, and he of the pitchfork demanded trinkgeld, and getting a trifle more than usual, and seeing Gerard eye a foaming milk-pail he had just brought from the cow, hoisted it up bodily to his lips. “Drink your fill, man,” said he, and on Gerard offering to pay for the delicious draught, told him in broad patois that a man might swallow a skinful of milk, or a breakfast of air, without putting hand to pouch. At the door Gerard found his benefactress of last night, and a huge-chested artisan, her husband.
When he woke up in the morning, he found that almost all his fellow passengers had left. A couple of them were waiting for dinner at nine o'clock; it was now six. He paid the landlady her fee, two pfenning, which is about an English halfpenny, and the guy with the pitchfork asked for a tip. After receiving a little more than usual, he noticed Gerard eyeing a frothy milk pail he had just brought in from the cow and lifted it straight to his lips. “Drink as much as you want, man,” he said, and when Gerard offered to pay for the tasty drink, he replied in a heavy accent that a man could drink as much milk as he wanted, or have a breakfast of air, without having to reach for his wallet. At the door, Gerard spotted his benefactress from the night before along with a big-built artisan, her husband.
Gerard thanked her, and in the spirit of the age offered her a creutzer for her pudding.
Gerard thanked her, and in the spirit of the times, offered her a creutzer for her dessert.
But she repulsed his hand quietly. “For what do you take me?” said she, colouring faintly; “we are travellers and strangers the same as you, and bound to feel for those in like plight.”
But she gently pushed his hand away. “What do you think of me?” she asked, blushing slightly; “we are travelers and strangers just like you, and we’re obligated to empathize with those in the same situation.”
Then Gerard blushed in his turn and stammered excuses.
Then Gerard blushed and stumbled over his words, trying to make excuses.
The hulking husband grinned superior to them both.
The big husband smiled down at them both.
“Give the vixen a kiss for her pudding, and cry quits,” said he, with an air impartial, judge-like and Jove-like.
“Give the vixen a kiss for her pudding, and call it even,” he said, with an impartial, judge-like, and god-like air.
Gerard obeyed the lofty behest, and kissed the wife's cheek. “A blessing go with you both, good people,” said he.
Gerard followed the high request and kissed the wife's cheek. “A blessing be with you both, good people,” he said.
“And God speed you, young man!” replied the honest couple; and with that they parted, and never met again in this world.
“And good luck to you, young man!” replied the honest couple; and with that, they went their separate ways, never to meet again in this world.
The sun had just risen: the rain-drops on the leaves glittered like diamonds. The air was fresh and bracing, and Gerard steered south, and did not even remember his resolve of overnight.
The sun had just come up: the raindrops on the leaves sparkled like diamonds. The air was fresh and invigorating, and Gerard headed south, forgetting all about his overnight decision.
Eight leagues he walked that day, and in the afternoon came upon a huge building with an enormous arched gateway and a postern by its side.
Eight leagues he walked that day, and in the afternoon he came across a massive building with a giant arched entrance and a smaller door next to it.
“A monastery!” cried he joyfully; “I go no further lest I fare worse.” He applied at the postern, and on stating whence he came and whither bound, was instantly admitted and directed to the guestchamber, a large and lofty room, where travellers were fed and lodged gratis by the charity of the monastic orders. Soon the bell tinkled for vespers, and Gerard entered the church of the convent, and from his place heard a service sung so exquisitely, it seemed the choir of heaven. But one thing was wanting, Margaret was not there to hear it with him, and this made him sigh bitterly in mid rapture. At supper, plain but wholesome and abundant food, and good beer, brewed in the convent, were set before him and his fellows, and at an early hour they were ushered into a large dormitory, and the number being moderate, had each a truckle bed, and for covering, sheepskins dressed with the fleece on; but previously to this a monk, struck by his youth and beauty, questioned him, and soon drew out his projects and his heart. When he was found to be convent bred, and going alone to Rome, he became a personage, and in the morning they showed him over the convent and made him stay and dine in the refectory. They also pricked him a route on a slip of parchment, and the prior gave him a silver guilden to help him on the road, and advised him to join the first honest company he should fall in with, “and not face alone the manifold perils of the way.”
“A monastery!” he exclaimed happily; “I won't go any further or I might end up in a worse situation.” He approached the side gate, and after explaining where he had come from and where he was headed, he was immediately let in and directed to the guest chamber, a spacious and lofty room where travelers were fed and housed for free by the generosity of the monks. Soon, the bell rang for vespers, and Gerard entered the convent's church. From his spot, he heard a service sung so beautifully that it felt like a heavenly choir. But one thing was missing—Margaret wasn’t there to hear it with him, and this made him sigh deeply despite his joy. At supper, they served simple but nutritious and plentiful food, along with good beer brewed at the convent. They were taken to a large dormitory early on, and since there were only a few of them, each had a small bed and, for covering, sheepskins with the fleece still on. Before this, a monk, struck by his youth and looks, asked him questions and quickly learned about his plans and feelings. When it turned out he had been raised in a convent and was traveling alone to Rome, he became someone of interest. The next morning, they showed him around the convent and invited him to dine in the refectory. They also marked a route on a piece of parchment for him, and the prior gave him a silver coin to help him on his journey, advising him to join the first honest group he came across, “so you don’t have to face the many dangers of the road alone.”
“Perils?” said Gerard to himself.
"Risks?" Gerard said to himself.
That evening he came to a small straggling town where was one inn; it had no sign; but being now better versed in the customs of the country, he detected it at once by the coats of arms on its walls. These belonged to the distinguished visitors who had slept in it at different epochs since its foundation, and left these customary tokens of their patronage. At present it looked more like a mausoleum than a hotel. Nothing moved nor sounded either in it or about it. Gerard hammered on the great oak door: no answer. He hallooed: no reply. After a while he hallooed louder, and at last a little round window, or rather hole in the wall, opened, a man's head protruded cautiously, like a tortoise's from its shell, and eyed Gerard stolidly, but never uttered a syllable.
That evening, he arrived in a small, rundown town that had just one inn. It didn't have a sign, but now that he was more familiar with the local customs, he recognized it right away by the coats of arms on its walls. These belonged to the notable guests who had stayed there at various times since it was established, leaving these usual marks of their patronage. At that moment, it looked more like a mausoleum than a hotel. Nothing moved or made a sound, either inside or outside. Gerard knocked on the huge oak door: no response. He called out: no answer. After a while, he shouted louder, and finally, a small round window—or rather a hole in the wall—opened. A man's head popped out cautiously, like a tortoise from its shell, and stared at Gerard blankly, but didn't say a word.
“Is this an inn?” asked Gerard, with a covert sneer.
“Is this a hotel?” asked Gerard, with a hidden smirk.
The head seemed to fall into a brown study; eventually it nodded, but lazily.
The head appeared to slip into a deep thought; after a while, it nodded, but in a sluggish way.
“Can I have entertainment here?”
"Can I get entertainment here?"
Again the head pondered and ended by nodding, but sullenly, and seemed a skull overburdened with catch-penny interrogatories.
Again the head thought for a moment and eventually nodded, but gloomy, and looked like a skull weighed down by cheap questions.
“How am I to get within, an't please you?”
“How am I supposed to get in, if it’s alright with you?”
At this the head popped in, as if the last question had shot it; and a hand popped out, pointed round the corner of the building, and slammed the window.
At this, a head popped in, as if the last question had triggered it; then a hand shot out, pointed around the corner of the building, and slammed the window.
Gerard followed the indication, and after some research discovered that the fortification had one vulnerable part, a small low door on its flank. As for the main entrance, that was used to keep out thieves and customers, except once or twice in a year, when they entered together, i.e., when some duke or count arrived in pomp with his train of gaudy ruffians.
Gerard followed the directions, and after some investigation, he found that the fortification had one weak spot, a small low door on its side. The main entrance was meant to keep out thieves and visitors, except once or twice a year, when they both came in together, like when a duke or count arrived in style with his entourage of flashy followers.
Gerard, having penetrated the outer fort, soon found his way to the stove (as the public room was called from the principal article in it), and sat down near the oven, in which were only a few live embers that diffused a mild and grateful heat.
Gerard, having entered the outer fort, quickly made his way to the stove (as the public room was known because of the main feature in it), and sat down near the oven, which only had a few live coals providing a gentle and welcome warmth.
After waiting patiently a long time, he asked a grim old fellow with a long white beard, who stalked solemnly in, and turned the hour-glass, and then was stalking out, when supper would be. The grisly Ganymede counted the guests on his fingers—“When I see thrice as many here as now.” Gerard groaned.
After waiting patiently for a long time, he asked a grumpy old guy with a long white beard, who walked in seriously, turned the hourglass, and then was walking out, when dinner would be. The grim Ganymede counted the guests on his fingers—“When I see three times as many here as now.” Gerard groaned.
The grisly tyrant resented the rebellious sound. “Inns are not built for one,” said he; “if you can't wait for the rest, look out for another lodging.”
The grim tyrant hated the defiant noise. “Inns aren’t made for one person,” he said; “if you can't wait for the others, find somewhere else to stay.”
Gerard sighed.
Gerard let out a sigh.
At this the greybeard frowned.
At this, the old man frowned.
After a while company trickled steadily in, till full eighty persons of various conditions were congregated, and to our novice the place became a chamber of horrors; for here the mothers got together and compared ringworms, and the men scraped the mud off their shoes with their knives, and left it on the floor, and combed their long hair out, inmates included, and made their toilet, consisting generally of a dry rub. Water, however, was brought in ewers. Gerard pounced on one of these, but at sight of the liquid contents lost his temper and said to the waiter, “Wash you first your water, and then a man may wash his hands withal.”
After a while, people started coming in steadily until there were about eighty individuals of various backgrounds gathered together, and for our newcomer, the place felt like a nightmare; mothers gathered to discuss their kids' ringworm, men scraped the mud off their shoes with their knives and left it on the floor, and everyone combed their long hair, including the residents, and freshened up, which usually meant just a dry rub. However, water was brought in pitchers. Gerard grabbed one of these but, upon seeing the liquid inside, lost his temper and said to the waiter, “You should wash your water first, then a man can wash his hands with it.”
“An' it likes you not, seek another inn!”
“Then if you don’t like it, find another place to stay!”
Gerard said nothing, but went quietly and courteously besought an old traveller to tell him how far it was to the next inn.
Gerard didn’t say anything, but quietly and politely asked an old traveler how far it was to the next inn.
“About four leagues.”
“About four miles.”
Then Gerard appreciated the grim pleasantry of the unbending sire.
Then Gerard appreciated the dark humor of the inflexible father.
That worthy now returned with an armful of wood, and counting the travellers, put on a log for every six, by which act of raw justice the hotter the room the more heat he added. Poor Gerard noticed this little flaw in the ancient man's logic, but carefully suppressed every symptom of intelligence, lest his feet should have to carry his brains four leagues farther that night.
That guy came back with a bunch of firewood and, counting the travelers, tossed a log on the fire for every six people. This act of straightforward fairness meant that the hotter the room got, the more heat he added. Poor Gerard saw this little flaw in the old man's reasoning but carefully hid any sign of understanding, so his feet wouldn't have to carry his brains four leagues farther that night.
When perspiration and suffocation were far advanced, they brought in the table-cloths; but oh, so brown, so dirty, and so coarse; they seemed like sacks that had been worn out in agriculture and come down to this, or like shreads from the mainsail of some worn-out ship. The Hollander, who had never seen such linen even in nightmare, uttered a faint cry.
When sweat and suffocation were at their peak, they brought in the tablecloths; but oh, they were so brown, so dirty, and so rough; they looked like sacks that had been used up in farming and ended up like this, or like scraps from the mainsail of some old ship. The Dutchman, who had never seen such fabric even in his nightmares, let out a weak cry.
“What is to do?” inquired a traveller. Gerard pointed ruefully to the dirty sackcloth. The other looked at it with lack lustre eye, and comprehended nought.
"What should we do?" asked a traveler. Gerard sadly pointed to the dirty sackcloth. The other looked at it with a dull gaze and understood nothing.
A Burgundian soldier with his arbalest at his back came peeping over Gerard's shoulder, and seeing what was amiss, laughed so loud that the room rang again, then slapped him on the back and cried, “Courage! le diable est mort.”
A Burgundian soldier with his crossbow slung over his shoulder peeked over Gerard's back, and seeing what was wrong, laughed so loudly that the room echoed, then slapped him on the back and shouted, “Cheer up! The devil is dead.”
Gerard stared: he doubted alike the good tidings and their relevancy; but the tones were so hearty and the arbalestrier's face, notwithstanding a formidable beard, was so gay and genial, that he smiled, and after a pause said drily, “Il a bien faite avec l'eau et linge du pays on allait le noircir a ne se reconnaitre plus.”
Gerard stared, unsure of both the good news and its relevance; but the tones were so warm, and the crossbowman's face, despite his intimidating beard, was so cheerful and friendly that he smiled. After a pause, he replied dryly, “He did well with the local water and cloth; it would have blackened him to the point you wouldn't recognize him.”
“Tiens, tiens!” cried the soldier, “v'la qui parle le Francais peu s'en faut,” and he seated himself by Gerard, and in a moment was talking volubly of war, women, and pillage, interlarding his discourse with curious oaths, at which Gerard drew away from him more or less.
“Look at that!” exclaimed the soldier, “here’s someone who speaks French, almost!” He sat down next to Gerard and quickly started chatting excitedly about war, women, and looting, peppering his speech with strange curses, which made Gerard pull back a bit.
Presently in came the grisly servant, and counted them all on his fingers superciliously, like Abraham telling sheep; then went out again, and returned with a deal trencher and deal spoon to each.
Right then, the creepy servant walked in, counted them all on his fingers with a condescending look, like Abraham counting sheep; then he left again and came back with a wooden plate and wooden spoon for each.
Then there was an interval. Then he brought them a long mug apiece made of glass, and frowned. By-and-by he stalked gloomily in with a hunch of bread apiece, and exit with an injured air. Expectation thus raised, the guests sat for nearly an hour balancing the wooden spoons, and with their own knives whittling the bread. Eventually, when hope was extinct, patience worn out, and hunger exhausted, a huge vessel was brought in with pomp, the lid was removed, a cloud of steam rolled forth, and behold some thin broth with square pieces of bread floating. This, though not agreeable to the mind, served to distend the body. Slices of Strasbourg ham followed, and pieces of salt fish, both so highly salted that Gerard could hardly swallow a mouthful. Then came a kind of gruel, and when the repast had lasted an hour and more, some hashed meat highly peppered and the French and Dutch being now full to the brim with the above dainties, and the draughts of beer the salt and spiced meats had provoked, in came roasted kids, most excellent, and carp and trout fresh from the stream. Gerard made an effort and looked angrily at them, but “could no more,” as the poets say. The Burgundian swore by the liver and pike-staff of the good centurion, the natives had outwitted him. Then turning to Gerard, he said, “Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort,” as loudly as before, but not with the same tone of conviction. The canny natives had kept an internal corner for contingencies, and polished the kid's very bones.
Then there was a break. He brought them each a long glass mug and frowned. After a while, he walked in gloomily with a chunk of bread for each of them and left with a hurt expression. With their expectations raised, the guests spent nearly an hour balancing wooden spoons and whittling the bread with their own knives. Eventually, when hope had disappeared, patience was worn out, and hunger was overwhelming, a large pot was brought in with great fanfare. The lid was taken off, a cloud of steam escaped, and there it was—some thin broth with square pieces of bread floating in it. Though it wasn't pleasant to think about, it did fill their stomachs. Next came slices of Strasbourg ham and pieces of salt fish, both so salty that Gerard could barely swallow a bite. Then there was a kind of gruel, and after the meal had gone on for over an hour, they served some highly peppered hashed meat. The French and Dutch guests were now completely full from those delicacies and the beer that the salty and spiced dishes had spurred on. Then in came roasted kids, which were excellent, as well as carp and trout fresh from the stream. Gerard tried to look angry at them but “could no more,” as the poets say. The Burgundian swore by the liver and pike-staff of the good centurion that the locals had outsmarted him. Then he turned to Gerard and said, “Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort,” as loudly as before, but without the same confidence. The clever locals had saved some space for extras and polished the kid's very bones.
The feast ended with a dish of raw animalcula in a wicker cage. A cheese had been surrounded with little twigs and strings; then a hole made in it and a little sour wine poured in. This speedily bred a small but numerous vermin. When the cheese was so rotten with them that only the twigs and string kept it from tumbling to pieces and walking off quadrivious, it came to table. By a malicious caprice of fate, cage and menagerie were put down right under the Dutchman's organ of self-torture. He recoiled with a loud ejaculation, and hung to the bench by the calves of his legs.
The feast ended with a dish of raw tiny creatures in a wicker cage. A cheese had been surrounded with little twigs and strings; then a hole was made in it and a little sour wine was poured in. This quickly produced a small but numerous infestation. When the cheese was so rotten with them that only the twigs and strings kept it from falling apart and crawling away, it was served at the table. By a cruel twist of fate, the cage and collection of creatures were placed right underneath the Dutchman's instrument of self-punishment. He recoiled with a loud exclamation and hung onto the bench by the backs of his legs.
“What is the matter?” said a traveller disdainfully. “Does the good cheese scare ye? Then put it hither, in the name of all the saints!”
“What’s the problem?” said a traveler with disdain. “Is the good cheese scaring you? Then bring it here, for the sake of all the saints!”
“Cheese!” cried Gerard, “I see none. These nauseous reptiles have made away with every bit of it.”
“Cheese!” shouted Gerard, “I don't see any. These disgusting creatures have taken every last bit of it.”
“Well,” replied another, “it is not gone far. By eating of the mites we eat the cheese to boot.”
“Well,” replied another, “it’s not gone far. By eating the mites, we’re getting the cheese too.”
“Nay, not so,” said Gerard. “These reptiles are made like us, and digest their food and turn it to foul flesh even as we do ours to sweet; as well might you think to chew grass by eating of grass-fed beeves, as to eat cheese by swallowing these uncleanly insects.”
“Not at all,” said Gerard. “These creatures are just like us; they digest their food and turn it into rotten flesh just like we turn ours into something good. It’s just as ridiculous to think you can enjoy grass by eating grass-fed cows as it is to think you can enjoy cheese by swallowing these disgusting insects.”
Gerard raised his voice in uttering this, and the company received the paradox in dead silence, and with a distrustful air, like any other stranger, during which the Burgundian, who understood German but imperfectly, made Gerard Gallicize the discussion. He patted his interpreter on the back. “C'est bien, mon gars; plus fin que toi n'est pas bete,” and administered his formula of encouragement; and Gerard edged away from him; for next to ugly sights and ill odours, the poor wretch disliked profaneness.
Gerard raised his voice while saying this, and the group reacted to the contradiction in complete silence, glancing at him with suspicion, just like any other outsider. During this time, the Burgundian, who understood German but not perfectly, made Gerard adapt the conversation to a more French style. He patted his interpreter on the back. “That’s good, my friend; no one is smarter than you,” and gave him his usual encouragement; Gerard then moved away from him because, aside from ugly sights and bad smells, the poor guy couldn't stand profanity.
Meantime, though shaken in argument, the raw reptiles were duly eaten and relished by the company, and served to provoke thirst, a principal aim of all the solids in that part of Germany. So now the company drank garausses all round, and their tongues were unloosed, and oh, the Babel! But above the fierce clamour rose at intervals, like some hero's war-cry in battle, the trumpet-like voice of the Burgundian soldier shouting lustily, “Courage, camarades, le diable est mort!”
In the meantime, even though their arguments were shaky, the raw reptiles were properly eaten and enjoyed by the group, and they stirred up thirst, which was a main goal of all the food in that part of Germany. So now the group drank garausses all around, and their tongues were unleashed, and oh, the chaos! But above the loud clamor rose at intervals, like a hero's battle cry, the booming voice of the Burgundian soldier shouting energetically, “Courage, comrades, the devil is dead!”
Entered grisly Ganymede holding in his hand a wooden dish with circles and semicircles marked on it in chalk. He put it down on the table and stood silent, sad, and sombre, as Charon by Styx waiting for his boat-load of souls. Then pouches and purses were rummaged, and each threw a coin into the dish. Gerard timidly observed that he had drunk next to no beer, and inquired how much less he was to pay than the others.
Entered grim Ganymede holding a wooden dish marked with circles and semicircles in chalk. He placed it on the table and stood there silent, sad, and somber, like Charon by the Styx waiting for his boatload of souls. Then pockets and bags were searched, and everyone tossed a coin into the dish. Gerard nervously noted that he had hardly drunk any beer and asked how much less he should pay than the others.
“What mean you?” said Ganymede roughly. “Whose fault is it you have not drunken? Are all to suffer because one chooses to be a milksop? You will pay no more than the rest, and no less.”
“What do you mean?” said Ganymede roughly. “Whose fault is it that you haven't drunk? Is everyone supposed to suffer because one person decides to be a coward? You’ll pay as much as everyone else, not a cent more or less.”
Gerard was abashed.
Gerard was embarrassed.
“Courage, petit, le diable est mort,” hiccoughed the soldier and flung Ganymede a coin.
“Courage, little one, the devil is dead,” the soldier hiccuped and tossed Ganymede a coin.
“You are bad as he is,” said the old man peevishly; “you are paying too much;” and the tyrannical old Aristides returned him some coin out of the trencher with a most reproachful countenance. And now the man whom Gerard had confuted an hour and a half ago awoke from a brown study, in which he had been ever since, and came to him and said, “Yes, but the honey is none the worse for passing through the bees' bellies.”
“You're just as bad as he is,” the old man grumbled. “You're paying way too much.” The bossy old Aristides handed him some money from the plate, with a very disapproving look. Then the man Gerard had shut down an hour and a half ago came out of his deep thought, which he had been lost in the whole time, approached him and said, “Yeah, but the honey doesn't lose its value just because it goes through the bees' stomachs.”
Gerard stared. The answer had been so long on the road he hadn't an idea what it was an answer to. Seeing him dumfounded, the other concluded him confuted, and withdrew calmed.
Gerard stared. The answer had taken so long to arrive that he had no idea what it was an answer to. Seeing him confused, the other person took it as a sign that he was baffled and left feeling reassured.
The bedrooms were upstairs, dungeons with not a scrap of furniture except the bed, and a male servant settled inexorably who should sleep with whom. Neither money nor prayers would get a man a bed to himself here; custom forbade it sternly. You might as well have asked to monopolize a see-saw. They assigned to Gerard a man with a great black beard. He was an honest fellow enough, but not perfect; he would not go to bed, and would sit on the edge of it telling the wretched Gerard by force, and at length, the events of the day, and alternately laughing and crying at the same circumstances, which were not in the smallest degree pathetic or humorous, but only dead trivial. At last Gerard put his fingers in his ears, and lying down in his clothes, for the sheets were too dirty for him to undress, contrived to sleep. But in an hour or two he awoke cold, and found that his drunken companion had got all the feather bed; so mighty is instinct. They lay between two beds; the lower one hard and made of straw, the upper soft and filled with feathers light as down. Gerard pulled at it, but the experienced drunkard held it fast mechanically. Gerard tried to twitch it away by surprise, but instinct was too many for him. On this he got out of bed, and kneeling down on his bedfellow's unguarded side, easily whipped the prize away and rolled with it under the bed, and there lay on one edge of it, and curled the rest round his shoulders. Before he slept he often heard something grumbling and growling above him, which was some little satisfaction. Thus instinct was outwitted, and victorious Reason lay chuckling on feathers, and not quite choked with dust.
The bedrooms were upstairs, dreary places with no furniture except for the beds, and a male servant strictly decided who would sleep with whom. Neither money nor prayers would get anyone a bed to themselves here; tradition forbade it firmly. You might as well have asked to keep a see-saw all to yourself. They assigned Gerard a roommate with a big black beard. He was a decent guy, but not perfect; he wouldn’t go to bed and would sit on the edge, forcefully telling the miserable Gerard about the day’s events, laughing and crying at the same moments that weren’t at all emotional or funny—just completely trivial. Eventually, Gerard stuck his fingers in his ears and, still dressed because the sheets were too filthy to undress, managed to fall asleep. But after an hour or two, he woke up cold and found that his drunk companion had taken all the feather bed; such is the power of instinct. They lay between two beds; the lower one was hard and made of straw, the upper soft and filled with feathers as light as down. Gerard tugged at it, but the experienced drunkard held on to it tightly without thinking. Gerard tried to sneak it away, but instinct proved too strong for him. So, he got out of bed and knelt down on his roommate's unguarded side, easily snatched the prize away, rolled it under the bed, and lay on one edge of it, wrapping the rest around his shoulders. Before he fell asleep, he often heard something grumbling and growling above him, which was somewhat satisfying. Thus, instinct was outsmarted, and victorious Reason lay content on feathers, not quite choking on dust.
At peep of day Gerard rose, flung the feather bed upon his snoring companion, and went in search of milk and air.
At daybreak, Gerard got up, tossed the feather bed over his snoring friend, and went out to find some milk and fresh air.
A cheerful voice hailed him in French: “What ho! you are up with the sun, comrade.”
A cheerful voice called out to him in French: “Hey there! You’re up with the sun, buddy.”
“He rises betimes that lies in a dog's lair,” answered Gerard crossly.
“He wakes up early if he’s living in a dog's den,” Gerard replied irritably.
“Courage, l'ami! le diable est mort,” was the instant reply. The soldier then told him his name was Denys, and he was passing from Flushing in Zealand to the Duke's French dominions; a change the more agreeable to him, as he should revisit his native place, and a host of pretty girls who had wept at his departure, and should hear French spoken again. “And who are you, and whither bound?”
“Cheer up, my friend! The devil is dead,” was the immediate response. The soldier then introduced himself as Denys, explaining that he was traveling from Flushing in Zealand to the Duke's territories in France; a move that pleased him even more since he would be returning to his hometown and seeing a bunch of lovely girls who had cried when he left, and he would get to hear French spoken again. “And who are you, and where are you headed?”
“My name is Gerard, and I am going to Rome,” said the more reserved Hollander, and in a way that invited no further confidences.
“My name is Gerard, and I'm heading to Rome,” said the more reserved Hollander, in a way that left no room for further sharing.
“All the better; we will go together as far as Burgundy.”
“All the better; we’ll go together as far as Burgundy.”
“That is not my road.”
"That's not my path."
“All roads take to Rome.”
“All roads lead to Rome.”
“Ay, but the shortest road thither is my way.”
“Ay, but the shortest way there is my path.”
“Well, then, it is I who must go out of my way a step for the sake of good company, for thy face likes me, and thou speakest French, or nearly.”
“Well, then, I guess I must make an effort for the sake of good company, because I like your face, and you speak French, or almost.”
“There go two words to that bargain,” said Gerard coldly. “I steer by proverbs, too. They do put old heads on young men's shoulders. 'Bon loup mauvais compagnon, dit le brebis;' and a soldier, they say, is near akin to a wolf.”
“There go two words to that deal,” said Gerard coldly. “I follow proverbs as well. They do give young people some wisdom. 'Good wolf, bad companion, says the sheep;' and they say a soldier is pretty much like a wolf.”
“They lie,” said Denys; “besides, if he is, 'les loups ne se mangent pas entre eux.'”
“They're lying,” said Denys; “besides, if he is, 'wolves don’t eat each other.'”
“Aye but, sir soldier, I am not a wolf; and thou knowest, a bien petite occasion se saisit le loup du mouton.'”
“Aye but, soldier, I am not a wolf; and you know, a small chance is what the wolf seizes from the sheep.”
“Let us drop wolves and sheep, being men; my meaning is, that a good soldier never pillages-a comrade. Come, young man, too much suspicion becomes not your years. They who travel should learn to read faces; methinks you might see lealty in mine sith I have seen it in yourn. Is it yon fat purse at your girdle you fear for?” (Gerard turned pale.) “Look hither!” and he undid his belt, and poured out of it a double handful of gold pieces, then returned them to their hiding-place. “There is a hostage for you,” said he; “carry you that, and let us be comrades,” and handed him his belt, gold and all.
“Let’s leave out the wolves and sheep talk since we’re all men here; what I mean is, a good soldier never loots a comrade. Come on, young man, being overly suspicious doesn’t suit you at your age. Those who travel should learn to read faces; I think you could see loyalty in mine since I’ve seen it in yours. Is it that fat purse on your belt that you’re worried about?” (Gerard turned pale.) “Look here!” He undid his belt and poured out a handful of gold coins, then put them back. “There’s a token for you,” he said; “take that, and let’s be comrades,” and he handed him his belt, gold and all.
Gerard stared. “If I am over prudent, you have not enow.” But he flushed and looked pleased at the other's trust in him.
Gerard stared. “If I'm too cautious, you don't have enough.” But he blushed and looked happy at the other's confidence in him.
“Bah! I can read faces; and so must you, or you'll never take your four bones safe to Rome.”
“Bah! I can read faces; and so should you, or you'll never get your four bones safely to Rome.”
“Soldier, you would find me a dull companion, for my heart is very heavy,” said Gerard, yielding.
“Soldier, you’d find me a boring companion, because my heart is really heavy,” said Gerard, giving in.
“I'll cheer you, mon gars.”
"I'll cheer for you, dude."
“I think you would,” said Gerard sweetly; “and sore need have I of a kindly voice in mine ear this day.”
“I think you would,” Gerard said sweetly, “and I really need a kind voice in my ear today.”
“Oh! no soul is sad alongside me. I lift up their poor little hearts with my consigne: 'Courage, tout le monde, le diable est mort.' Ha! ha!”
“Oh! No one is sad when they’re with me. I cheer up their poor little hearts with my motto: 'Stay strong, everyone, the devil is dead.' Ha! Ha!”
“So be it, then,” said Gerard. “But take back your belt, for I could never trust by halves. We will go together as far as Rhine, and God go with us both!”
“So be it, then,” said Gerard. “But take back your belt, because I could never trust halfway. We’ll travel together as far as the Rhine, and may God be with us both!”
“Amen!” said Denys, and lifted his cap. “En avant!”
“Amen!” Denys said, lifting his cap. “Let’s go!”
The pair trudged manfully on, and Denys enlivened the weary way. He chattered about battles and sieges, and things which were new to Gerard; and he was one of those who make little incidents wherever they go. He passed nobody without addressing them. “They don't understand it, but it wakes them up,” said he. But whenever they fell in with a monk or priest. He pulled a long face, and sought the reverend father's blessing, and fearlessly poured out on him floods of German words in such order as not to produce a single German sentence—He doffed his cap to every woman, high or low, he caught sight of, and with eagle eye discerned her best feature, and complimented her on it in his native tongue, well adapted to such matters; and at each carrion crow or magpie, down came his crossbow, and he would go a furlong off the road to circumvent it; and indeed he did shoot one old crow with laudable neatness and despatch, and carried it to the nearest hen-roost, and there slipped in and set it upon a nest. “The good-wife will say, 'Alack, here is Beelzebub ahatching of my eggs.'”
The two trudged on bravely, and Denys kept the tired journey lively. He talked about battles and sieges—subjects that were new to Gerard—and he was the kind of person who turned any situation into a little adventure. He greeted everyone they passed, saying, “They don't get it, but it wakes them up.” However, whenever they came across a monk or priest, he put on a serious face, sought the priest’s blessing, and boldly spoke a stream of German words that never quite formed a complete sentence. He tipped his hat to every woman, rich or poor, that he saw, and with a sharp eye, he noticed her best feature and complimented her in his native language, which was perfect for that sort of thing. Whenever he spotted a crow or magpie, he would ready his crossbow and go a distance off the road to get a shot at it. In fact, he successfully shot one old crow with impressive accuracy and took it to the nearest henhouse, where he sneaked in and placed it on a nest. “The good-wife will think, 'Oh dear, here’s Beelzebub hatching my eggs.'”
“No, you forget he is dead,” objected Gerard.
“No, you forget he’s dead,” Gerard said.
“So he is, so he is. But she doesn't know that, not having the luck to be acquainted with me, who carry the good news from city to city, uplifting men's hearts.”
“So he is, so he is. But she doesn’t know that, not having the chance to meet me, the one who brings good news from city to city, lifting men’s spirits.”
Such was Denys in time of peace.
Such was Denys during peaceful times.
Our travellers towards nightfall reached a village; it was a very small one, but contained a place of entertainment. They searched for it, and found a small house with barn and stables. In the former was the everlasting stove, and the clothes drying round it on lines, and a traveller or two sitting morose. Gerard asked for supper.
Our travelers reached a small village at dusk; it was quite tiny, but it had a restaurant. They looked for it and found a little house with a barn and stables. Inside, there was a constant stove, with clothes hanging to dry on lines around it, and a couple of gloomy travelers sitting nearby. Gerard asked for dinner.
“Supper? We have no time to cook for travellers; we only provide lodging, good lodging for man and beast. You can have some beer.”
“Supper? We don't have time to cook for travelers; we just offer a place to stay, a nice place for both people and animals. You can have some beer.”
“Madman, who, born in Holland, sought other lands!” snorted Gerard in Dutch. The landlady started.
“Madman, who, born in Holland, sought other lands!” snorted Gerard in Dutch. The landlady jumped.
“What gibberish is that?” asked she, and crossed herself with looks of superstitious alarm. “You can buy what you like in the village, and cook it in our oven; but, prithee, mutter no charms nor sorceries here, good man; don't ye now, it do make my flesh creep so.”
“What nonsense is that?” she asked, crossing herself with a look of superstitious fear. “You can buy whatever you want in the village and cook it in our oven; but please, don’t mumble any spells or magic here, good sir; it really gives me the creeps.”
They scoured the village for food, and ended by supping on roasted eggs and brown bread.
They searched the village for food and ended up having roasted eggs and brown bread for dinner.
At a very early hour their chambermaid came for them. It was a rosy-cheeked old fellow with a lanthorn.
At an early hour, their maid came to get them. It was a rosy-cheeked older man with a lantern.
They followed him. He led them across a dirty farmyard, where they had much ado to pick their steps, and brought them into a cow-house. There, on each side of every cow, was laid a little clean straw, and a tied bundle of ditto for a pillow. The old man looked down on this his work with paternal pride. Not so Gerard. “What, do you set Christian men to lie among cattle?”
They followed him. He led them through a muddy farmyard, where they had to be careful about where they stepped, and brought them into a barn. There, on each side of every cow, was a little clean straw and a tied bundle of the same for a pillow. The old man looked down at his work with fatherly pride. Not Gerard. “What, are you really making Christian men lie among cattle?”
“Well, it is hard upon the poor beasts. They have scarce room to turn.”
“Well, it's tough for the poor animals. They hardly have any space to move.”
“Oh! what, it is not hard on us, then?”
“Oh! What, is it not tough on us, then?”
“Where is the hardship? I have lain among them all my life. Look at me! I am fourscore, and never had a headache in all my born days—all along of lying among the kye. Bless your silly head, kine's breath is ten times sweeter to drink nor Christians'. You try it!” and he slammed the bedroom door.
“Where's the hardship? I’ve been around them my whole life. Look at me! I’m eighty, and I've never had a headache in all my life—it's all because I’ve been lying among the cows. You wouldn't believe it, but cow's breath is ten times sweeter than that of humans. You should give it a try!” and he slammed the bedroom door.
“Denys, where are you?” whined Gerard.
“Denys, where are you?” whined Gerard.
“Here, on her other side.”
“Here, on her other side.”
“What are you doing?”
"What are you up to?"
“I know not; but as near as I can guess, I think I must be going to sleep. What are you at?
“I don’t know; but as far as I can guess, I think I must be falling asleep. What are you up to?
“I am saying my prayers.”
“I’m saying my prayers.”
“Forget me not in them!”
"Don't forget me in them!"
“Is it likely? Denys, I shall soon have done: do not go to sleep, I want to talk.
“Is it likely? Denys, I’ll be finished soon: don’t go to sleep, I want to chat.”
“Despatch then! for I feel—augh like floating-in the sky on a warm cloud.”
“Send it out then! because I feel—ugh like I'm floating in the sky on a warm cloud.”
“Denys!”
“Denys!”
“Augh! eh! hallo! is it time to get up?”
“Ugh! Hey! Is it time to get up?”
“Alack, no. There, I hurried my orisons to talk; and look at you, going to sleep! We shall be starved before morning, having no coverlets.”
“Alas, no. There I rushed my prayers to speak; and look at you, falling asleep! We’ll be starving by morning, with no blankets.”
“Well, you know what to do.”
“Well, you know what to do.”
“Not I, in sooth.”
"Not me, truly."
“Cuddle the cow.”
“Cuddle the cow.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“Burrow in the straw, then. You must be very new to the world, to grumble at this. How would you bear to lie on the field of battle on a frosty night, as I did t'other day, stark naked, with nothing to keep me warm but the carcass of a fellow I had been and helped kill?”
“Crawl into the straw, then. You must be really new to all this if you're complaining. How would you manage to lie on the battlefield on a cold night, like I did the other day, completely naked, with nothing to keep me warm except the body of someone I had helped kill?”
“Horrible! horrible! Tell me all about it! Oh, but this is sweet.”
“Horrible! Horrible! Tell me everything! Oh, but this is nice.”
“Well, we had a little battle in Brabant, and won a little victory, but it cost us dear; several arbalestriers turned their toes up, and I among them.”
“Well, we had a small battle in Brabant and won a minor victory, but it was costly; several crossbowmen lost their lives, and I was one of them.”
“Killed, Denys? come now!”
“Killed, Denys? Come on!”
“Dead as mutton. Stuck full of pike-holes till the blood ran out of me, like the good wine of Macon from the trodden grapes. It is right bounteous in me to pour the tale in minstrel phrase, for—augh—I am sleepy. Augh—now where was I?”
“Dead as a doornail. Full of holes until the blood poured out of me, like the good wine from Macon from crushed grapes. It’s generous of me to tell this story in a poetic way, because—ugh—I am so tired. Ugh—now where was I?”
“Left dead on the field of battle, bleeding like a pig; that is to say, like grapes, or something; go on, prithee go on, 'tis a sin to sleep in the midst of a good story.”
“Left dead on the battlefield, bleeding like crazy; that is to say, like grapes, or something; come on, please continue, it’s a shame to fall asleep in the middle of a good story.”
“Granted. Well, some of those vagabonds, that strip the dead soldier on the field of glory, came and took every rag off me; they wrought me no further ill, because there was no need.”
“Fine. Well, some of those wanderers, who rob the fallen soldier on the battlefield, came and took everything off me; they didn’t do anything else to me because there was no need.”
“No; you were dead.”
“No; you were gone.”
“C'est convenu. This must have been at sundown; and with the night came a shrewd frost that barkened the blood on my wounds, and stopped all the rivulets that were running from my heart, and about midnight I awoke as from a trance.'
“It's agreed. This must have been at sunset; and with the night came a sharp frost that numbed my wounds and stopped all the streams that were flowing from my heart, and around midnight I woke up as if from a trance."
“And thought you were in heaven?” asked Gerard eagerly, being a youth inoculated with monkish tales.
“And you thought you were in heaven?” asked Gerard eagerly, a young guy influenced by monkish stories.
“Too frost-bitten for that, mon gars; besides, I heard the wounded groaning on all sides, so I knew I was in the old place. I saw I could not live the night through without cover. I groped about shivering and shivering; at last one did suddenly leave groaning. 'You are sped,' said I, so made up to him, and true enough he was dead, but warm, you know. I took my lord in my arms, but was too weak to carry him, so rolled with him into a ditch hard by; and there my comrades found me in the morning properly stung with nettles, and hugging a dead Fleming for the bare life.”
“Too cold for that, buddy; besides, I heard the wounded groaning all around, so I knew I was in the same place. I realized I couldn't make it through the night without some shelter. I stumbled around, shivering and shaking; finally, someone stopped groaning. 'You're done for,' I said, and went over to him, and sure enough, he was dead, but warm, you know. I picked him up, but I was too weak to carry him, so I rolled into a ditch nearby with him; and there my friends found me in the morning, covered in stinging nettles, holding onto a dead guy just to survive.”
Gerard shuddered. “And this is war; this is the chosen theme of poets and troubadours, and Reden Ryckers. Truly was it said by the men of old, dulce bellum inexpertis.”
Gerard shuddered. “And this is war; this is the theme chosen by poets and troubadours, and Reden Ryckers. It was truly said by the old men, sweet is war to those who have not experienced it.”
“Tu dis?”
"You say?"
“I say-oh, what stout hearts some men have!”
“I say—oh, what brave hearts some men have!”
“N'est-ce pas, p'tit? So after that sort—thing—this sort thing is heaven. Soft—warm—good company, comradancow—cou'age—diable—m-ornk!”
“N'est-ce pas, p'tit? So after that sort of thing—this sort of thing is heaven. Soft—warm—good company, comradery—courage—devil—morning!”
And the glib tongue was still for some hours.
And the smooth talker was quiet for a few hours.
In the morning Gerard was wakened by a liquid hitting his eye, and it was Denys employing the cow's udder as a squirt.
In the morning, Gerard was awakened by liquid splashing in his eye, and it was Denys using the cow's udder as a squirt.
“Oh, fie!” cried Gerard, “to waste the good milk;” and he took a horn out of his wallet. “Fill this! but indeed I see not what right we have to meddle with her milk at all.”
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Gerard, “to waste the good milk;” and he took a horn out of his bag. “Fill this! But honestly, I don’t see what right we have to mess with her milk at all.”
“Make your mind easy! Last night la camarade was not nice; but what then, true friendship dispenses with ceremony. To-day we make as free with her.”
“Don’t worry! Last night, the friend wasn’t really nice; but so what, true friendship doesn’t need formality. Today, we can be casual with her.”
“Why, what did she do, poor thing?”
“Why, what did she do, poor thing?”
“Ate my pillow.”
"Bit my pillow."
“Ha! ha!”
"LOL!"
“On waking I had to hunt for my head, and found it down in the stable gutter. She ate our pillow from us, we drink our pillow from her. A votre sante, madame; et sans rancune;” and the dog drank her milk to her own health.
“Upon waking, I had to search for my head and found it down in the stable gutter. She took our pillow from us, and we drink our pillow from her. Cheers to your health, madam; and no hard feelings;” and the dog drank her milk for her own health.
“The ancient was right though,” said Gerard. “Never have I risen so refreshed since I left my native land. Henceforth let us shun great towns, and still lie in a convent or a cow-house; for I'd liever sleep on fresh straw, than on linen well washed six months agone; and the breath of kine it is sweeter than that of Christians, let alone the garlic, which men and women folk affect, but cowen abhor from, and so do I, St. Bavon be my witness!”
“The old guy was right,” said Gerard. “I’ve never felt so refreshed since I left my homeland. From now on, let’s avoid big cities and just relax in a convent or a cow shed; I’d rather sleep on fresh straw than on linen that was washed six months ago. The smell of cows is much better than that of people, not to mention the garlic that both men and women love, but cows can’t stand it, and neither can I, St. Bavon be my witness!”
The soldier eyed him from head to foot: “Now but for that little tuft on your chin I should take you for a girl; and by the finger-nails of St. Luke, no ill-favoured one neither.”
The soldier looked him up and down: “If it weren’t for that little tuft on your chin, I would think you were a girl; and I swear on the finger-nails of St. Luke, not a bad-looking one either.”
These three towns proved types and repeated themselves with slight variations for many a weary league; but even when he could get neither a convent nor a cow-house, Gerard learned in time to steel himself to the inevitable, and to emulate his comrade, whom he looked on as almost superhuman for hardihood of body and spirit.
These three towns were similar and kept appearing with slight changes for many tiring miles; but even when he couldn't find either a convent or a barn, Gerard eventually learned to toughen himself to the unavoidable, and to mimic his friend, whom he saw as almost superhuman for his strength of body and character.
There was, however, a balance to all this veneration.
There was, however, a balance to all this admiration.
Denys, like his predecessor Achilles, had his weak part, his very weak part, thought Gerard.
Denys, just like his predecessor Achilles, had his weak spot, his really weak spot, Gerard thought.
His foible was “woman.”
His flaw was “woman.”
Whatever he was saying or doing, he stopped short at sight of a farthingale, and his whole soul became occupied with that garment and its inmate till they had disappeared; and sometimes for a good while after.
Whatever he was saying or doing, he paused at the sight of a farthingale, and his entire attention became focused on that garment and its wearer until they had vanished; and sometimes for quite a while afterward.
He often put Gerard to the blush by talking his amazing German to such females as he caught standing or sitting indoors or out, at which they stared; and when he met a peasant girl on the road, he took off his cap to her and saluted her as if she was a queen; the invariable effect of which was, that she suddenly drew herself up quite stiff like a soldier on parade, and wore a forbidding countenance.
He often embarrassed Gerard by speaking his impressive German to any women he saw, whether they were indoors or outside, making them stare at him. And when he met a peasant girl on the road, he would take off his hat and greet her as if she were a queen; the usual result was that she would suddenly stand up straight like a soldier on parade and put on a serious face.
“They drive me to despair,” said Denys. “Is that a just return to a civil bonnetade? They are large, they are fair, but stupid as swans.”
“They drive me to despair,” said Denys. “Is that a fair response to a civil greeting? They’re big, they’re attractive, but as dumb as swans.”
“What breeding can you expect from women that wear no hose?” inquired Gerard; “and some of them no shoon? They seem to me reserved and modest, as becomes their sex, and sober, whereas the men are little better than beer-barrels. Would you have them brazen as well as hoseless?”
“What kind of offspring can you expect from women who don’t wear stockings?” asked Gerard. “And some of them don’t even wear shoes? They seem reserved and modest, which fits their role, and serious, while the men are nothing more than walking kegs. Would you want them to be bold along with being bare-legged?”
“A little affability adorns even beauty,” sighed Denys.
“A little friendliness enhances even beauty,” sighed Denys.
“Then let these alone, sith they are not to your taste,” retorted Gerard. “What, is there no sweet face in Burgundy that would pale to see you so wrapped up in strange women?”
“Then leave them alone, since they aren't to your taste,” Gerard shot back. “What? Is there not a pretty face in Burgundy that would be upset to see you so involved with strange women?”
“Half-a-dozen that would cry their eyes out.”
“Six who would cry their eyes out.”
“Well then!”
"Well then!"
“But it is a long way to Burgundy.”
“But it’s a long way to Burgundy.”
“Ay, to the foot, but not to the heart. I am there, sleeping and waking, and almost every minute of the day.”
“Ay, to the foot, but not to the heart. I am there, sleeping and waking, and almost every minute of the day.”
“In Burgundy? Why, I thought you had never—”
“In Burgundy? I thought you had never—”
“In Burgundy?” cried Gerard contemptuously. “No, in sweet Sevenbergen. Ah! well-a-day! well-a-day!”
“In Burgundy?” Gerard exclaimed with disdain. “No, in lovely Sevenbergen. Ah! What a day! What a day!”
Many such dialogues as this passed between the pair on the long and weary road, and neither could change the other.
Many conversations like this took place between the two on the long and tiring road, and neither could change the other.
One day about noon they reached a town of some pretensions, and Gerard was glad, for he wanted to buy a pair of shoes; his own were quite worn out. They soon found a shop that displayed a goodly array, and made up to it, and would have entered it, but the shopkeeper sat on the doorstep taking a nap, and was so fat as to block up the narrow doorway; the very light could hardly struggle past his “too, too solid flesh,” much less a carnal customer.
One day around noon, they arrived at a town that seemed to have some style, and Gerard was happy because he needed to buy a new pair of shoes; his old ones were completely worn out. They quickly found a store with a nice selection and approached it, but the shopkeeper was sitting on the doorstep taking a nap and was so overweight that he blocked the narrow doorway. The light could barely make its way past his "too, too solid flesh," let alone let a customer inside.
My fair readers, accustomed, when they go shopping, to be met half way with nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, and waved into a seat, while almost at the same instant an eager shopman flings himself half across the counter in a semi-circle to learn their commands, can best appreciate this mediaeval Teuton, who kept a shop as a dog keeps a kennel, and sat at the exclusion of custom snoring like a pig.
My dear readers, used to being greeted with nods, smiles, and gestures when they go shopping, and almost immediately offered a seat while an eager shopkeeper rushes over to take their orders, can truly understand this medieval German shopkeeper who ran his store like a dog in a kennel, sitting there, ignoring customers and snoring like a pig.
Denys and Gerard stood and contemplated this curiosity; emblem, permit me to remark, of the lets and hindrances to commerce that characterized his epoch.
Denys and Gerard stood there, pondering this strange sight; it’s a symbol, if I may point out, of the obstacles and challenges to trade that defined his time.
“Jump over him!”
"Leap over him!"
“The door is too low.”
“The door is too short.”
“March through him!”
"Charge through him!"
“The man is too thick.”
“The guy is too dense.”
“What is the coil?” inquired a mumbling voice from the interior; apprentice with his mouth full.
“What’s the coil?” asked a mumbling voice from inside; apprentice with his mouth full.
“We want to get into your shop?”
“We want to come into your shop?”
“What for, in Heaven's name??!!!”
“What for, in God's name??!!!”
“Shoon, lazy bones!”
“Shoon, slacker!”
The ire of the apprentice began to rise at such an explanation. “And could ye find no hour out of all the twelve to come pestering us for shoon, but the one little, little hour my master takes his nap, and I sit down to my dinner, when all the rest of the world is full long ago?”
The apprentice's anger started to grow at such an explanation. “And couldn’t you find any time out of the entire twelve to bother us for shoes, but the one tiny hour when my master takes his nap, and I sit down to eat my dinner, while the rest of the world is long done?”
Denys heard, but could not follow the sense. “Waste no more time talking their German gibberish,” said he; “take out thy knife and tickle his fat ribs.”
Denys heard but couldn’t understand what was being said. “Stop wasting time with their German nonsense,” he said; “grab your knife and poke his chubby ribs.”
“That I will not,” said Gerard.
“Not gonna happen,” Gerard said.
“Then here goes; I'll prong him with this.”
“Okay, here we go; I'll poke him with this.”
Gerard seized the mad fellow's arm in dismay, for he had been long enough in the country to guess that the whole town would take part in any brawl with the native against a stranger. But Denys twisted away from him, and the cross-bow bolt in his hand was actually on the road to the sleeper's ribs; but at that very moment two females crossed the road towards him; he saw the blissful vision, and instantly forgot what he was about, and awaited their approach with unreasonable joy.
Gerard grabbed the crazy guy's arm in panic, knowing well enough that the whole town would get involved in any fight between a local and an outsider. But Denys pulled away from him, and the crossbow bolt in his hand was aimed straight at the sleeper's ribs; however, just then two women walked across the street towards him; he saw the beautiful sight and immediately forgot what he was doing, waiting for them to come closer with unexplainable joy.
Though companions, they were not equals, except in attractiveness to a Burgundian crossbow man; for one was very tall, the other short, and by one of those anomalies which society, however primitive, speedily establishes, the long one held up the little one's tail. The tall one wore a plain linen coif on her head, a little grogram cloak over her shoulders, a grey kirtle, and a short farthingale or petticoat of bright red cloth, and feet and legs quite bare, though her arms were veiled in tight linen sleeves.
Though they were friends, they weren't equals, except in how attractive they were to a Burgundian crossbowman; one was very tall and the other was short. According to one of those oddities that society, no matter how simple, quickly establishes, the tall one held up the short one's tail. The tall one wore a plain linen cap on her head, a little grogram cloak over her shoulders, a grey dress, and a short farthingale or petticoat made of bright red fabric, with her feet and legs completely bare, although her arms were covered in tight linen sleeves.
The other a kirtle broadly trimmed with fur, her arms in double sleeves, whereof the inner of yellow satin clung to the skin; the outer, all befurred, were open at the inside of the elbow, and so the arm passed through and left them dangling. Velvet head-dress, huge purse at girdle, gorgeous train, bare legs. And thus they came on, the citizen's wife strutting, and the maid gliding after, holding her mistress's train devoutly in both hands, and bending and winding her lithe body prettily enough to do it. Imagine (if not pressed for time) a bantam, with a guineahen stepping obsequious at its stately heel.
The other wore a kirtle that was heavily trimmed with fur, with her arms in double sleeves; the inner sleeve made of clingy yellow satin and the outer sleeve completely covered in fur, open at the inside of the elbow, allowing her arm to slide through and leaving the sleeves to dangle. She had a velvet headpiece, a big purse at her waist, a stunning train, and bare legs. The citizen's wife strutted confidently, while the maid glided behind her, holding her mistress's train with both hands, bending and twisting her graceful body just right to manage it. Imagine, if you have a moment, a little rooster with a guinea hen dutifully following at its elegant heel.
This pageant made straight for the shoemaker's shop. Denys louted low; the worshipful lady nodded graciously, but rapidly, having business on hand, or rather on foot; for in a moment she poked the point of her little shoe into the sleeper, and worked it round in him like a gimlet, till with a long snarl he woke. The incarnate shutter rising and grumbling vaguely, the lady swept in and deigned him no further notice. He retreated to his neighbour's shop, the tailor's, and sitting on the step, protected it from the impertinence of morning calls. Neighbours should be neighbourly.
This parade headed straight for the shoemaker's shop. Denys bowed low; the respected lady nodded graciously, but quickly, as she had things to do, or rather, steps to take; because in a moment she poked the tip of her little shoe into the sleeper and twisted it like a screw, until he finally woke with a long groan. The sleepy figure stirred and grumbled vaguely, and the lady walked in without giving him another glance. He moved to his neighbor's shop, the tailor's, and sat on the step, defending it from the annoyance of morning visitors. Neighbors should be friendly.
Denys and Gerard followed the dignity into the shop, where sat the apprentice at dinner; the maid stood outside with her insteps crossed, leaning against the wall, and tapping it with her nails.
Denys and Gerard walked into the shop, where the apprentice was having his meal; the maid stood outside with her feet crossed, leaning against the wall and tapping it with her nails.
“Those, yonder,” said the dignity briefly, pointing with an imperious little white hand to some yellow shoes gilded at the toe. While the apprentice stood stock still neutralized by his dinner and his duty, Denys sprang at the shoes, and brought them to her; she smiled, and calmly seating herself, protruded her foot, shod, but hoseless, and scented. Down went Denys on his knees, and drew off her shoe, and tried the new ones on the white skin devoutly. Finding she had a willing victim, she abused the opportunity, tried first one pair, then another, then the first again, and so on, balancing and hesitating for about half an hour, to Gerard's disgust, and Denys's weak delight. At last she was fitted, and handed two pair of yellow and one pair of red shoes out to her servant. Then was heard a sigh. It burst from the owner of the shop: he had risen from slumber, and was now hovering about, like a partridge near her brood in danger.
“Those over there,” said the dignified woman briefly, pointing with a commanding little white hand to some yellow shoes with gilded toes. While the apprentice stood frozen, caught between his meal and his responsibilities, Denys jumped toward the shoes and brought them to her; she smiled, sat down calmly, and stretched out her foot, still in a shoe but without a stocking, and scented. Denys knelt down and took off her shoe, trying the new ones on her bare white foot with reverence. Realizing she had a willing participant, she took advantage of the moment, trying on one pair, then another, then the first again, and so on, balancing and hesitating for about half an hour, much to Gerard's irritation and Denys's feeble joy. Finally, she found the right fit and handed two pairs of yellow shoes and one pair of red shoes to her servant. Then a sigh was heard. It came from the shopkeeper, who had woken from his nap and was now flitting around like a partridge near her chicks in danger.
“There go all my coloured shoes,” said he, as they disappeared in the girl's apron.
“There go all my colored shoes,” he said, as they vanished into the girl's apron.
The lady departed: Gerard fitted himself with a stout pair, asked the price, paid it without a word, and gave his old ones to a beggar in the street, who blessed him in the marketplace, and threw them furiously down a well in the suburbs. The comrades left the shop, and in it two melancholy men, that looked, and even talked, as if they had been robbed wholesale.
The lady left: Gerard got himself a strong pair, asked the price, paid it without saying a word, and handed his old ones to a beggar on the street, who blessed him in the marketplace and angrily tossed them down a well in the suburbs. The friends exited the shop, leaving behind two gloomy men who looked and even spoke as if they had been completely robbed.
“My shoon are sore worn,” said Denys, grinding his teeth; “but I'll go barefoot till I reach France, ere I'll leave my money with such churls as these.”
“My shoes are so worn out,” Denys said, gritting his teeth; “but I'll go barefoot until I get to France before I leave my money with scoundrels like these.”
The Dutchman replied calmly, “They seem indifferent well sewn.”
The Dutchman replied calmly, “They seem pretty well made.”
As they drew near the Rhine, they passed through forest after forest, and now for the first time ugly words sounded in travellers' mouths, seated around stoves. “Thieves!” “black gangs!” “cut-throats!” etc.
As they got closer to the Rhine, they went through one forest after another, and for the first time, harsh words were heard among the travelers gathered around the stoves. "Thieves!" "Black gangs!" "Cut-throats!" etc.
The very rustics were said to have a custom hereabouts of murdering the unwary traveller in these gloomy woods, whose dark and devious winding enabled those who were familiar with them to do deeds of rapine and blood undetected, or if detected, easily to baffle pursuit.
The locals were said to have a habit of attacking unsuspecting travelers in these dark woods, where the twisted paths made it easy for those who knew them to commit robbery and violence without being caught, or if they were caught, to easily escape.
Certain it was, that every clown they met carried, whether for offence or defence, a most formidable weapon; a light axe, with a short pike at the head, and a long slender handle of ash or yew, well seasoned. These the natives could all throw with singular precision, so as to make the point strike an object at several yard's distance, or could slay a bullock at hand with a stroke of the blade. Gerard bought one and practised with it. Denys quietly filed and ground his bolt sharp, whistling the whilst; and when they entered a gloomy wood, he would unsling his crossbow and carry it ready for action; but not so much like a traveller fearing an attack, as a sportsman watchful not to miss a snap shot.
It was clear that every clown they encountered carried a pretty intimidating weapon, a light axe with a short spike at the top and a long, slim handle made of ash or yew, well seasoned. The locals could throw these with impressive accuracy, hitting a target several yards away, or could take down a bullock up close with a single strike of the blade. Gerard bought one and practiced with it. Denys quietly filed and sharpened his bolt, whistling as he worked; and when they entered a dark forest, he would take his crossbow off his back and hold it ready for action, not so much like a traveler expecting trouble, but more like a hunter eager not to miss a quick shot.
One day, being in a forest a few leagues from Dusseldorf, as Gerard was walking like one in a dream, thinking of Margaret, and scarce seeing the road he trode, his companion laid a hand on his shoulder, and strung his crossbow with glittering eye. “Hush!” said he, in a low whisper that startled Gerard more than thunder. Gerard grasped his axe tight, and shook a little: he heard a rustling in the wood hard by, and at the same moment Denys sprang into the wood, and his crossbow went to his shoulder, even as he jumped. Twang! went the metal string; and after an instant's suspense he roared, “Run forward, guard the road, he is hit! he is hit!”
One day, while walking in a forest a few miles from Düsseldorf, Gerard was lost in thought about Margaret, barely paying attention to the path beneath his feet. Suddenly, his companion placed a hand on his shoulder and, with a gleam in his eye, readied his crossbow. “Hush!” he whispered, startling Gerard more than a clap of thunder. Gerard tightened his grip on his axe and trembled slightly as he heard something rustling nearby. At that moment, Denys leaped into the woods, raising his crossbow as he did. Twang! went the metal string, and after a brief pause, he shouted, “Run ahead, guard the road, he’s been hit! He’s been hit!”
Gerard darted forward, and as he ran a young bear burst out of the wood right upon him; finding itself intercepted, it went upon its hind legs with a snarl, and though not half grown, opened formidable jaws and long claws. Gerard, in a fury of excitement and agitation, flung himself on it, and delivered a tremendous blow on its nose with his axe, and the creature staggered; another, and it lay grovelling, with Gerard hacking it.
Gerard rushed forward, and as he ran, a young bear jumped out of the woods right in front of him. Finding itself blocked, it stood on its hind legs with a snarl, and even though it was still young, it showed off its large jaws and long claws. Filled with excitement and anxiety, Gerard threw himself at it and landed a huge hit on its nose with his axe, causing the bear to stumble. With another strike, it fell to the ground, and Gerard kept hacking at it.
“Hallo! stop! you are mad to spoil the meat.”
“Hey! Stop! You're crazy to ruin the meat.”
“I took it for a robber,” said Gerard, panting. “I mean, I had made ready for a robber, so I could not hold my hand.”
“I thought it was a robber,” said Gerard, breathing heavily. “I mean, I had prepared for a robber, so I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Ay, these chattering travellers have stuffed your head full of thieves and assassins; they have not got a real live robber in their whole nation. Nay, I'll carry the beast; bear thou my crossbow.”
“Aye, these talkative travelers have filled your mind with stories of thieves and assassins; they don’t have a single real robber in their entire country. No, I’ll carry the beast; you take my crossbow.”
“We will carry it by turns, then,” said Gerard, “for 'tis a heavy load: poor thing, how its blood drips. Why did we slay it?”
“We'll take turns carrying it, then,” said Gerard, “because it's a heavy load: poor thing, look at how its blood is dripping. Why did we kill it?”
“For supper and the reward the baillie of the next town shall give us.”
“For dinner and the reward that the bailiff of the next town will give us.”
“And for that it must die, when it had but just begun to live; and perchance it hath a mother that will miss it sore this night, and loves it as ours love us; more than mine does me.”
“And for that, it must die, just when it was starting to live; and maybe it has a mother who will miss it deeply tonight, loving it as ours love us; more than mine loves me.”
“What, know you not that his mother was caught in a pitfall last month, and her skin is now at the tanner's? and his father was stuck full of cloth-yard shafts t'other day, and died like Julius Caesar, with his hands folded on his bosom, and a dead dog in each of them?”
“What, don’t you know that his mother was caught in a trap last month, and her skin is now at the tanner's? And his father was shot full of arrows the other day and died like Julius Caesar, with his hands folded on his chest and a dead dog in each of them?”
But Gerard would not view it jestingly. “Why, then,” said he, “we have killed one of God's creatures that was all alone in the world-as I am this day, in this strange land.”
But Gerard wouldn’t see it as a joke. “Why, then,” he said, “we have killed one of God’s creatures that was all alone in the world—just like I am today, in this strange land.”
“You young milksop,” roared Denys, “these things must not be looked at so, or not another bow would be drawn nor quarrel fly in forest nor battlefield. Why, one of your kidney consorting with a troop of pikemen should turn them to a row of milk-pails; it is ended, to Rome thou goest not alone, for never wouldst thou reach the Alps in a whole skin. I take thee to Remiremont, my native place, and there I marry thee to my young sister, she is blooming as a peach. Thou shakest thy head? ah! I forgot; thou lovest elsewhere, and art a one woman man, a creature to me scarce conceivable. Well then I shall find thee, not a wife, nor a leman, but a friend; some honest Burgundian who shall go with thee as far as Lyons; and much I doubt that honest fellow will be myself, into whose liquor thou has dropped sundry powders to make me love thee; for erst I endured not doves in doublet and hose. From Lyons, I say, I can trust thee by ship to Italy, which being by all accounts the very stronghold of milksops, thou wilt there be safe: they will hear thy words, and make thee their duke in a twinkling.”
“You young softie,” shouted Denys, “you can’t look at things like that, or no one will draw a bow nor start a fight in the forest or on the battlefield. Honestly, someone like you hanging out with a group of pikemen would just turn them into a bunch of weaklings; it’s over for you. You’re not going to Rome alone because you’d never make it to the Alps in one piece. I’m taking you to Remiremont, my hometown, and there I’ll marry you to my younger sister, who’s as fresh as a peach. You shake your head? Oh, right; you’re in love with someone else and you’re a one-woman man, which seems pretty rare to me. Well then, I’ll find you not a wife or a lover, but a friend; some honest Burgundy guy who will travel with you as far as Lyon; and I seriously doubt that honest fellow will be me, considering you’ve put all sorts of stuff in my drink to make me love you; I never liked doves in doublets and hose. From Lyon, I can trust you to take a ship to Italy, which seems to be the ultimate stronghold of softies, so you’ll be safe there: they’ll listen to your words and make you their duke in no time.”
Gerard sighed. “In sooth I love not to think of this Dusseldorf, where we are to part company, good friend.”
Gerard sighed. “Honestly, I really don’t want to think about this Dusseldorf, where we're going to say goodbye, good friend.”
They walked silently, each thinking of the separation at hand; the thought checked trifling conversation, and at these moments it is a relief to do something, however insignificant. Gerard asked Denys to lend him a bolt. “I have often shot with a long bow, but never with one of these!”
They walked quietly, each pondering the upcoming separation; the thought stifled any small talk, and in these moments, it’s a relief to do something, no matter how trivial. Gerard asked Denys to lend him a bolt. “I’ve often shot with a longbow, but never with one of these!”
“Draw thy knife and cut this one out of the cub,” said Denys slily.
“Draw your knife and cut this one out of the cub,” Denys said slyly.
“Nay, Day, I want a clean one.”
“Nah, Day, I want a clean one.”
Denys gave him three out of his quiver.
Denys gave him three from his quiver.
Gerard strung the bow, and levelled it at a bough that had fallen into the road at some distance. The power of the instrument surprised him; the short but thick steel bow jarred him to the very heel as it went off, and the swift steel shaft was invisible in its passage; only the dead leaves, with which November had carpeted the narrow road, flew about on the other side of the bough.
Gerard pulled back the bowstring and aimed it at a branch that had fallen on the road some distance away. He was surprised by the power of the bow; the short but thick steel bow jolted him all the way down to his heel when it released, and the fast steel arrow disappeared during its flight; only the dead leaves, scattered by November across the narrow road, fluttered around on the other side of the branch.
“Ye aimed a thought too high,” said Denys.
“You aimed a thought too high,” said Denys.
“What a deadly thing! no wonder it is driving out the longbow—to Martin's much discontent.”
“What a lethal thing! No wonder it’s replacing the longbow—much to Martin’s discontent.”
“Ay, lad,” said Denys triumphantly, “it gains ground every day, in spite of their laws and their proclamations to keep up the yewen bow, because forsooth their grandsires shot with it, knowing no better. You see, Gerard, war is not pastime. Men will shoot at their enemies with the hittingest arm and the killingest, not with the longest and missingest.”
“Aye, kid,” Denys said triumphantly, “it's gaining traction every day, despite their laws and proclamations to uphold the yew bow, because their ancestors used it, not knowing any better. You see, Gerard, war isn’t a game. Men will shoot at their enemies with the most effective weapon and the deadliest, not with the longest and least accurate.”
“Then these new engines I hear of will put both bows down; for these with a pinch of black dust, and a leaden ball, and a child's finger, shall slay you Mars and Goliath, and the Seven Champions.”
“Then these new engines I'm hearing about will make both bows fall; because with a bit of black powder, a lead ball, and a child's finger, you'll be taken down, Mars and Goliath, and the Seven Champions.”
“Pooh! pooh!” said Denys warmly; “petrone nor harquebuss shall ever put down Sir Arbalest. Why, we can shoot ten times while they are putting their charcoal and their lead into their leathern smoke belchers, and then kindling their matches. All that is too fumbling for the field of battle; there a soldier's weapon needs be aye ready, like his heart.”
“Pooh! pooh!” Denys said with enthusiasm; “a cannon or a musket will never take down Sir Arbalest. Look, we can fire ten shots while they’re loading their gunpowder and lead into their smoky leather guns and lighting their matches. All that is too clumsy for the battlefield; a soldier's weapon needs to be always ready, just like his heart.”
Gerard did not answer, for his ear was attracted by a sound behind them. It was a peculiar sound, too, like something heavy, but not hard, rushing softly over the dead leaves. He turned round with some little curiosity. A colossal creature was coming down the road at about sixty paces' distance.
Gerard didn’t reply because he heard a sound behind them. It was an unusual noise, almost like something heavy but soft, moving gently over the fallen leaves. He turned around out of curiosity. A massive creature was approaching down the road, about sixty paces away.
He looked at it in a sort of calm stupor at first, but the next moment, he turned ashy pale.
He stared at it in a kind of calm daze at first, but the next moment, he went ashy pale.
“Denys!” he cried. “Oh, God! Denys!”
“Denys!” he shouted. “Oh, God! Denys!”
Denys whirled round.
Denys spun around.
It was a bear as big as a cart-horse.
It was a bear as big as a horse.
It was tearing along with its huge head down, running on a hot scent.
It was racing with its massive head lowered, following a strong scent.
The very moment he saw it Denys said in a sickening whisper—
The moment he saw it, Denys said in a chilling whisper—
“THE CUB!”
“THE CUB!”
Oh! the concentrated horror of that one word, whispered hoarsely, with dilating eyes! For in that syllable it all flashed upon them both like a sudden stroke of lightning in the dark—the bloody trail, the murdered cub, the mother upon them, and it. DEATH.
Oh! the intense terror of that one word, whispered hoarsely, with widening eyes! Because in that syllable, everything hit them both like a sudden flash of lightning in the dark—the bloody path, the murdered cub, the mother coming at them, and it. DEATH.
All this in a moment of time. The next, she saw them. Huge as she was, she seemed to double herself (it was her long hair bristling with rage): she raised her head big as a hull's, her swine-shaped jaws opened wide at them, her eyes turned to blood and flame, and she rushed upon them, scattering the leaves about her like a whirlwind as she came.
All this in an instant. The next moment, she saw them. As big as she was, she felt like she doubled in size (it was her long hair standing on end with anger): she lifted her head, massive like a ship's hull, her pig-like jaws gaping at them, her eyes flashing with rage, and she charged at them, sending leaves flying around her like a tornado as she approached.
“Shoot!” screamed Denys, but Gerard stood shaking from head to foot, useless.
“Shoot!” yelled Denys, but Gerard stood there trembling all over, doing nothing.
“Shoot, man! ten thousand devils, shoot! too late! Tree! tree!” and he dropped the cub, pushed Gerard across the road, and flew to the first tree and climbed it, Gerard the same on his side; and as they fled, both men uttered inhuman howls like savage creatures grazed by death.
“Crap, man! Ten thousand demons, hurry up! Too late! Tree! Tree!” He dropped the cub, shoved Gerard across the road, and raced to the nearest tree, with Gerard doing the same on his side; as they ran, both men released terrifying howls like wild animals cornered by death.
With all their speed one or other would have been torn to fragments at the foot of his tree; but the bear stopped a moment at the cub.
With all their speed, one of them would have been torn to pieces at the base of his tree; but the bear paused for a moment at the cub.
Without taking her bloodshot eyes off those she was hunting, she smelt it all round, and found, how, her Creator only knows, that it was dead, quite dead. She gave a yell such as neither of the hunted ones had ever heard, nor dreamed to be in nature, and flew after Denys. She reared and struck at him as he climbed. He was just out of reach.
Without taking her bloodshot eyes off her targets, she sensed it all around her and figured out, in a way that only her Creator could understand, that it was dead, completely dead. She let out a yell that neither of the hunted had ever heard or imagined could exist in nature, and she chased after Denys. She reared up and struck at him as he climbed. He was just out of reach.
Instantly she seized the tree, and with her huge teeth tore a great piece out of it with a crash. Then she reared again, dug her claws deep into the bark, and began to mount it slowly, but as surely as a monkey.
Instantly, she grabbed the tree and with her large teeth bit a big chunk out of it with a loud crash. Then she stood up again, dug her claws deep into the bark, and started to climb it slowly, but just as surely as a monkey.
Denys's evil star had led him to a dead tree, a mere shaft, and of no very great height. He climbed faster than his pursuer, and was soon at the top. He looked this way and that for some bough of another tree to spring to. There was none; and if he jumped down, he knew the bear would be upon him ere he could recover the fall, and make short work of him. Moreover, Denys was little used to turning his back on danger, and his blood was rising at being hunted. He turned to bay.
Denys's bad luck had brought him to a dead tree, just a simple trunk, and not very tall. He climbed faster than his pursuer and soon reached the top. He looked around for a branch from another tree to leap to. There was none; and if he jumped down, he knew the bear would be on him before he could recover from the fall and would finish him off quickly. Also, Denys wasn't used to turning his back on danger, and his adrenaline was pumping from being chased. He decided to stand his ground.
“My hour is come,” thought he. “Let me meet death like a man.” He kneeled down and grasped a small shoot to steady himself, drew his long knife, and clenching his teeth, prepared to jab the huge brute as soon as it should mount within reach.
“My time has come,” he thought. “Let me face death like a man.” He knelt down and grabbed a small branch to steady himself, pulled out his long knife, and gritting his teeth, got ready to stab the massive beast as soon as it came within reach.
Of this combat the result was not doubtful.
The outcome of this fight was clear.
The monster's head and neck were scarce vulnerable for bone and masses of hair. The man was going to sting the bear, and the bear to crack the man like a nut.
The monster's head and neck were barely exposed, covered with bone and thick clumps of hair. The man was about to stab the bear, and the bear was ready to crush the man like a nut.
Gerard's heart was better than his nerves. He saw his friend's mortal danger, and passed at once from fear to blindish rage. He slipped down his tree in a moment, caught up the crossbow, which he had dropped in the road, and running furiously up, sent a bolt into the bear's body with a loud shout. The bear gave a snarl of rage and pain, and turned its head irresolutely.
Gerard's heart was stronger than his nerves. He saw his friend's life was in danger and quickly shifted from fear to a kind of blind rage. He climbed down from his tree in an instant, grabbed the crossbow he had dropped on the ground, and ran furiously forward, firing a bolt into the bear's body while shouting loudly. The bear snarled in anger and pain, and turned its head uncertainly.
“Keep aloof!” cried Denys, “or you are a dead man.”
“Stay back!” shouted Denys, “or you’ll be a dead man.”
“I care not;” and in a moment he had another bolt ready and shot it fiercely into the bear, screaming, “Take that! take that!”
“I don’t care;” and in a moment he had another arrow ready and shot it fiercely into the bear, yelling, “Take that! Take that!”
Denys poured a volley of oaths down at him. “Get away, idiot!”
Denys cursed at him. “Get lost, you fool!”
He was right: the bear finding so formidable and noisy a foe behind her, slipped growling down the tree, rending deep furrows in it as she slipped. Gerard ran back to his tree and climbed it swiftly. But while his legs were dangling some eight feet from the ground, the bear came rearing and struck with her fore paw, and out flew a piece of bloody cloth from Gerard's hose. He climbed, and climbed; and presently he heard as it were in the air a voice say, “Go out on the bough!” He looked, and there was a long massive branch before him shooting upwards at a slight angle: he threw his body across it, and by a series of convulsive efforts worked up it to the end.
He was right: the bear, startled by such a loud and fierce opponent behind her, slipped down the tree with a growl, leaving deep scratches in the bark as she descended. Gerard rushed back to his tree and climbed up quickly. But while his legs hung about eight feet off the ground, the bear came charging up and swiped at him with her paw, tearing a piece of bloody cloth from Gerard's pants. He kept climbing, and soon he heard what seemed like a voice in the air say, “Go out on the branch!” He looked and saw a long, strong branch extending upward at a slight angle: he threw himself across it and, with a series of desperate efforts, worked his way to the end.
Then he looked round panting.
Then he looked around, panting.
The bear was mounting the tree on the other side. He heard her claws scrape, and saw her bulge on both sides of the massive tree. Her eye not being very quick, she reached the fork and passed it, mounting the main stem. Gerard drew breath more freely. The bear either heard him, or found by scent she was wrong: she paused; presently she caught sight of him. She eyed him steadily, then quietly descended to the fork.
The bear was climbing the tree on the other side. He heard her claws scraping and saw her bulging on both sides of the massive trunk. Since her vision wasn't very sharp, she reached the fork and went past it, climbing the main trunk. Gerard breathed a little easier. The bear either heard him or realized by smell that she was mistaken: she paused; soon, she caught sight of him. She stared at him intently, then quietly climbed back down to the fork.
Slowly and cautiously she stretched out a paw and tried the bough. It was a stiff oak branch, sound as iron. Instinct taught the creature this: it crawled carefully out on the bough, growling savagely as it came.
Slowly and carefully, she reached out a paw and tested the branch. It was a sturdy oak limb, as solid as iron. Instinct told the creature this: it moved cautiously out onto the branch, growling fiercely as it went.
Gerard looked wildly down. He was forty feet from the ground. Death below. Death moving slow but sure on him in a still more horrible form. His hair bristled. The sweat poured from him. He sat helpless, fascinated, tongue-tied.
Gerard looked down in a panic. He was forty feet off the ground. Death was waiting below. Death creeping toward him in an even more terrifying way. His hair stood on end. Sweat dripped from him. He sat there, powerless, captivated, speechless.
As the fearful monster crawled growling towards him, incongruous thoughts coursed through his mind. Margaret: the Vulgate, where it speaks of the rage of a she-bear robbed of her whelps—Rome—Eternity.
As the terrifying monster crawled growling towards him, mismatched thoughts raced through his mind. Margaret: the Vulgate, where it talks about the fury of a she-bear deprived of her cubs—Rome—Eternity.
The bear crawled on. And now the stupor of death fell on the doomed man; he saw the open jaws and bloodshot eyes coming, but in a mist.
The bear kept crawling forward. And now the haze of death descended on the man who was doomed; he saw the wide-open jaws and bloodshot eyes approaching, but it felt like a blur.
As in a mist he heard a twang; he glanced down; Denys, white and silent as death, was shooting up at the bear. The bear snarled at the twang. but crawled on. Again the crossbow twanged, and the bear snarled, and came nearer. Again the cross bow twanged; and the next moment the bear was close upon Gerard, where he sat, with hair standing stiff on end and eyes starting from their sockets, palsied. The bear opened her jaws like a grave, and hot blood spouted from them upon Gerard as from a pump. The bough rocked. The wounded monster was reeling; it clung, it stuck its sickles of claws deep into the wood; it toppled, its claws held firm, but its body rolled off, and the sudden shock to the branch shook Gerard forward on his stomach with his face upon one of the bear's straining paws. At this, by a convulsive effort, she raised her head up, up, till he felt her hot fetid breath. Then huge teeth snapped together loudly close below him in the air, with a last effort of baffled hate. The ponderous carcass rent the claws out of the bough, then pounded the earth with a tremendous thump. There was a shout of triumph below, and the very next instant a cry of dismay, for Gerard had swooned, and without an attempt to save himself, rolled headlong from the perilous height.
Amid the mist, he heard the sound of a crossbow; he looked down, and Denys, pale and silent as death, was aiming at the bear. The bear snarled at the noise but kept moving. Again, the crossbow twanged, and the bear growled, getting closer. Once more, the crossbow fired; in the next moment, the bear was right next to Gerard, who was sitting there with his hair standing on end and eyes wide open in terror. The bear opened its jaws like a grave, and hot blood sprayed out onto Gerard like a fountain. The branch shook. The wounded beast stumbled; it clung to the tree, digging its sharp claws deep into the wood. It tilted, its claws digging in, but its body rolled off, and the sudden jolt to the branch sent Gerard crashing forward onto the ground, with his face landing on one of the bear's straining paws. In response, the bear lifted its head, higher and higher, until Gerard felt its hot, foul breath. Then, with a final surge of rage, its massive jaws snapped shut just below him in the air. The heavy body tore its claws out of the branch and slammed onto the ground with an enormous thud. There was a shout of victory below, followed instantly by a cry of panic, for Gerard had fainted and, without trying to catch himself, tumbled headfirst from the dangerous height.
CHAPTER XXV
Denys caught at Gerard, and somewhat checked his fall; but it may be doubted whether this alone would have saved him from breaking his neck, or a limb. His best friend now was the dying bear, on whose hairy carcass his head and shoulders descended. Denys tore him off her. It was needless. She panted still, and her limbs quivered, but a hare was not so harmless; and soon she breathed her last; and the judicious Denys propped Gerard up against her, being soft, and fanned him. He came to by degrees, but confused, and feeling the bear around him, rolled away, yelling.
Denys grabbed Gerard and somewhat broke his fall, but it's questionable if that alone would have prevented him from breaking his neck or a limb. His best ally was now the dying bear, whose furry body caught his head and shoulders. Denys pulled him off her. It was unnecessary. She was still breathing heavily, and her limbs were trembling, but a hare was not so innocent; soon she took her last breath. The wise Denys propped Gerard up against her since she was soft, and fanned him. He gradually came to but was confused, and feeling the bear around him, he rolled away, shouting.
“Courage,” cried Denys, “le diable est mort.”
“Courage,” shouted Denys, “the devil is dead.”
“Is it dead? quite dead?” inquired Gerard from behind a tree; for his courage was feverish, and the cold fit was on him just now, and had been for some time.
“Is it dead? Really dead?” asked Gerard from behind a tree; his courage was shaky, and he was feeling a chill right now, which had been lingering for a while.
“Behold,” said Denys, and pulled the brute's ear playfully, and opened her jaws and put in his head, with other insulting antics; in the midst of which Gerard was violently sick.
“Look,” said Denys, playfully tugging at the animal's ear, then opening its mouth and sticking his head inside while doing other disrespectful things; all of this made Gerard feel extremely nauseous.
Denys laughed at him.
Denys laughed at him.
“What is the matter now?” said he, “also, why tumble off your perch just when we had won the day?”
“What’s going on now?” he said. “Also, why did you fall off your perch right when we had just won?”
“I swooned, I trow.”
“I fainted, I swear.”
“But why?”
“Why though?”
Not receiving an answer, he continued, “Green girls faint as soon as look at you, but then they choose time and place. What woman ever fainted up a tree?”
Not getting a response, he went on, “Green girls pass out the moment they see you, but they pick the time and place. What woman has ever fainted while being up in a tree?”
“She sent her nasty blood all over me. I think the smell must have overpowered me! Faugh! I hate blood.”
“She splattered her disgusting blood all over me. I think the smell must have knocked me out! Yuck! I hate blood.”
“I do believe it potently.”
"I truly believe it strongly."
“See what a mess she has made me
“See what a mess she's made of me."
“But with her blood, not yours. I pity the enemy that strives to satisfy you.”'
“But with her blood, not yours. I feel sorry for the enemy that tries to please you.”
“You need not to brag, Maitre Denys; I saw you under the tree, the colour of your shirt.”
“You don’t need to brag, Maitre Denys; I saw you under the tree, the color of your shirt.”
“Let us distinguish,” said Denys, colouring; “it is permitted to tremble for a friend.”
“Let’s be clear,” said Denys, blushing, “it’s okay to be nervous for a friend.”
Gerard, for answer, flung his arms round Denys's neck in silence.
Gerard responded by silently wrapping his arms around Denys's neck.
“Look here,” whined the stout soldier, affected by this little gush of nature and youth, “was ever aught so like a woman? I love thee, little milksop—go to. Good! behold him on his knees now. What new caprice is this?”
“Look here,” complained the heavyset soldier, touched by this burst of nature and youth, “has there ever been anything so much like a woman? I adore you, little softie—come on. Great! Just look at him on his knees now. What new whim is this?”
“Oh, Denys, ought we not to return thanks to Him who has saved both our lives against such fearful odds?” And Gerard kneeled, and prayed aloud. And presently he found Denys kneeling quiet beside him, with his hands across his bosom after the custom of his nation, and a face as long as his arm. When they rose, Gerard's countenance was beaming.
“Oh, Denys, shouldn't we give thanks to the one who saved our lives against such terrible odds?” Gerard knelt and prayed out loud. Before long, he saw Denys kneeling quietly next to him, his hands crossed over his chest like his people do, and a face that looked quite serious. When they stood up, Gerard's expression was radiant.
“Good Denys,” said he, “Heaven will reward thy piety.”
“Good Denys,” he said, “Heaven will reward your kindness.”
“Ah, bah! I did it out of politeness,” said the Frenchman. “It was to please thee, little one. C'est egal, 'twas well and orderly prayed, and edified me to the core while it lasted. A bishop had scarce handled the matter better; so now our evensong being sung, and the saints enlisted with us—marchons.”
“Ah, come on! I did it out of politeness,” said the Frenchman. “It was to please you, little one. It doesn’t matter, it was well and orderly said, and it touched me deeply while it lasted. A bishop could hardly have handled it better; so now that our evening prayer is done, and the saints are with us—let’s go.”
Ere they had taken two steps, he stopped. “By-the-by, the cub!”
Ere they had taken two steps, he stopped. “By the way, the cub!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Gerard.
“Oh, no, no!” yelled Gerard.
“You are right. It is late. We have lost time climbing trees, and tumbling off 'em, and swooning, and vomiting, and praying; and the brute is heavy to carry. And now I think on't, we shall have papa after it next; these bears make such a coil about an odd cub. What is this? you are wounded! you are wounded!”
“You're right. It's late. We've wasted time climbing trees, falling off them, fainting, throwing up, and praying; and this thing is heavy to carry. Now that I think about it, we'll have Dad after us next; these bears make such a fuss over a stray cub. What’s this? You're hurt! You're hurt!”
“Not I.”
"Not me."
“He is wounded; miserable that I am!”
“He's hurt; how tragic for me!”
“Be calm, Denys. I am not touched; I feel no pain anywhere.”
“Stay calm, Denys. I’m fine; I don’t feel any pain at all.”
“You? you only feel when another is hurt,” cried Denys, with great emotion; and throwing himself on his knees, he examined Gerard's leg with glistening eyes.
“You? You only care when someone else is in pain,” cried Denys, filled with emotion; and dropping to his knees, he looked at Gerard's leg with shining eyes.
“Quick! quick! before it stiffens,” he cried, and hurried him on.
“Quick! Quick! Before it stiffens,” he shouted, urging him on.
“Who makes the coil about nothing now?” inquired Gerard composedly.
“Who’s coiling about nothing now?” Gerard asked calmly.
Denys's reply was a very indirect one.
Denys's response was pretty vague.
“Be pleased to note,” said he, “that I have a bad heart. You were man enough to save my life, yet I must sneer at you, a novice in war. Was not I a novice once myself? Then you fainted from a wound, and I thought you swooned for fear, and called you a milksop. Briefly, I have a bad tongue and a bad heart.”
“Just so you know,” he said, “I have a bad heart. You were brave enough to save my life, but I have to mock you, a beginner in battle. Wasn’t I a beginner once too? Back then, you fainted from a wound, and I thought you collapsed from fear, calling you a coward. To put it simply, I have a sharp tongue and a bad heart.”
“Denys!”
"Denys!"
“Plait-il?”
"What's up?"
“You lie.”
"You're lying."
“You are very good to say so, little one, and I am eternally obliged to you,” mumbled the remorseful Denys.
“You're really nice to say that, kid, and I'm forever grateful to you,” mumbled the remorseful Denys.
Ere they had walked many furlongs, the muscles of the wounded leg contracted and stiffened, till presently Gerard could only just put his toe to the ground, and that with great pain.
Before they had walked very far, the muscles in the injured leg tightened and stiffened, until eventually Gerard could only barely touch his toe to the ground, and even that caused him great pain.
At last he could bear it no longer.
At last, he couldn't take it anymore.
“Let me lie down and die,” he groaned, “for this is intolerable.”
“Let me lie down and die,” he groaned, “because this is unbearable.”
Denys represented that it was afternoon, and the nights were now frosty; and cold and hunger ill companions; and that it would be unreasonable to lose heart, a certain great personage being notoriously defunct. So Gerard leaned upon his axe, and hobbled on; but presently he gave in, all of a sudden, and sank helpless in the road.
Denys said it was afternoon, and the nights were getting chilly; and cold and hunger were bad companions; and that it would be pointless to lose hope, since a certain important person was famously dead. So Gerard leaned on his axe and hobbled along; but soon he gave up all of a sudden and collapsed helplessly in the road.
Denys drew him aside into the wood, and to his surprise gave him his crossbow and bolts, enjoining him strictly to lie quiet, and if any ill-looking fellows should find him out and come to him, to bid them keep aloof; and should they refuse, to shoot them dead at twenty paces. “Honest men keep the path; and, knaves in a wood, none but fools do parley with them.” With this he snatched up Gerard's axe, and set off running—not, as Gerard expected, towards Dusseldorf, but on the road they had come.
Denys pulled him aside into the woods and, to his surprise, handed him his crossbow and bolts, insisting that he stay quiet. If any shady characters found him and approached, he should tell them to stay back; if they refused, he was to shoot them dead from twenty paces away. “Honest people stick to the path; only fools talk to troublemakers in the woods.” With that, he grabbed Gerard's axe and took off running—not, as Gerard expected, toward Dusseldorf, but back the way they had come.
Gerard lay aching and smarting; and to him Rome, that seemed so near at starting, looked far, far off, now that he was two hundred miles nearer it. But soon all his thoughts turned Sevenbergen-wards. How sweet it would be one day to hold Margaret's hand, and tell her all he had gone through for her! The very thought of it, and her, soothed him; and in the midst of pain and irritation of the nerves be lay resigned, and sweetly, though faintly, smiling.
Gerard lay in pain and discomfort; to him, Rome, which had seemed so close at the start, felt very far away now that he was two hundred miles closer. But soon, all his thoughts turned towards Sevenbergen. How wonderful it would be one day to hold Margaret's hand and share everything he had endured for her! Just the thought of it, and of her, comforted him; and amid the pain and nerve irritation, he lay quietly accepting, gently smiling, even if faintly.
He had lain thus more than two hours, when suddenly there were shouts; and the next moment something struck a tree hard by, and quivered in it.
He had been lying there for more than two hours when suddenly there were shouts, and the next moment something hit a nearby tree hard and trembled in it.
He looked, it was an arrow.
He looked, and it was an arrow.
He started to his feet. Several missiles rattled among the boughs, and the wood echoed with battle-cries. Whence they came he could not tell, for noises in these huge woods are so reverberated, that a stranger is always at fault as to their whereabout; but they seemed to fill the whole air. Presently there was a lull; then he heard the fierce galloping of hoofs; and still louder shouts and cries arose, mingled with shrieks and groans; and above all, strange and terrible sounds, like fierce claps of thunder, bellowing loud, and then dying off in cracking echoes; and red tongues of flame shot out ever and anon among the trees, and clouds of sulphurous smoke came drifting over his head. And all was still.
He got to his feet. Several projectiles rattled among the branches, and the woods echoed with battle cries. He couldn't tell where they were coming from because sounds in these vast woods are so reverberated that a stranger always has trouble figuring out their source; but they seemed to fill the entire air. After a moment, there was a lull; then he heard the fierce galloping of hooves, and even louder shouts and cries erupted, mixed with shrieks and groans. Above it all were strange and terrifying sounds, like loud thunderclaps, booming loudly and then fading away into cracking echoes; and bursts of red flame shot out now and then among the trees, with clouds of sulfurous smoke drifting overhead. And then everything was quiet.
Gerard was struck with awe. “What will become of Denys?” he cried. “Oh, why did you leave me? Oh, Denys, my friend! my friend!”
Gerard was filled with awe. “What’s going to happen to Denys?” he shouted. “Oh, why did you leave me? Oh, Denys, my friend! My friend!”
Just before sunset Denys returned, almost sinking under a hairy bundle. It was the bear's skin.
Just before sunset, Denys came back, nearly overwhelmed by a furry bundle. It was the bear's hide.
Gerard welcomed him with a burst of joy that astonished him.
Gerard greeted him with an outburst of joy that surprised him.
“I thought never to see you again, dear Denys. Were you in the battle?”
“I thought I’d never see you again, dear Denys. Were you in the battle?”
“No. What battle?”
“No. What fight?”
“The bloody battle of men, or fiends, that raged in the wood a while agone;” and with this he described it to the life, and more fully than I have done.
“The brutal fight between men, or monsters, that took place in the woods some time ago;" and with this, he depicted it vividly, even more completely than I have.
Denys patted him indulgently on the back.
Denys gave him a friendly pat on the back.
“It is well,” said he; “thou art a good limner; and fever is a great spur to the imagination. One day I lay in a cart-shed with a cracked skull, and saw two hosts manoeuvre and fight a good hour on eight feet square, the which I did fairly describe to my comrade in due order, only not so gorgeously as thou, for want of book learning.
“It’s good,” he said; “you’re a talented artist; and fever really boosts the imagination. One day, I was lying in a cart shed with a cracked skull, and I watched two armies maneuver and battle for a whole hour in an eight-foot square. I was able to describe it pretty well to my friend afterward, just not as vividly as you did, since I lack formal education.”
“What, then, you believe me not? when I tell you the arrows whizzed over my head, and the combatants shouted, and—”
“What, you don’t believe me? When I tell you the arrows zipped over my head, and the fighters yelled, and—”
“May the foul fiends fly away with me if I believe a word of it.”
“May the terrible demons take me away if I believe a word of it.”
Gerard took his arm, and quietly pointed to a tree close by.
Gerard took his arm and quietly pointed to a nearby tree.
“Why, it looks like—it is-a broad arrow, as I live!” And he went close, and looked up at it.
“Wow, it looks like—it is—a broad arrow, I swear!” And he went closer and looked up at it.
“It came out of the battle. I heard it, and saw it.”
“It came out of the fight. I heard it and saw it.”
“An English arrow.”
“An English arrow.”
“How know you that?”
"How do you know that?"
“Marry, by its length. The English bowmen draw the bow to the ear, others only to the right breast. Hence the English loose a three-foot shaft, and this is one of them, perdition seize them! Well, if this is not glamour, there has been a trifle of a battle. And if there has been a battle in so ridiculous a place for a battle as this, why then 'tis no business of mine, for my Duke hath no quarrel hereabouts. So let's to bed,” said the professional. And with this he scraped together a heap of leaves, and made Gerard lie on it, his axe by his side. He then lay down beside him, with one hand on his arbalest, and drew the bear-skin over them, hair inward. They were soon as warm as toast, and fast asleep.
“Marry, by its length. The English archers pull the bow to their ear, while others only pull it to their right breast. Because of this, the English shoot a three-foot arrow, and this is one of them, damn them! Well, if this isn’t impressive, then there’s been a bit of a fight. And if a fight has taken place in such a silly location as this, then it’s not my concern, because my Duke has no issue here. So let’s get some sleep,” said the professional. With that, he gathered a pile of leaves and made Gerard lie on it, his axe by his side. He then lay down next to him, one hand on his crossbow, and pulled the bear skin over them, fur inward. They were soon as warm as toast and fast asleep.
But long before the dawn Gerard woke his comrade.
But long before dawn, Gerard woke up his friend.
“What shall I do, Denys, I die of famine?”
“What should I do, Denys? I'm starving!”
“Do? why, go to sleep again incontinent: qui dort dine.”
“Do? Well, just go back to sleep right away: those who sleep, eat.”
“But I tell you I am too hungry to sleep,” snapped Gerard.
“But I tell you I’m too hungry to sleep,” snapped Gerard.
“Let us march, then,” replied Denys, with paternal indulgence.
“Let’s march, then,” Denys replied, with a fatherly patience.
He had a brief paroxysm of yawns; then made a small bundle of bears' ears, rolling them up in a strip of the skin, cut for the purpose; and they took the road.
He had a quick fit of yawning; then he gathered up a small bundle of bear ears, rolling them in a strip of skin cut for that purpose; and they set off on the road.
Gerard leaned on his axe, and propped by Denys on the other side, hobbled along, not without sighs.
Gerard leaned on his axe, and with Denys supporting him on the other side, he hobbled along, letting out a few sighs.
“I hate pain.” said Gerard viciously.
“I hate pain,” Gerard said viciously.
“Therein you show judgment,” replied papa smoothly.
“There, you demonstrate good judgment,” replied Dad smoothly.
It was a clear starlight night; and soon the moon rising revealed the end of the wood at no great distance: a pleasant sight, since Dusseldorf they knew was but a short league further.
It was a clear night filled with stars, and soon the rising moon showed the edge of the woods not far away: a lovely sight, since they knew Düsseldorf was just a short distance beyond.
At the edge of the wood they came upon something so mysterious that they stopped to gaze at it, before going up to it. Two white pillars rose in the air, distant a few paces from each other; and between them stood many figures, that looked like human forms.
At the edge of the woods, they encountered something so mysterious that they paused to stare at it before approaching. Two white pillars rose into the air, a short distance apart, and between them stood several figures that resembled human forms.
“I go no farther till I know what this is,” said Gerard, in an agitated whisper. “Are they effigies of the saints, for men to pray to on the road? or live robbers waiting to shoot down honest travellers? Nay, living men they cannot be, for they stand on nothing that I see. Oh! Denys, let us turn back till daybreak; this is no mortal sight.”
“I won't go any further until I figure out what this is,” Gerard said in a shaky whisper. “Are those statues of saints for travelers to pray to on the road? Or live robbers ready to shoot honest travelers? No, they can't be living people, as they don't seem to be standing on anything. Oh! Denys, let’s turn back until sunrise; this is not something earthly.”
Denys halted, and peered long and keenly. “They are men,” said he, at last. Gerard was for turning back all the more. “But men that will never hurt us, nor we them. Look not to their feet, for that they stand on!”
Denys stopped and stared for a long time. “They’re just people,” he finally said. Gerard wanted to turn back even more. “But they won’t hurt us, and we won’t hurt them. Don’t pay attention to their feet, since that’s what they’re standing on!”
“Where, then, i' the name of all the saints?”
“Where, then, in the name of all the saints?”
“Look over their heads,” said Denys gravely.
“Look over their heads,” Denys said seriously.
Following this direction, Gerard presently discerned the outline of a dark wooden beam passing from pillar to pillar; and as the pair got nearer, walking now on tiptoe, one by one dark snake-like cords came out in the moonlight, each pendent from the beam to a dead man, and tight as wire.
Following this path, Gerard soon saw the shape of a dark wooden beam stretching from pillar to pillar; and as the two of them approached, now walking on tiptoe, snake-like cords gradually emerged in the moonlight, each hanging from the beam to a dead man, tightly stretched like wires.
Now as they came under this awful monument of crime and wholesale vengeance a light air swept by, and several of the corpses swung, or gently gyrated, and every rope creaked. Gerard shuddered at this ghastly salute. So thoroughly had the gibbet, with its sickening load, seized and held their eyes, that it was but now they perceived a fire right underneath, and a living figure sitting huddled over it. His axe lay beside him, the bright blade shining red in the glow. He was asleep.
Now as they approached this horrifying monument of crime and mass punishment, a light breeze blew through, causing several of the bodies to sway or gently spin, and every rope creaked. Gerard shuddered at this chilling sight. They had been so engrossed by the gibbet, with its nauseating burden, that they only just noticed a fire right below it, with a living figure hunched over the flames. His axe lay beside him, the shiny blade reflecting red in the glow. He was asleep.
Gerard started, but Denys only whispered, “courage, comrade, here is a fire.”
Gerard began to speak, but Denys just whispered, “Stay strong, buddy, here’s some warmth.”
“Ay! but there is a man at it.”
“Ay! but there's a guy at it.”
“There will soon be three;” and he began to heap some wood on it that the watcher had prepared; during which the prudent Gerard seized the man's axe, and sat down tight on it, grasping his own, and examining the sleeper. There was nothing outwardly distinctive in the man. He wore the dress of the country folk, and the hat of the district, a three-cornered hat called a Brunswicker, stiff enough to turn a sword cut, and with a thick brass hat-band. The weight of the whole thing had turned his ears entirely down, like a fancy rabbit's in our century; but even this, though it spoiled him as a man, was nothing remarkable. They had of late met scores of these dog's-eared rustics. The peculiarity was, this clown watching under a laden gallows. What for?
“There will soon be three,” he said, as he started piling more wood onto the fire that the watcher had prepared. Meanwhile, the savvy Gerard grabbed the man's axe and sat down firmly on it, holding onto his own while he examined the sleeper. There was nothing unusual about the man. He was dressed like the local farmers and wore a three-cornered hat known as a Brunswicker, which was tough enough to deflect a sword cut and had a thick brass band. The weight of the hat made his ears droop, similar to a fancy rabbit's in our time; but even this, although it detracted from his appearance, wasn’t particularly noteworthy. Recently, they had come across many of these scruffy locals. The strange thing was this clown sitting under a heavy gallows. What was he doing there?
Denys, if he felt curious, would not show it; he took out two bears' ears from his bundle, and running sticks through them, began to toast them. “'Twill be eating coined money,” said he; “for the burgomaster of Dusseldorf had given us a rix-dollar for these ears, as proving the death of their owners; but better a lean purse than a lere stomach.”
Denys, if he felt curious, wouldn’t let it show; he pulled out two bear ears from his bag, stuck some sticks through them, and started to roast them. “It’ll be like eating money,” he said; “because the mayor of Düsseldorf gave us a rix-dollar for these ears, confirming the death of their owners; but it's better to have a thin wallet than an empty stomach.”
“Unhappy man!” cried Gerard, “could you eat food here?”
“Unhappy man!” shouted Gerard, “could you eat food here?”
“Where the fire is lighted there must the meat roast, and where it roasts there must it be eaten; for nought travels worse than your roasted meat.”
“Where the fire is lit, the meat has to cook, and where it cooks, it must be eaten; because nothing travels worse than your roasted meat.”
“Well, eat thou, Denys, an thou canst! but I am cold and sick; there is no room for hunger in my heart after what mine eyes have seen,” and he shuddered over the fire. “Oh! how they creak! and who is this man, I wonder? what an ill-favoured churl!”
“Well, eat up, Denys, if you can! But I’m cold and sick; there’s no room for hunger in my heart after what I’ve seen,” he shuddered by the fire. “Oh! How they creak! And who is this man, I wonder? What a nasty-looking guy!”
Denys examined him like a connoisseur looking at a picture, and in due course delivered judgment. “I take him to be of the refuse of that company, whereof these (pointing carelessly upward) were the cream, and so ran their heads into danger.
Denys looked at him like an art expert analyzing a painting, and eventually made his decision. “I think he’s part of the leftovers from that group, where these (pointing casually upward) were the best and ended up putting themselves in danger.
“At that rate, why not stun him before he wakes?” and Gerard fidgeted where he sat.
“At that rate, why not knock him out before he wakes up?” Gerard fidgeted in his seat.
Denys opened his eyes with humorous surprise. “For one who sets up for a milksop you have the readiest hand. Why should two stun one? tush! he wakes: note now what he says at waking, and tell me.”
Denys opened his eyes in amused surprise. “For someone who acts all weak, you have quite a quick hand. Why should two of us be shocked by one? Nonsense! He’s waking up: pay attention to what he says when he wakes up, and let me know.”
These last words were hardly whispered when the watcher opened his eyes. At sight of the fire made up, and two strangers eyeing him keenly, he stared, and there was a severe and pretty successful effort to be calm; still a perceptible tremor ran all over him. Soon he manned himself, and said gruffly. “Good morrow. But at the very moment of saying it he missed his axe, and saw how Gerard was sitting upon it, with his own laid ready to his hand. He lost countenance again directly. Denys smiled grimly at this bit of byplay.
These last words were barely whispered when the watcher opened his eyes. At the sight of the fire and two strangers watching him closely, he stared, making a strong but somewhat successful effort to stay calm; still, a noticeable tremor ran through him. Soon he gathered himself and said gruffly, “Good morning.” But just as he said it, he realized his axe was missing and noticed that Gerard was sitting on it, with his own axe ready to grab. He lost his composure again immediately. Denys smiled wryly at this little scene.
“Good morrow!” said Gerard quietly, keeping his eye on him.
“Good morning!” said Gerard quietly, keeping his eye on him.
The watcher was now too ill at ease to be silent. “You make free with my fire,” said he; but he added in a somewhat faltering voice, “you are welcome.”
The watcher was now too uncomfortable to stay quiet. “You’re taking liberties with my fire,” he said; but he added in a slightly shaky voice, “you’re welcome.”
Denys whispered Gerard. The watcher eyed them askant.
Denys whispered to Gerard. The watcher looked at them sideways.
“My comrade says, sith we share your fire, you shall share his meat.”
“My friend says, since we’re sharing your fire, you should share his meat.”
“So be it,” said the man warmly. “I have half a kid hanging on a bush hard by, I'll go fetch it;” and he arose with a cheerful and obliging countenance, and was retiring.
“So be it,” said the man kindly. “I have half a kid hanging on a bush nearby, I'll go get it;” and he stood up with a friendly and willing expression, and was about to leave.
Denys caught up his crossbow, and levelled it at his head. The man fell on his knees.
Denys grabbed his crossbow and aimed it at the man's head. The man dropped to his knees.
Denys lowered his weapon, and pointed him back to his place. He rose and went back slowly and unsteadily, like one disjointed; and sick at heart as the mouse, that the cat lets go a little way, and then darts and replaces.
Denys lowered his weapon and pointed him back to his spot. He stood up and walked back slowly and unsteadily, like someone out of sync; feeling as anxious as a mouse that the cat lets escape for a moment, only to dart back and catch again.
“Sit down, friend,” said Denys grimly, in French.
“Sit down, friend,” Denys said grimly, in French.
The man obeyed finger and tone, though he knew not a word of French.
The man followed the gestures and tone, even though he didn’t understand a word of French.
“Tell him the fire is not big enough for more than thee. He will take my meaning.”
“Tell him the fire isn’t big enough for more than you. He’ll get what I mean.”
This being communicated by Gerard, the man grinned; ever since Denys spoke he had seemed greatly relieved. “I wist not ye were strangers,” said he to Gerard.
This being communicated by Gerard, the man grinned; ever since Denys spoke, he had seemed greatly relieved. “I didn’t know you were strangers,” he said to Gerard.
Denys cut a piece of bear's ear, and offered it with grace to him he had just levelled crossbow at.
Denys cut a piece of bear's ear and gracefully offered it to the person he had just aimed his crossbow at.
He took it calmly, and drew a piece of bread from his wallet, and divided it with the pair. Nay, more, he winked and thrust his hand into the heap of leaves he sat on (Gerard grasped his axe ready to brain him) and produced a leathern bottle holding full two gallons. He put it to his mouth, and drank their healths, then handed it to Gerard; he passed it untouched to Denys.
He took it easy and pulled out a piece of bread from his wallet, sharing it with the other two. Not only that, he winked and reached into the pile of leaves he was sitting on (Gerard grabbed his axe, ready to hit him) and pulled out a leather bottle that held two gallons. He took a swig, toasted to their health, and then handed it to Gerard; he passed it on, untouched, to Denys.
“Mort de ma vie!” cried the soldier, “it is Rhenish wine, and fit for the gullet of an archbishop. Here's to thee, thou prince of good fellows, wishing thee a short life and a merry one! Come, Gerard, sup! sup! Pshaw, never heed them, man! they heed not thee. Natheless, did I hang over such a skin of Rhenish as this, and three churls sat beneath a drinking it and offered me not a drop, I'd soon be down among them.”
“Good grief!” yelled the soldier, “it’s Rhenish wine, worthy of an archbishop’s taste. Here’s to you, you great friend, wishing you a short life and a joyful one! Come on, Gerard, eat up! Eat up! Pssh, don’t pay them any mind, man! They aren’t paying attention to you. Still, if I had such a cask of Rhenish as this, and three jerks were sitting beneath it drinking and didn’t offer me a drop, I’d be right down there with them.”
“Denys! Denys!”
“Denys! Denys!”
“My spirit would cut the cord, and womp would come my body amongst ye, with a hand on the bottle, and one eye winking, t'other.”
“My spirit would break free, and bam, my body would join you, with a hand on the bottle and one eye winking, the other.”
Gerard started up with a cry of horror and his fingers to his ears, and was running from the place, when his eye fell on the watcher's axe. The tangible danger brought him back. He sat down again on the axe with his fingers in his ears.
Gerard jumped up, screaming in terror with his hands over his ears, and he started to run away when he noticed the watcher’s axe. The real threat snapped him back to reality. He sat down again on the axe with his fingers in his ears.
“Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort!” shouted Denys gaily, and offered him a piece of bear's ear, put it right under his nose as he stopped his ears. Gerard turned his head away with loathing.
“Courage, my friend, the devil is dead!” shouted Denys cheerfully, and he offered him a piece of bear's ear, holding it right under his nose as he covered his ears. Gerard turned his head away in disgust.
“Wine!” he gasped. “Heaven knows I have much need of it, with such companions as thee and—”
“Wine!” he exclaimed. “God knows I really need it, with companions like you and—”
He took a long draught of the Rhenish wine: it ran glowing through his veins, and warmed and strengthened his heart, but could not check his tremors whenever a gust of wind came. As for Denys and the other, they feasted recklessly, and plied the bottle unceasingly, and drank healths and caroused beneath that creaking sepulchre and its ghastly tenants.
He took a long sip of the Rhenish wine: it flowed warmly through his veins, comforting and strengthening his heart, but it couldn't stop his shivers whenever the wind blew. As for Denys and the others, they partied wildly, endlessly passed around the bottle, toasted to healths, and celebrated beneath that creaking tomb and its eerie residents.
“Ask him how they came here,” said Denys, with his mouth full, and pointing up without looking.
“Ask him how they got here,” Denys said, his mouth full, pointing upward without looking.
On this question being interpreted to the watcher, he replied that treason had been their end, diabolical treason and priest-craft. He then, being rendered communicative by drink, delivered a long prosy narrative, the purport of which was as follows. These honest gentlemen who now dangled here so miserably were all stout men and true, and lived in the forest by their wits. Their independence and thriving state excited the jealousy and hatred of a large portion of mankind, and many attempts were made on their lives and liberties; these the Virgin and their patron saints, coupled with their individual skill and courage constantly baffled. But yester eve a party of merchants came slowly on their mules from Dusseldorf. The honest men saw them crawling, and let them penetrate near a league into the forest, then set upon them to make them disgorge a portion of their ill-gotten gains. But alas! the merchants were no merchants at all, but soldiers of more than one nation, in the pay of the Archbishop of Cologne; haubergeons had they beneath their gowns, and weapons of all sorts at hand; natheless, the honest men fought stoutly, and pressed the traitors hard, when lo! horsemen, that had been planted in ambush many hours before, galloped up, and with these new diabolical engines of war, shot leaden bullets, and laid many an honest fellow low, and so quelled the courage of others that they yielded them prisoners. These being taken red-handed, the victors, who with malice inconceivable had brought cords knotted round their waists, did speedily hang, and by their side the dead ones, to make the gallanter show. “That one at the end was the captain. He never felt the cord. He was riddled with broad arrows and leaden balls or ever they could take him: a worthy man as ever cried, 'Stand and deliver!' but a little hasty, not much: stay! I forgot; he is dead. Very hasty, and obstinate as a pig. That one in the—buff jerkin is the lieutenant, as good a soul as ever lived: he was hanged alive. This one here, I never could abide; no (not that one; that is Conrad, my bosom friend); I mean this one right overhead in the chicken-toed shoon; you were always carrying tales, ye thief, and making mischief; you know you were; and, sirs, I am a man that would rather live united in a coppice than in a forest with backbiters and tale-bearers: strangers, I drink to you.” And so he went down the whole string, indicating with the neck of the bottle, like a showman with his pole, and giving a neat description of each, which though pithy was invariably false; for the showman had no real eye for character, and had misunderstood every one of these people.
When this question was explained to the watcher, he replied that treason had been their downfall, wicked treason and priestly deception. He then, encouraged by drink, told a long, tedious story that went like this. These honest gentlemen who now hung here so pitifully were all brave and loyal men who lived in the forest by their wits. Their independence and prosperity bred jealousy and hatred among many, leading to several attempts on their lives and freedom; but the Virgin and their patron saints, along with their own skill and courage, constantly thwarted these attempts. But last night, a group of merchants came slowly on their mules from Dusseldorf. The honest men saw them creeping along and let them venture nearly a league into the forest, then attacked them to force them to give up some of their ill-gotten gains. But alas! the merchants were not merchants at all, but soldiers from multiple nations, in the pay of the Archbishop of Cologne; they had armor beneath their gowns and weapons of all kinds ready; nevertheless, the honest men fought bravely and pressed the traitors hard, when suddenly, horsemen who had been hiding in ambush for many hours charged in, using their new wicked weapons to shoot leaden bullets, bringing many honest men down, and frightening the rest into surrendering as prisoners. Those captured were taken red-handed, and the victors, filled with unimaginable malice, quickly hanged them, displaying the corpses beside them for added effect. “That one at the end was the captain. He never felt the rope. He was shot full of broad arrows and leaden bullets before they could take him: a worthy man who always shouted, 'Stand and deliver!' but a bit hasty, not much: wait! I forgot; he's dead. Very hasty, and stubborn as a mule. That one in the—buff jacket is the lieutenant, as good a soul as ever lived: he was hanged alive. This one here, I could never stand; no (not that one; that's Conrad, my best friend); I mean this one right overhead in the pointed shoes; you were always spreading gossip, you thief, and causing trouble; you know you were; and, gentlemen, I’d rather live united in a thicket than in a forest with backstabbers and tale-bearers: strangers, I drink to you.” And so he went through the whole line, pointing with the neck of the bottle, like a showman with his pole, and giving a brief description of each, which, while succinct, was always false; for the showman had no real sense of character and had misunderstood every one of these individuals.
“Enough palaver!” cried Denys. “Marchons! Give me his axe: now tell him he must help you along.”
“Enough chatter!” shouted Denys. “Let’s go! Give me his axe: now tell him he has to help you out.”
The man's countenance fell, but he saw in Denys's eye that resistance would be dangerous; he submitted. Gerard it was who objected. He said, “Y pensez-vous? to put my hand on a thief, it maketh my flesh creep.”
The man's expression changed, but he noticed in Denys's eye that resisting would be risky; he gave in. It was Gerard who disagreed. He said, “Do you think so? Touching a thief makes my skin crawl.”
“Childishness! all trades must live. Besides, I have my reasons. Be not you wiser than your elder.”
“Childishness! Everyone has to make a living. Besides, I have my reasons. Don’t think you know better than someone older.”
“No. Only if I am to lean on him I must have my hand in my bosom, still grasping the haft of my knife.”
“No. If I’m going to rely on him, I need to keep my hand in my pocket, still holding onto the handle of my knife.”
“It is a new attitude to walk in; but please thyself.”
“It’s a fresh mindset to adopt; just make yourself happy.”
And in that strange and mixed attitude of tender offices and deadly suspicion the trio did walk. I wish I could draw them—I would not trust to the pen.
And in that strange mix of caring actions and deep suspicion, the three of them walked together. I wish I could draw them—I wouldn't rely on just words.
The light of the watch-tower at Dusseldorf was visible as soon as they cleared the wood, and cheered Gerard. When, after an hour's march, the black outline of the tower itself and other buildings stood out clear to the eye, their companion halted and said gloomily, “You may as well slay me out of hand as take me any nearer the gates of Dusseldorf town.”
The light from the watchtower in Düsseldorf was visible as soon as they exited the woods, which lifted Gerard's spirits. After marching for an hour, when the dark shape of the tower and other buildings became clear, their companion stopped and said bleakly, “You might as well kill me right here as take me any closer to the gates of Düsseldorf.”
On this being communicated to Denys, he said at once, “Let him go then, for in sooth his neck will be in jeopardy if he wends much further with us.” Gerard acquiesced as a matter of course. His horror of a criminal did not in the least dispose him to active co-operation with the law. But the fact is, that at this epoch no private citizen in any part of Europe ever meddled with criminals but in self-defence, except, by-the-by, in England, which, behind other nations in some things, was centuries before them all in this.
When Denys heard this, he immediately said, “Let him go then, because his neck will definitely be at risk if he goes any further with us.” Gerard agreed as a matter of course. His fear of a criminal didn’t motivate him to actively help the law. The truth is, during this time, no private citizen in any part of Europe ever got involved with criminals unless it was for their own protection, except, by the way, in England, which, while lagging behind other nations in some ways, was centuries ahead in this regard.
The man's personal liberty being restored, he asked for his axe. It was given him. To the friends' surprise he still lingered. Was he to have nothing for coming so far out of his way with them?
The man's freedom was restored, and he asked for his axe. It was handed to him. To his friends' surprise, he still stayed. Was he not going to get anything for coming so far out of his way with them?
“Here are two batzen, friend.
“Here are two coins, friend.”
“Add the wine, the good Rhenish?”
“Add the wine, the good Rhine wine?”
“Did you give aught for it?”
“Did you give anything for it?”
“Ay! the peril of my life.”
“Ay! the danger of my life.”
“Hum! what say you, Denys?”
"Hey! What do you think, Denys?"
“I say it was worth its weight in gold. Here, lad, here be silver groshen, one for every acorn on that gallows tree; and here is one more for thee, who wilt doubtless be there in due season.”
“I say it was worth its weight in gold. Here, kid, here are silver groshen, one for every acorn on that gallows tree; and here’s one more for you, who will definitely be there in due time.”
The man took the coins, but still lingered.
The man took the coins, but still hung around.
“Well! what now?” cried Gerard, who thought him shamefully overpaid already. “Dost seek the hide off our bones?”
“Well! What now?” shouted Gerard, who already thought he was being shamefully overpaid. “Are you trying to take the skin off our backs?”
“Nay, good sirs, but you have seen to-night how parlous a life is mine. Ye be true men, and your prayers avail; give me then a small trifle of a prayer, an't please you; for I know not one.”
“Nah, good sirs, but you’ve seen tonight how dangerous my life is. You are true men, and your prayers matter; so please, give me just a little prayer, if you don’t mind; because I don’t know one.”
Gerard's choler began to rise at the egotistical rogue; moreover, ever since his wound he had felt gusts of irritability. However, he bit his lip and said, “There go two words to that bargain; tell me first, is it true what men say of you Rhenish thieves, that ye do murder innocent and unresisting travellers as well as rob them?”
Gerard's anger started to build at the selfish jerk; plus, ever since his injury, he had been feeling bursts of irritability. Still, he bit his lip and said, “That’s two words for the deal; first, tell me, is it true what people say about you Rhenish thieves, that you murder innocent and defenseless travelers as well as rob them?”
The other answered sulkily, “They you call thieves are not to blame for that; the fault lies with the law.”
The other replied sulking, “The ones you call thieves aren’t to blame for that; the fault is with the law.”
“Gramercy! so 'tis the law's fault that ill men break it?”
“Thanks! So it’s the law's fault that bad people break it?”
“I mean not so; but the law in this land slays an honest man an if he do but steal. What follows? he would be pitiful, but is discouraged herefrom; pity gains him no pity, and doubles his peril: an he but cut a purse his life is forfeit; therefore cutteth he the throat to boot, to save his own neck: dead men tell no tales. Pray then for the poor soul who by bloody laws is driven to kill or else be slaughtered; were there less of this unreasonable gibbeting on the highroad, there should be less enforced cutting of throats in dark woods, my masters.”
“I don't mean it that way, but the law in this land kills an honest man just for stealing. What happens next? He would be pitiful, but he’s discouraged from feeling that way; sympathy doesn't help him and only makes his situation worse. If he only picks a pocket, his life is at stake; so he ends up killing to save his own life: dead men tell no tales. So, let’s pray for the poor soul who, due to ruthless laws, is forced to kill or be killed; if there was less of this unreasonable hanging along the main roads, there’d be less need for throat-cutting in dark woods, my friends.”
“Fewer words had served,” replied Gerard coldly. “I asked a question, I am answered,” and suddenly doffing his bonnet—
“Fewer words would have sufficed,” Gerard replied coldly. “I asked a question, and I got an answer,” and suddenly removing his hat—
“'Obsecro Deum omnipotentem, ut, qua cruce jam pendent isti quindecim latrones fures et homicidae, in ea homicida fur et latro tu pependeris quam citissime, pro publica salute, in honorem justi Dei cui sit gloria, in aeternum, Amen.'”
“'I beg the all-powerful God that, as those fifteen thieves and murderers are already hanging on the cross, you, the murderer, thief, and criminal, may be hung there as soon as possible, for the public good, in honor of the just God, to whom be glory forever, Amen.'”
“And so good day.”
"Have a good day."
The greedy outlaw was satisfied last. “That is Latin,” he muttered, “and more than I bargained for.” So indeed it was.
The greedy outlaw was finally satisfied. “That’s Latin,” he muttered, “and more than I expected.” And it really was.
And he returned to his business with a mind at ease. The friends pondered in silence the many events of the last few hours.
And he went back to his work feeling relaxed. The friends quietly reflected on the various events of the past few hours.
At last Gerard said thoughtfully, “That she-bear saved both our lives-by God's will.”
At last, Gerard said thoughtfully, “That she-bear saved both our lives—by God's will.”
“Like enough,” replied Denys; “and talking of that, it was lucky we did not dawdle over our supper.”
“Probably,” Denys replied; “and speaking of that, it was good we didn’t linger over our dinner.”
“What mean you?”
"What do you mean?"
“I mean they are not all hanged; I saw a refuse of seven or eight as black as ink around our fire.”
“I mean they aren’t all hanged; I saw a group of seven or eight as black as ink around our fire.”
“When? when?”
"When? When?"
“Ere we had left it five minutes.”
“Before we had left it for five minutes.”
“Good heavens! and you said not a word.”
“Wow! And you didn't say anything.”
“It would but have worried you, and had set our friend a looking back, and mayhap tempted him to get his skull split. All other danger was over; they could not see us, we were out of the moonshine, and indeed, just turning a corner. Ah! there is the sun; and here are the gates of Dusseldorf. Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort!”
“It would only have stressed you out, and it would have made our friend look back, possibly tempting him to get himself hurt. All other danger was gone; they couldn’t see us, we were out of the moonlight, and we were actually just turning a corner. Ah! There’s the sun; and here are the gates of Düsseldorf. Stay strong, my friend, the devil is dead!”
“My head! my head!” was all poor Gerard could reply.
“My head! my head!” was all poor Gerard could say.
So many shocks, emotions, perils, horrors, added to the wound, his first, had tried his youthful body and sensitive nature too severely.
So many shocks, emotions, dangers, and horrors, all piled on his first wound, had pushed his young body and sensitive nature to the limit.
It was noon of the same day.
It was noon on the same day.
In a bedroom of “The Silver Lion” the rugged Denys sat anxious, watching his young friend.
In a bedroom of “The Silver Lion,” the tough Denys sat nervously, watching his young friend.
And he lay raging with fever, delirious at intervals, and one word for ever on his lips.
And he lay there, burning with fever, sometimes delirious, and one word constantly on his lips.
“Margaret!—Margaret Margaret!”
"Margaret!—Margaret Margaret!"
CHAPTER XXVI
It was the afternoon of the next day. Gerard was no longer lightheaded, but very irritable and full of fancies; and in one of these he begged Denys to get him a lemon to suck. Denys, who from a rough soldier had been turned by tender friendship into a kind of grandfather, got up hastily, and bidding him set his mind at ease, “lemons he should have in the twinkling of a quart pot,” went and ransacked the shops for them.
It was the afternoon of the next day. Gerard was no longer feeling dizzy, but he was very irritable and full of ideas; and in one of these moments, he asked Denys to get him a lemon to suck on. Denys, who had transformed from a tough soldier into a kind of grandfather through their close friendship, quickly got up and told him to relax, saying “he’d have lemons in the blink of an eye.” He then rushed off to search the shops for them.
They were not so common in the North as they are now, and he was absent a long while, and Gerard getting very impatient, when at last the door opened. But it was not Denys. Entered softly an imposing figure; an old gentleman in a long sober gown trimmed with rich fur, cherry-coloured hose, and pointed shoes, with a sword by his side in a morocco scabbard, a ruff round his neck not only starched severely, but treacherously stiffened in furrows by rebatoes, or a little hidden framework of wood; and on his head a four-cornered cap with a fur border; on his chin and bosom a majestic white beard. Gerard was in no doubt as to the vocation of his visitor, for, the sword excepted, this was familiar to him as the full dress of a physician. Moreover, a boy followed at his heels with a basket, where phials, lint, and surgical tools rather courted than shunned observation. The old gentleman came softly to the bedside, and said mildly and sotto voce, “How is't with thee, my son?”
They weren't as common in the North as they are now, and he had been gone for a long time, which made Gerard very impatient, until the door finally opened. But it wasn’t Denys who walked in. Instead, an impressive figure entered quietly; an elderly gentleman in a long, modest gown trimmed with rich fur, cherry-colored tights, and pointed shoes, with a sword at his side in a leather scabbard, a ruff around his neck that was not only stiffly starched but also artificially stiffened in neat folds by a hidden wooden frame; on his head was a four-cornered cap with a fur border; and he sported a majestic white beard on his chin and chest. Gerard had no doubt about the profession of his visitor, for, aside from the sword, this was the unmistakable formal attire of a physician. Additionally, a boy followed closely behind him with a basket, where phials, bandages, and surgical instruments were clearly displayed. The old gentleman approached the bedside softly and gently asked, “How are you, my son?”
Gerard answered gratefully that his wound gave him little pain now; but his throat was parched, and his head heavy.
Gerard replied gratefully that his wound hurt him very little now; however, his throat was dry, and his head felt heavy.
“A wound! they told me not of that. Let me see it. Ay, ay, a good clean bite. The mastiff had sound teeth that took this out, I warrant me;” and the good doctor's sympathy seemed to run off to the quadruped he had conjured, his jackal.
“A wound! They didn't tell me about that. Let me see it. Yeah, yeah, that’s a nice clean bite. The mastiff had strong teeth that caused this, I bet;” and the good doctor’s sympathy appeared to shift to the four-legged creature he had imagined, his jackal.
“This must be cauterized forthwith, or we shall have you starting back from water, and turning somersaults in bed under our hands. 'Tis the year for raving curs, and one hath done your business; but we will baffle him yet. Urchin, go heat thine iron.”
“This needs to be cauterized right away, or you'll start flailing in bed and freaking out on us. It's the year of the rabid dogs, and one has gotten to you; but we'll outsmart him yet. Kid, go heat up the iron.”
“But, sir,” edged in Gerard, “'twas no dog, but a bear.”
“But, sir,” interrupted Gerard, “it wasn’t a dog, it was a bear.”
“A bear! Young man,” remonstrated the senior severely, “think what you say; 'tis ill jesting with the man of art who brings his grey hairs and long study to heal you. A bear, quotha! Had you dissected as many bears as I, or the tithe, and drawn their teeth to keep your hand in, you would know that no bear's jaw ever made this foolish trifling wound. I tell you 'twas a dog, and since you put me to it, I even deny that it was a dog of magnitude, but neither more nor less than one of these little furious curs that are so rife, and run devious, biting each manly leg, and laying its wearer low, but for me and my learned brethren, who still stay the mischief with knife and cautery.”
“A bear! Young man,” the older man said sternly, “think about what you're saying; it's not wise to joke with the expert who has spent years studying to help you. A bear, really! If you had dissected as many bears as I have, or even a fraction of that, and pulled their teeth to practice, you'd know that no bear's jaw could have made this silly little wound. I'm telling you, it was a dog, and since you're insisting, I'll even say it wasn't a big dog, but rather one of those small, angry mutts that are everywhere, darting around and biting every manly leg, and the only reason you're not worse off is because of me and my knowledgeable colleagues, who still manage to stop the damage with our knives and cauterizing tools.”
“Alas, sir! when said I 'twas a bear's jaw? I said, 'A bear:' it was his paw, now.”
“Come on, sir! When did I say it was a bear's jaw? I said, ‘A bear:’ it was his paw, now.”
“And why didst not tell me that at once?”
“And why didn't you tell me that right away?”
“Because you kept telling me instead.”
“Because you kept telling me that instead.”
“Never conceal aught from your leech, young man,” continued the senior, who was a good talker, but one of the worst listeners in Europe. “Well, it is an ill business. All the horny excrescences of animals, to wit, claws of tigers, panthers, badgers, cats, bears, and the like, and horn of deer, and nails of humans, especially children, are imbued with direst poison. Y'had better have been bitten by a cur, whatever you may say, than gored by bull or stag, or scratched by bear. However, shalt have a good biting cataplasm for thy leg; meantime keep we the body cool: put out thy tongue!-good!-fever. Let me feel thy pulse: good!—fever. I ordain flebotomy, and on the instant.”
“Never hide anything from your doctor, young man,” the older man continued, who was a great talker but one of the worst listeners in Europe. “Well, this is a bad situation. All the sharp parts of animals, like the claws of tigers, panthers, badgers, cats, bears, and so on, as well as deer antlers and human nails, especially those of children, are filled with serious poison. You’d be better off being bitten by a mutt, no matter what you say, than getting gored by a bull or stag, or scratched by a bear. Now, you’ll get a good poultice for your leg; in the meantime, let’s keep the body cool: stick out your tongue!—good!—fever. Let me check your pulse: good!—fever. I’m ordering bloodletting, and right now.”
“Flebotomy! that is bloodletting: humph! Well, no matter, if 'tis sure to cure me, for I will not lie idle here.” The doctor let him know that flebotomy was infallible, especially in this case.
“Flebotomy! That’s bloodletting: humph! Well, no matter, if it’s sure to cure me, because I won’t just sit around here.” The doctor assured him that flebotomy was foolproof, especially in this situation.
“Hans, go fetch the things needful, and I will entertain the patient meantime with reasons.”
“Hans, go get what we need, and I will keep the patient occupied with some explanations in the meantime.”
The man of art then explained to Gerard that in disease the blood becomes hot and distempered and more or less poisonous; but a portion of this unhealthy liquid removed, Nature is fain to create a purer fluid to fill its place. Bleeding, therefore, being both a cooler and a purifier, was a specific in all diseases, for all diseases were febrile, whatever empirics might say.
The artist then explained to Gerard that during illness, the blood becomes hot, unbalanced, and somewhat toxic; however, when a part of this unhealthy liquid is removed, Nature seeks to create a purer fluid to take its place. Bleeding, therefore, acts as both a cooler and a purifier, making it a treatment for all illnesses, since all illnesses are related to fever, despite what some practitioners might claim.
“But think not,” said he warmly, “that it suffices to bleed; any paltry barber can open a vein (though not all can close it again). The art is to know what vein to empty for what disease. T'other day they brought me one tormented with earache. I let him blood in the right thigh, and away flew his earache. By-the-by, he has died since then. Another came with the toothache. I bled him behind the ear, and relieved him in a jiffy. He is also since dead as it happens. I bled our bailiff between the thumb and forefinger for rheumatism. Presently he comes to me with a headache and drumming in the ears, and holds out his hand over the basin; but I smiled at his folly, and bled him in the left ankle sore against his will, and made his head as light as a nut.”
“But don’t think,” he said warmly, “that just bleeding someone is enough; any cheap barber can open a vein (though not all can close it up again). The skill lies in knowing which vein to open for which illness. The other day, they brought me a guy who was suffering from an earache. I bled him in the right thigh, and his earache disappeared. By the way, he died shortly after. Another came in with a toothache. I bled him behind the ear, and it relieved him instantly. He also ended up dead, interestingly. I bled our bailiff between his thumb and forefinger for rheumatism. Soon after, he came to me with a headache and a ringing in his ears, holding his hand over the basin; but I chuckled at his foolishness and bled him in the left ankle, going against his wishes, and it made his head feel light as a feather.”
Diverging then from the immediate theme after the manner of enthusiasts, the reverend teacher proceeded thus:
Diverging then from the immediate theme in the way that enthusiasts do, the reverend teacher continued:
“Know, young man, that two schools of art contend at this moment throughout Europe. The Arabian, whose ancient oracles are Avicenna, Rhazes, Albucazis; and its revivers are Chauliac and Lanfranc; and the Greek school, whose modern champions are Bessarion, Platinus, and Marsilius Ficinus, but whose pristine doctors were medicine's very oracles, Phoebus, Chiron, Aesculapius, and his sons Podalinus and Machaon, Pythagoras, Democritus, Praxagoras, who invented the arteries, and Dioctes, 'qui primus urinae animum dedit.' All these taught orally. Then came Hippocrates, the eighteenth from Aesculapius, and of him we have manuscripts; to him we owe 'the vital principle.' He also invented the bandage, and tapped for water on the chest; and above all he dissected; yet only quadrupeds, for the brutal prejudices of the pagan vulgar withheld the human body from the knife of science. Him followed Aristotle, who gave us the aorta, the largest blood-vessel in the human body.”
“Know, young man, that two schools of art are currently competing across Europe. The Arabian school, whose ancient authorities are Avicenna, Rhazes, Albucazis; and its modern revivers are Chauliac and Lanfranc; and the Greek school, whose contemporary champions are Bessarion, Platinus, and Marsilius Ficinus. The original authorities of this school were medicine's very sages, Phoebus, Chiron, Aesculapius, and his sons Podalinus and Machaon, as well as Pythagoras, Democritus, and Praxagoras, who discovered the arteries, and Dioctes, ‘who first gave the soul to urine.’ All these taught orally. Then came Hippocrates, the eighteenth descendant of Aesculapius, from whom we have manuscripts; we owe to him the concept of ‘the vital principle.’ He also invented the bandage and performed procedures to check for fluid in the chest; and most importantly, he conducted dissections; yet only on quadrupeds, as the harsh prejudices of the pagan public kept the human body from the advancement of science. He was followed by Aristotle, who identified the aorta, the largest blood vessel in the human body.”
“Surely, sir, the Almighty gave us all that is in our bodies, and not Aristotle, nor any Grecian man,” objected Gerard humbly.
“Surely, sir, the Almighty gave us everything in our bodies, and not Aristotle or any Greek man,” Gerard humbly protested.
“Child! of course He gave us the thing; but Aristotle did more, he gave us the name of the thing. But young men will still be talking. The next great light was Galen; he studied at Alexandria, then the home of science. He, justly malcontent with quadrupeds, dissected apes, as coming nearer to man, and bled like a Trojan. Then came Theophilus, who gave us the nerves, the lacteal vessels, and the pia mater.”
“Kid! Of course He gave us the thing; but Aristotle did more, he gave us the name for it. But young people will still be talking. The next major figure was Galen; he studied in Alexandria, which was then the center of science. He, rightly dissatisfied with four-legged animals, dissected apes since they are closer to humans, and bled like a warrior. Then came Theophilus, who introduced us to the nerves, the lacteal vessels, and the pia mater.”
This worried Gerard. “I cannot lie still and hear it said that mortal man bestowed the parts which Adam our father took from Him, who made him of the clay, and us his sons.”
This worried Gerard. “I can’t just lie here and listen to people say that mortal man gave the parts that Adam, our father, received from Him who made him from clay, and us his sons.”
“Was ever such perversity?” said the doctor, his colour rising. “Who is the real donor of a thing to man? he who plants it secretly in the dark recesses of man's body, or the learned wight who reveals it to his intelligence, and so enriches his mind with the knowledge of it? Comprehension is your only true possession. Are you answered?”
“Is there ever such stubbornness?” said the doctor, his face flushing. “Who is the true giver of something to humanity? Is it the one who secretly plants it in the hidden parts of a person's body, or the knowledgeable person who brings it to light and enriches their mind with that understanding? Understanding is your only real possession. Do you understand now?”
“I am put to silence, sir.”
“I'm being silenced, sir.”
“And that is better still; for garrulous patients are ill to cure, especially in fever; I say, then, that Eristratus gave us the cerebral nerves and the milk vessels; nay, more, he was the inventor of lithotomy, whatever you may say. Then came another whom I forget; you do somewhat perturb me with your petty exceptions. Then came Ammonius, the author of lithotrity, and here comes Hans with the basin-to stay your volubility. Blow thy chafer, boy, and hand me the basin; 'tis well. Arabians, quotha! What are they but a sect of yesterday who about the year 1000 did fall in with the writings of those very Greeks, and read them awry, having no concurrent light of their own? for their demigod, and camel-driver, Mahound, impostor in science as in religion, had strictly forbidden them anatomy, even of the lower animals, the which he who severeth from medicine, 'tollit solem e mundo,' as Tully quoth. Nay, wonder not at my fervour, good youth; where the general weal stands in jeopardy, a little warmth is civic, humane, and honourable. Now there is settled of late in this town a pestilent Arabist, a mere empiric, who, despising anatomy, and scarce knowing Greek from Hebrew, hath yet spirited away half my patients; and I tremble for the rest. Put forth thine ankle; and thou, Hans, breathe on the chafer.”
“And that’s even better; because talkative patients are hard to treat, especially when they have a fever. I’ll say that Eristratus discovered the brain nerves and the milk ducts; in fact, he invented lithotomy, no matter what you say. Then came another person I can't remember; you're making me a bit uneasy with your little objections. After that, Ammonius showed up, the one who introduced lithotrity, and here comes Hans with the basin to quiet your chatter. Blow on that thing, boy, and hand me the basin; that’s good. Arabs, huh? What are they but a group that recently appeared who around the year 1000 came across the writings of those Greeks and misinterpreted them, having no clear understanding of their own? Because their demigod and camel-driver, Mahound, a fraud in both science and religion, strictly prohibited them from studying anatomy, even of lower animals. He who separates himself from medicine 'takes the sun out of the world,' as Cicero said. So don’t be surprised by my passion, young man; when the public good is at risk, a little intensity is civic, humane, and honorable. Recently a troublesome Arabist has settled in this town, just a quack, who, looking down on anatomy and hardly knowing Greek from Hebrew, has managed to take away half my patients; and I worry about the others. Put out your ankle; and you, Hans, breathe on that thing.”
Whilst matters were in this posture, in came Denys with the lemons, and stood surprised. “What sport is toward?” said he, raising his brows.
While things were like this, Denys arrived with the lemons and looked surprised. “What’s going on?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Gerard coloured a little, and told him the learned doctor was going to flebotomize him and cauterize him; that was all.
Gerard blushed a bit and told him that the knowledgeable doctor was going to draw some blood and cauterize him; that was it.
“Ay! indeed; and yon imp, what bloweth he hot coals for?”
“Ay! indeed; and that little devil, what is he blowing hot coals for?”
“What should it be for,” said the doctor to Gerard, “but to cauterize the vein when opened and the poisonous blood let free? 'Tis the only safe way. Avicenna indeed recommends a ligature of the vein; but how 'tis to be done he saith not, nor knew he himself I wot, nor any of the spawn of Ishmael. For me, I have no faith in such tricksy expedients; and take this with you for a safe principle: 'Whatever an Arab or Arabist says is right, must be wrong.'”
“What should it be for,” the doctor said to Gerard, “but to cauterize the vein when it’s opened and the poisonous blood is let out? It's the only safe method. Avicenna indeed recommends tying off the vein; but he doesn't say how it should be done, nor did he know himself, nor any of the descendants of Ishmael. As for me, I have no faith in such tricky techniques; and take this as a safe principle: ‘Whatever an Arab or Arabist says is right must be wrong.’”
“Oh, I see now what 'tis for,” said Denys; “and art thou so simple as to let him put hot iron to thy living flesh? didst ever keep thy little finger but ten moments in a candle? and this will be as many minutes. Art not content to burn in purgatory after thy death? must thou needs buy a foretaste on't here?”
“Oh, I get it now what it's for,” said Denys; “are you really so naive as to let him put hot iron on your living flesh? Have you ever kept your little finger in a candle for even ten seconds? This will be just as long. Aren't you satisfied with burning in purgatory after you die? Do you really need to get a preview of it here?”
“I never thought of that,” said Gerard gravely; “the good doctor spake not of burning, but of cautery; to be sure 'tis all one, but cautery sounds not so fearful as burning.”
“I never thought of that,” Gerard said seriously; “the good doctor didn’t mention burning, but cautery; it’s all the same, but cautery doesn’t sound as scary as burning.”
“Imbecile! That is their art; to confound a plain man with dark words, till his hissing flesh lets him know their meaning. Now listen to what I have seen. When a soldier bleeds from a wound in battle, these leeches say, 'Fever. Blood him!' and so they burn the wick at t'other end too. They bleed the bled. Now at fever's heels comes desperate weakness; then the man needs all his blood to live; but these prickers and burners, having no forethought, recking nought of what is sure to come in a few hours, and seeing like brute beasts only what is under their noses, having meantime robbed him of the very blood his hurt had spared him to battle that weakness withal; and so he dies exhausted. Hundreds have I seen so scratched and pricked out of the world, Gerard, and tall fellows too; but lo! if they have the luck to be wounded where no doctor can be had, then they live; this too have I seen. Had I ever outlived that field in Brabant but for my most lucky mischance, lack of chirurgery? The frost chocked all my bleeding wounds, and so I lived. A chirurgeon had pricked yet one more hole in this my body with his lance, and drained my last drop out, and my spirit with it. Seeing them thus distraught in bleeding of the bleeding soldier, I place no trust in them; for what slays a veteran may well lay a milk-and-water bourgeois low.”
“Idiot! That's their art; to confuse a straightforward person with complicated words, until he feels their meaning deep in his flesh. Now listen to what I've witnessed. When a soldier is wounded in battle, these doctors say, 'Fever. Let’s bleed him!' and they end up making things worse. They bleed the ones who are already bleeding. When fever comes, so does extreme weakness; at that point, a man needs all his blood to survive. But these quacks, without any foresight, completely oblivious to what’s going to happen in just a few hours, only seeing what’s right in front of them, have robbed him of the very blood that could help him fight off that weakness; and so he dies drained. I've seen hundreds of soldiers scratched and pricked to death, Gerard, and big strong ones too; but look! If they’re lucky enough to get hurt where there’s no doctor around, they survive; I've seen that too. If I had ever survived that battlefield in Brabant, it was only due to my fortunate misfortune of not having any surgeons around. The cold sealed up all my wounds, and that’s how I lived. A surgeon had dug just one more hole in my body with his lance, drained my last drop out, and my spirit with it. Seeing them so frantic in bleeding the already bleeding soldier, I trust them not at all; for what kills a seasoned warrior could easily bring down a soft and weak civilian.”
“This sounds like common sense,” sighed Gerard languidly, “but no need to raise your voice so; I was not born deaf, and just now I hear acutely.”
“This sounds like common sense,” sighed Gerard lazily, “but there’s no need to raise your voice; I wasn’t born deaf, and right now I can hear just fine.”
“Common sense! very common sense indeed,” shouted the bad listener; “why, this is a soldier; a brute whose business is to kill men, not cure them.” He added in very tolerable French, “Woe be to you, unlearned man, if you come between a physician and his patient; and woe be to you, misguided youth, if you listen to that man of blood.”
“Common sense! Such common sense, indeed,” shouted the poor listener; “why, this is a soldier; a brute whose job is to kill people, not heal them.” He added in pretty decent French, “Beware, uneducated man, if you get in the way of a doctor and his patient; and beware, misguided youth, if you listen to that man of violence.”
“Much obliged,” said Denys, with mock politeness; “but I am a true man, and would rob no man of his name. I do somewhat in the way of blood, but not worth mention in this presence. For one I slay, you slay a score; and for one spoonful of blood I draw, you spill a tubful. The world is still gulled by shows. We soldiers vapour with long swords, and even in war be-get two foes for every one we kill; but you smooth gownsmen, with soft phrases and bare bodkins, 'tis you that thin mankind.”
“Thanks a lot,” Denys said with feigned politeness. “But I’m a man of honor and wouldn’t take away anyone’s name. I do a bit of fighting, but it’s not worth mentioning here. For every one person I kill, you take out twenty; and for every spoonful of blood I draw, you spill a whole tub. The world is still fooled by appearances. We soldiers swagger with our long swords, and even in battle, we create two enemies for every one we take down; but you smooth-talking folks in fancy clothes, with your soft words and bare knives, it’s you who are whittling down humanity.”
“A sick chamber is no place for jesting,” cried the physician.
“A sick room is no place for joking,” shouted the doctor.
“No, doctor, nor for bawling,” said the patient peevishly.
“No, doctor, not for yelling,” said the patient irritably.
“Come, young man,” said the senior kindly, “be reasonable. Cuilibet in sua arte credendum est. My whole life has been given to this art. I studied at Montpelier; the first school in France, and by consequence in Europe. There learned I Dririmancy, Scatomancy, Pathology, Therapeusis, and, greater than them all, Anatomy. For there we disciples of Hippocrates and Galen had opportunities those great ancients never knew. Goodbye, quadrupeds and apes, and paganism, and Mohammedanism; we bought of the churchwardens, we shook the gallows; we undid the sexton's work of dark nights, penetrated with love of science and our kind; all the authorities had their orders from Paris to wink; and they winked. Gods of Olympus, how they winked! The gracious king assisted us: he sent us twice a year a living criminal condemned to die, and said, 'Deal ye with him as science asks; dissect him alive, if ye think fit.'”
“Come on, young man,” said the older man kindly, “let’s be reasonable. Everyone should believe in their own expertise. I’ve dedicated my entire life to this field. I studied at Montpellier, the top school in France, and by extension, in Europe. There, I learned about Dririmancy, Scatomancy, Pathology, Therapeusis, and, more importantly, Anatomy. As students of Hippocrates and Galen, we had opportunities that those great ancients couldn’t even imagine. Goodbye to quadrupeds and apes, and to paganism and Islam; we bought from the churchwardens, we dealt with the gallows; we reversed the sexton's nighttime work, driven by our love for science and humanity; all the authorities received orders from Paris to look the other way; and they did just that. My goodness, how they turned a blind eye! The benevolent king supported us: he sent us a living convict sentenced to die twice a year and said, 'Do as science requires; dissect him alive, if you wish.'”
“By the liver of Herod, and Nero's bowels, he'll make me blush for the land that bore me, an' if he praises it any more,” shouted Denys at the top of his voice.
“By the liver of Herod and Nero's guts, he's going to make me ashamed of the land that raised me, and if he praises it any more,” Denys shouted at the top of his lungs.
Gerard gave a little squawk, and put his fingers in his ears; but speedily drew them out and shouted angrily, and as loudly, “you great roaring, blaspheming bull of Basan, hold your noisy tongue!”
Gerard let out a small shout and covered his ears, but quickly pulled them away and yelled angrily, just as loudly, “You big, roaring, blaspheming bull of Bashan, shut your loud mouth!”
Denys summoned a contrite look.
Denys put on a sorry face.
“Tush, slight man,” said the doctor, with calm contempt, and vibrated a hand over him as in this age men make a pointer dog down charge; then flowed majestic on. “We seldom or never dissected the living criminal, except in part. We mostly inoculated them with such diseases as the barren time afforded, selecting of course the more interesting ones.”
“Come on, you small man,” the doctor said with cool disdain, waving a hand over him like a modern-day pointer dog on point; then he moved on, proud and confident. “We almost never dissect living criminals, except in bits. Most of the time, we just inoculated them with whatever diseases were available, of course picking out the more interesting ones.”
“That means the foulest,” whispered Denys meekly.
"That means the worst," Denys whispered quietly.
“These we watched through all their stages to maturity.”
“These we observed through all their stages until they were fully grown.”
“Meaning the death of the poor rogue,” whispered Denys meekly.
“Meaning the death of the poor scoundrel,” whispered Denys quietly.
“And now, my poor sufferer, who best merits your confidence, this honest soldier with his youth, his ignorance, and his prejudices, or a greybeard laden with the gathered wisdom of ages?”
“And now, my poor sufferer, who deserves your trust more, this honest soldier with his youth, his ignorance, and his biases, or an old man burdened with the accumulated wisdom of the ages?”
“That is,” cried Denys impatiently, “will you believe what a jackdaw in a long gown has heard from a starling in a long gown, who heard it from a jay-pie, who heard it from a magpie, who heard it from a popinjay; or will you believe what I, a man with nought to gain by looking awry, nor speaking false, have seen; nor heard with the ears which are given us to gull us, but seen with these sentinels mine eye, seen, seen; to wit, that fevered and blooded men die, that fevered men not blooded live? stay, who sent for this sang-sue? Did you?”
“That is,” Denys exclaimed impatiently, “will you trust what a jackdaw in a long gown heard from a starling in a long gown, who heard it from a jay, who heard it from a magpie, who heard it from a peacock; or will you believe what I, a man with nothing to gain by being dishonest or misleading, have seen? Not heard with the ears that deceive us, but seen with my own eyes, seen, seen; that is, that fevered and wounded men die, while fevered men who aren't wounded survive? Wait, who called for this leech? Did you?”
“Not I. I thought you had.”
“Not me. I thought you did.”
“Nay,” explained the doctor, “the good landlord told me one was 'down' in his house; so I said to myself, 'A stranger, and in need of my art,' and came incontinently.”
“No,” the doctor explained, “the kind landlord told me someone was 'down' in his house; so I thought to myself, 'A stranger in need of my skills,' and I came right away.”
“It was the act of a good Christian, sir.”
“It was the deed of a good Christian, sir.”
“Of a good bloodhound,” cried Denys contemptuously. “What, art thou so green as not to know that all these landlords are in league with certain of their fellow-citizens, who pay them toll on each booty? Whatever you pay this ancient for stealing your life blood, of that the landlord takes his third for betraying you to him. Nay, more, as soon as ever your blood goes down the stair in that basin there, the landlord will see it or smell it, and send swiftly to his undertaker and get his third out of that job. For if he waited till the doctor got downstairs, the doctor would be beforehand and bespeak his undertaker, and then he would get the black thirds. Say I sooth, old Rouge et Noir? dites!”
“Of a good bloodhound,” Denys scoffed. “What, are you really so naive that you don’t realize all these landlords are working with some of their fellow townspeople, who pay them a cut on every haul? Whatever you give this old guy for draining your life away, the landlord takes his share for selling you out. And as soon as your blood goes down the stairs into that basin, the landlord will either see it or smell it, and quickly send for his undertaker to get his cut from that deal. Because if he waits until the doctor gets downstairs, the doctor will beat him to it and book his undertaker first, and then he’ll end up with the short end of the stick. Am I right, old Rouge et Noir? Dites!”
“Denys, Denys, who taught you to think so ill of man?”
“Denys, Denys, who taught you to think so poorly of people?”
“Mine eyes, that are not to be gulled by what men say, seeing this many a year what they do, in all the lands I travel.”
“ My eyes, which won't be fooled by what people say, have seen for many years what they do, in all the places I visit.”
The doctor with some address made use of these last words to escape the personal question. “I too have eyes as well as thou, and go not by tradition only, but by what I have seen, and not only seen, but done. I have healed as many men by bleeding as that interloping Arabist has killed for want of it. 'Twas but t'other day I healed one threatened with leprosy; I but bled him at the tip of the nose. I cured last year a quartan ague: how? bled its forefinger. Our cure lost his memory. I brought it him back on the point of my lance; I bled him behind the ear. I bled a dolt of a boy, and now he is the only one who can tell his right hand from his left in a whole family of idiots. When the plague was here years ago, no sham plague, such as empyrics proclaim every six years or so, but the good honest Byzantine pest, I blooded an alderman freely, and cauterized the symptomatic buboes, and so pulled him out of the grave; whereas our then chirurgeon, a most pernicious Arabist, caught it himself, and died of it, aha, calling on Rhazes, Avicenna, and Mahound, who, could they have come, had all perished as miserably as himself.”
The doctor, quick on his feet, used these last words to dodge the personal question. “I have eyes just like you, and I don't just rely on tradition, but on what I've seen and done. I've healed as many people by bleeding them as that meddling Arab has harmed by not doing it. Just the other day, I treated someone who was thought to have leprosy; I simply bled him at the tip of the nose. Last year, I cured a quartan fever: how? I bled his forefinger. Our patient lost his memory. I restored it with the point of my lance; I bled him behind the ear. I bled a slow-witted boy, and now he's the only one in his whole family who can tell his right hand from his left among a bunch of idiots. When the plague hit years ago, not some fake plague like the charlatans claim every six years or so, but the real Byzantine pestilence, I bled an alderman generously, and cauterized the swollen lymph nodes, pulling him back from the brink of death; meanwhile, our surgeon at the time, a truly harmful Arabist, caught it himself and died from it, calling on Rhazes, Avicenna, and Mahound, who, if they could have come, would have perished as pitifully as he did.”
“Oh, my poor ears,” sighed Gerard.
“Oh, my poor ears,” sighed Gerard.
“And am I fallen so low that one of your presence and speech rejects my art and listens to a rude soldier, so far behind even his own miserable trade as to bear an arbalest, a worn-out invention, that German children shoot at pigeons with, but German soldiers mock at since ever arquebusses came and put them down?”
“And have I fallen so low that someone like you rejects my art and listens to a rude soldier, who is so far behind even his own pathetic job that he carries a crossbow, an outdated invention that German kids use to shoot pigeons, but German soldiers laugh at ever since guns became a thing?”
“You foul-mouthed old charlatan,” cried Denys, “the arbalest is shouldered by taller men than ever stood in Rhenish hose, and even now it kills as many more than your noisy, stinking arquebus, as the lancet does than all our toys together. Go to! He was no fool who first called you 'leeches.' Sang-sues! va!”
“You foul-mouthed old fraud,” shouted Denys, “the crossbow is carried by taller men than anyone who’s ever worn Rhenish pants, and even now it takes down more people than your loud, smelly gun ever could, just like a scalpel does compared to all our toys combined. Come on! It wasn’t a fool who first called you 'leeches.' Bloodsuckers! Ugh!”
Gerard groaned. “By the holy virgin, I wish you were both at Jericho, bellowing.'
Gerard groaned. “For the love of the holy virgin, I wish you were both in Jericho, shouting."
“Thank you comrade. Then I'll bark no more, but at need I'll bite. If he has a lance, I have a sword; if he bleeds you, I'll bleed him. The moment his lance pricks your skin, little one, my sword-hilt knocks against his ribs; I have said it.”
“Thanks, comrade. I won’t speak up again, but if I have to, I’ll fight back. If he has a spear, I have a sword; if he injures you, I’ll injure him. The moment his spear touches your skin, little one, my sword hilt will hit against his ribs; I've made my point.”
And Denys turned pale, folded his arms, and looked gloomy and dangerous.
And Denys turned pale, crossed his arms, and looked serious and threatening.
Gerard sighed wearily. “Now, as all this is about me, give me leave to say a word.”
Gerard sighed tiredly. “Now that this is all about me, let me have a moment to say something.”
“Ay! let the young man choose life or death for himself.”
“Ay! let the young man decide for himself between life and death.”
Gerard then indirectly rebuked his noisy counsellors by contrast and example. He spoke with unparalleled calmness, sweetness, and gentleness. And these were the words of Gerard the son of Eli. “I doubt not you both mean me well; but you assassinate me between you. Calmness and quiet are everything to me; but you are like two dogs growling over a bone. And in sooth, bone I should be, did this uproar last long.”
Gerard then subtly criticized his loud advisors through his actions and demeanor. He spoke with unmatched calm, kindness, and gentleness. And these were the words of Gerard, the son of Eli. “I don’t doubt that you both have good intentions towards me; but you’re tearing me apart in the process. Peace and tranquility are everything to me; yet you two are like two dogs snarling over a bone. Honestly, I would become the bone if this commotion continues much longer.”
There was a dead silence, broken only by the silvery voice of Gerard, as he lay tranquil, and gazed calmly at the ceiling, and trickled into words.
There was complete silence, interrupted only by Gerard's soft voice as he lay peacefully, staring at the ceiling, and started to speak.
“First, venerable sir, I thank you for coming to see me, whether from humanity, or in the way of honest gain; all trades must live.
“First, thank you for coming to see me, whether out of kindness or to make a profit; everyone has to make a living.”
“Your learning, reverend sir, seems great, to me at least, and for your experience, your age voucheth it.
“Your knowledge, respected sir, appears impressive to me, and your age confirms your experience.”
“You say you have bled many, and of these many, many have not died thereafter, but lived, and done well. I must needs believe you.”
"You say you've hurt a lot of people, and among those, many survived and thrived afterward. I have to believe you."
The physician bowed; Denys grunted.
The doctor bowed; Denys grunted.
“Others, you say, you have bled, and-they are dead. I must needs believe you.
“Others, you say, you have bled, and they are dead. I have to believe you.
“Denys knows few things compared with you, but he knows them well. He is a man not given to conjecture. This I myself have noted. He says he has seen the fevered and blooded for the most part die; the fevered and not blooded live. I must needs believe him.
“Denys knows fewer things compared to you, but he knows them well. He's not the type to guess. I've noticed this myself. He says he has mostly seen those with fever and blood die; those with fever but no blood survive. I have to believe him.
“Here, then, all is doubt.
"Here, then, everything is uncertain."
“But thus much is certain; if I be bled, I must pay you a fee, and be burnt and excruciated with a hot iron, who am no felon.
“But this much is clear; if I get bled, I have to pay you a fee, and be burned and tortured with a hot iron, though I am no criminal."
“Pay a certain price in money and anguish for a doubtful remedy, that will I never.
“Pay a certain price in money and anguish for a questionable solution? Never.”
“Next to money and ease, peace and quiet are certain goods, above all in a sick-room; but 'twould seem men cannot argue medicine without heat and raised voices; therefore, sir, I will essay a little sleep, and Denys will go forth and gaze on the females of the place, and I will keep you no longer from those who can afford to lay out blood and money in flebotomy and cautery.”
“Besides money and comfort, peace and quiet are definitely valuable things, especially in a sick room; however, it seems that people can’t discuss medicine without getting heated and raising their voices. So, sir, I’ll try to get some sleep, and Denys will go out and check out the women in the area, and I won’t keep you any longer from those who can spend blood and money on bloodletting and cauterization.”
The old physician had naturally a hot temper; he had often during this battle of words mastered it with difficulty, and now it mastered him. The most dignified course was silence; he saw this, and drew himself up, and made loftily for the door, followed close by his little boy and big basket.
The old doctor naturally had a quick temper; he had often struggled to keep it in check during this exchange of words, and now it was getting the best of him. The most dignified thing to do was to stay silent; he realized this, straightened up, and headed toward the door with an air of superiority, closely followed by his little boy and large basket.
But at the door he choked, he swelled, he burst. He whirled and came back open-mouthed, and the little boy and big basket had to whisk semicircularly not to be run down, for de minimis non curat Medicina-even when not in a rage.
But at the door he choked, he swelled, he burst. He spun around and came back with his mouth wide open, and the little boy and big basket had to dodge to the side to avoid being run over, because the law doesn’t care about small things—even when not in a rage.
“Ah! you reject my skill, you scorn my art. My revenge shall be to leave you to yourself; lost idiot, take your last look at me, and at the sun. Your blood be on your head!” And away he stamped.
“Ah! you dismiss my talent, you look down on my craft. My revenge will be to leave you alone; foolish fool, take your last look at me and at the sun. Your blood is on your hands!” And away he stomped.
But on reaching the door he whirled and came back; his wicker tail twirling round after him like a cat's.
But when he got to the door, he spun around and came back; his wicker tail whirling behind him like a cat's.
“In twelve hours at furthest you will be in the secondary stage of fever. Your head will split. Your carotids will thump. Aha! And let but a pin fall, you will jump to the ceiling. Then send for me; and I'll not come.” He departed. But at the door-handle gathered fury, wheeled and came flying, with pale, terror-stricken boy and wicker tail whisking after him. “Next will come—CRAMPS of the STOMACH. Aha!
“In twelve hours at the latest, you'll be in the secondary stage of the fever. Your head will feel like it's splitting. Your carotid arteries will be pounding. Oh! And if a pin drops, you'll jump right up to the ceiling. Then call for me; and I won't come.” He left. But at the door handle, he gathered his fury, turned around, and rushed back, with a pale, terrified boy and a wicker tail trailing after him. “Next will be—STOMACH CRAMPS. Oh!
“Then—BILIOUS VOMIT. Aha!
“Then—SICK VOMIT. Aha!
“Then—COLD SWEAT, and DEADLY STUPOR.
"Then—COLD SWEAT and DEADLY DROWSINESS."
“Then—CONFUSION OF ALL THE SENSES.
"Then—OVERWHELMING CONFUSION."
“Then—BLOODY VOMIT.
“Then—GROSS VOMIT.
“And after that nothing can save you, not even I; and if I could I would not, and so farewell!”
“And after that, nothing can save you, not even me; and even if I could, I wouldn’t, so goodbye!”
Even Denys changed colour at threats so fervent and precise; but Gerard only gnashed his teeth with rage at the noise, and seized his hard bolster with kindling eye.
Even Denys turned pale at such intense and specific threats; but Gerard just ground his teeth in anger at the sound and grabbed his hard pillow with a fiery gaze.
This added fuel to the fire, and brought the insulted ancient back from the impassable door, with his whisking train.
This fueled the fire even more and brought the offended ancient back from the impossible door, with his swirling train.
“And after that—MADNESS!
"And then—CHAOS!"
“And after that—BLACK VOMIT
“Then—BLACK VOMIT
“And then—CONVULSIONS!
"And then—seizures!
“And then—THAT CESSATION OF ALL VITAL FUNCTIONS THE VULGAR CALL 'DEATH,' for which thank your own Satanic folly and insolence. Farewell.” He went. He came. He roared, “And think not to be buried in any Christian church-yard; for the bailiff is my good friend, and I shall tell him how and why you died: felo de se! felo de se! Farewell.”
“And then—THAT END OF ALL LIFE FUNCTIONS THE COMMON PEOPLE CALL 'DEATH,' for which you can thank your own wicked arrogance and disrespect. Goodbye.” He left. He returned. He shouted, “And don’t think you’ll be buried in any Christian graveyard; the bailiff is my good friend, and I’ll tell him how and why you died: suicide! suicide! Goodbye.”
Gerard sprang to his feet on the bed by some supernatural gymnastic power excitement lent him, and seeing him so moved, the vindictive orator came back at him fiercer than ever, to launch some master-threat the world has unhappily lost; for as he came with his whisking train, and shaking his fist, Gerard hurled the bolster furiously in his face and knocked him down like a shot, the boy's head cracked under his falling master's, and crash went the dumb-stricken orator into the basket, and there sat wedged in an inverted angle, crushing phial after phial. The boy, being light, was strewed afar, but in a squatting posture; so that they sat in a sequence, like graduated specimens, the smaller howling. But soon the doctor's face filled with horror, and he uttered a far louder and unearthly screech, and kicked and struggled with wonderful agility for one of his age.
Gerard leaped to his feet on the bed with some supernatural energy stirred by excitement, and seeing him so worked up, the angry speaker charged back at him more fiercely than before, ready to unleash some master threat that the world sadly lost; as he approached, waving his arms and shaking his fist, Gerard threw a pillow at him with all his might, knocking him down instantly. The boy's head hit the ground hard as his master fell on top of him, and the stunned orator crashed into the basket, getting stuck at an awkward angle and smashing bottle after bottle. The lightweight boy ended up sprawled out nearby but in a sitting position, so they sat in a line, like a display of smaller specimens, with the smallest one crying out. But soon, the doctor’s face twisted in shock, and he let out a much louder, otherworldly scream, kicking and writhing with surprising agility for someone of his age.
He was sitting on the hot coals.
He was sitting on the hot coals.
They had singed the cloth and were now biting the man. Struggling wildly but vainly to get out of the basket, he rolled yelling over with it sideways, and lo! a great hissing; then the humane Gerard ran and wrenched off the tight basket not without a struggle. The doctor lay on his face groaning, handsomely singed with his own chafer, and slaked a moment too late by his own villainous compounds, which, however, being as various and even beautiful in colour as they were odious in taste, had strangely diversified his grey robe, and painted it more gaudy than neat.
They had burned the cloth and were now biting the man. Struggling desperately but uselessly to escape the basket, he rolled over sideways while screaming, and suddenly there was a loud hissing; then the kind Gerard rushed in and pried off the tight basket after a struggle. The doctor lay face down groaning, his hands badly scorched by his own insect, and had just missed cooling himself with his own wicked mixtures, which, although as varied and even beautiful in color as they were horrible in taste, had oddly stained his grey robe, making it look more flashy than tidy.
Gerard and Denys raised him up and consoled him. “Courage, man, 'tis but cautery; balm of Gilead, why, you recommend it but now to my comrade here.”
Gerard and Denys lifted him up and comforted him. “Hang in there, man, it's just cautery; balm of Gilead, you just recommended it to my buddy here.”
The physician replied only by a look of concentrated spite, and went out in dead silence, thrusting his stomach forth before him in the drollest way. The boy followed him next moment but in that slight interval he left off whining, burst into a grin, and conveyed to the culprits by an unrefined gesture his accurate comprehension of, and rapturous though compressed joy at, his master's disaster.
The doctor only responded with a look of pure spite and left in complete silence, sticking his belly out in a funny way. The boy followed him right after, but in that brief moment, he stopped whining, grinned, and showed the culprits with a crude gesture that he totally understood and was excited, even if he was trying to hold back, about his master's misfortune.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE worthy physician went home and told his housekeeper he was in agony from “a bad burn.” Those were the words. For in phlogistic as in other things, we cauterize our neighbour's digits, but burn our own fingers. His housekeeper applied some old women's remedy mild as milk. He submitted like a lamb to her experience: his sole object in the case of this patient being cure: meantime he made out his bill for broken phials, and took measures to have the travellers imprisoned at once. He made oath before a magistrate that they, being strangers and indebted to him, meditated instant flight from the township.
THE good doctor went home and told his housekeeper he was in pain from “a bad burn.” That’s what he said. Because, just like everything else, we help treat our neighbor's injuries but hurt ourselves in the process. His housekeeper used some old-fashioned remedy that was as gentle as milk. He went along with her advice, focused solely on healing himself. In the meantime, he wrote up his bill for broken vials and arranged to have the travelers locked up right away. He swore before a magistrate that they, being strangers and owing him money, were planning to flee the town immediately.
Alas! it was his unlucky day. His sincere desire and honest endeavour to perjure himself were baffled by a circumstance he had never foreseen nor indeed thought possible.
Alas! it was his unlucky day. His genuine desire and honest attempt to lie under oath were thwarted by a situation he had never anticipated nor really thought could happen.
He had spoken the truth.
He told the truth.
And IN AN AFFIDAVIT!
And IN AN AFFIDAVIT!
The officers, on reaching “The Silver Lion”, found the birds were flown.
The officers, upon arriving at “The Silver Lion,” discovered that the birds had already taken off.
They went down to the river, and from intelligence they received there, started up the bank in hot pursuit.
They went down to the river, and based on the information they got there, started up the bank in a fast chase.
This temporary escape the friends owed to Denys's good sense and observation. After a peal of laughter, that it was a cordial to hear, and after venting his watchword three times, he turned short grave, and told Gerard Dusseldorf was no place for them. “That old fellow,” said he, “went off unnaturally silent for such a babbler: we are strangers here; the bailiff is his friend: in five minutes we shall lie in a dungeon for assaulting a Dusseldorf dignity, are you strong enough to hobble to the water's edge? it is hard by. Once there you have but to lie down in a boat instead of a bed; and what is the odds?”
This temporary escape was thanks to Denys's good judgment and keen observation. After a hearty laugh that was genuinely uplifting, and after repeating his catchphrase three times, he suddenly became serious and told Gerard that Dusseldorf wasn't safe for them. “That old man,” he said, “left unusually quiet for someone who talks so much: we’re strangers here; the bailiff is his friend. In five minutes, we could end up in a dungeon for disrespecting some Dusseldorf official. Are you strong enough to limp to the water's edge? It's not far. Once we’re there, you just have to lie down in a boat instead of a bed; what's the difference?”
“The odds, Denys? untold, and all in favour of the boat. I pine for Rome; for Rome is my road to Sevenbergen; and then we shall lie in the boat, but ON the Rhine, the famous Rhine; the cool, refreshing Rhine. I feel its breezes coming: the very sight will cure a little hop-'o-my-thumb fever like mine; away! away!”
“The odds, Denys? countless, and all in favor of the boat. I long for Rome; for Rome is my way to Sevenbergen; and then we’ll lie in the boat, but ON the Rhine, the famous Rhine; the cool, refreshing Rhine. I can feel its breezes approaching: just seeing it will cure my little hop-'o-my-thumb fever like nothing else; let’s go! let’s go!”
Finding his excitable friend in this mood, Denys settled hastily with the landlord, and they hurried to the river. On inquiry they found to their dismay that the public boat was gone this half hour, and no other would start that day, being afternoon. By dint, however, of asking a great many questions, and collecting a crowd, they obtained an offer of a private boat from an old man and his two sons.
Finding his eager friend in this mood, Denys quickly settled up with the landlord, and they rushed to the river. When they asked around, they were disappointed to learn that the public boat had left half an hour ago, and no other boats would be departing that day since it was already afternoon. However, after asking a lot of questions and gathering a crowd, they managed to get an offer for a private boat from an old man and his two sons.
This was duly ridiculed by a bystander. “The current is too strong for three oars.”
This was quickly mocked by someone nearby. “The current is too strong for three oars.”
“Then my comrade and I will help row,” said the invalid.
“Then my friend and I will help row,” said the sick person.
“No need,” said the old man. “Bless your silly heart, he owns t'other boat.”
“No need,” said the old man. “Bless your silly heart, he owns the other boat.”
There was a powerful breeze right astern; the boatmen set a broad sail, and rowing also, went off at a spanking rate.
There was a strong wind coming from behind; the boatmen raised a large sail and, while also rowing, sped off quickly.
“Are ye better, lad, for the river breeze?”
“Are you feeling better, kid, from the river breeze?”
“Much better. But indeed the doctor did me good.”
“Much better. The doctor really helped me.”
“The doctor? Why, you would none of his cures.”
“The doctor? Trust me, you wouldn’t want any of his treatments.”
“No, but I mean—you will say I am nought—but knocking the old fool down—somehow—it soothed me.”
“No, but I mean—you’ll call me nothing—but knocking the old fool down—somehow—it calmed me.”
“Amiable dove! how thy little character opens more and more every day, like a rosebud. I read thee all wrong at first.”
“Amiable dove! how your little personality unfolds more and more every day, like a rosebud. I misread you completely at first.”
“Nay, Denys, mistake me not, neither. I trust I had borne with his idle threats, though in sooth his voice went through my poor ears; but he was an infidel, or next door to one, and such I have been taught to abhor. Did he not as good as say, we owed our inward parts to men with long Greek names, and not to Him, whose name is but a syllable, but whose hand is over all the earth? Pagan!”
“Nay, Denys, don’t misunderstand me. I could have tolerated his empty threats, even though his words drilled into my poor ears; but he was an unbeliever, or almost one, and I’ve been taught to despise such people. Didn’t he practically say we owe our very being to men with long Greek names, and not to Him, whose name is just a syllable, but whose hand is over all the earth? Pagan!”
“So you knocked him down forthwith—like a good Christian.”
“So you knocked him down right away—like a good Christian.”
“Now, Denys, you will still be jesting. Take not an ill man's part. Had it been a thunderbolt from Heaven, he had met but his due; yet he took but a sorry bolster from this weak arm.”
“Now, Denys, you’re just joking. Don’t side with someone who's in the wrong. If it had been a thunderbolt from Heaven, he would have just gotten what he deserved; instead, he only received a pathetic blow from this weak arm.”
“What weak arm?” inquired Denys, with twinkling eyes. “I have lived among arms, and by Samson's hairy pow never saw I one more like a catapult. The bolster wrapped round his nose and the two ends kissed behind his head, and his forehead resounded, and had he been Goliath, or Julius Caesar, instead of an old quacksalver, down he had gone. St. Denys guard me from such feeble opposites as thou! and above all from their weak arms—thou diabolical young hypocrite.”
“What weak arm?” Denys asked, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve been around strong arms all my life, and by Samson’s wild hair, I’ve never seen one that even resembles a catapult. The pillow was wrapped around his nose, and the two ends met behind his head, making his forehead echo. If he had been Goliath or Julius Caesar instead of just an old fraud, he would have been taken down. St. Denys protect me from such feeble opponents like you! And especially from their weak arms— you diabolical young hypocrite.”
The river took many turns, and this sometimes brought the wind on their side instead of right astern. Then they all moved to the weather side to prevent the boat heeling over too much all but a child of about five years old, the grandson of the boatman, and his darling; this urchin had slipped on board at the moment of starting, and being too light to affect the boat's trim, was above, or rather below, the laws of navigation.
The river wound a lot, which sometimes brought the wind to their side instead of directly behind them. Then, everyone moved to the windward side to stop the boat from tilting too much, except for a five-year-old child, the boatman’s grandson, and his favorite. This little kid had jumped on board just as they were leaving, and since he was too light to affect the boat's balance, he was above—or rather, beyond—the rules of navigation.
They sailed merrily on, little conscious that they were pursued by a whole posse of constables armed with the bailiff's writ, and that their pursuers were coming up with them; for if the wind was strong, so was the current.
They sailed happily on, completely unaware that they were being chased by a group of constables carrying the bailiff's writ, and that their pursuers were catching up to them; for if the wind was strong, so was the current.
And now Gerard suddenly remembered that this was a very good way to Rome, but not to Burgundy. “Oh, Denys,” said he, with an almost alarmed look, “this is not your road.”
And now Gerard suddenly remembered that this was a great way to get to Rome, but not to Burgundy. “Oh, Denys,” he said, looking almost alarmed, “this isn’t your road.”
“I know it,” said Denys quietly; “but what can I do? I cannot leave thee till the fever leaves thee; and it is on thee still, for thou art both red and white by turns; I have watched thee. I must e'en go on to Cologne, I doubt, and then strike across.”
“I know,” Denys said softly, “but what can I do? I can’t leave you until the fever breaks. You're still affected by it, as you turn red and white. I've been watching you. I guess I just have to go on to Cologne and then cut across.”
“Thank Heaven,” said Gerard joyfully. He added eagerly, with a little touch of self-deception, “'Twere a sin to be so near Cologne and not see it. Oh, man, it is a vast and ancient city such as I have often dreamed of, but ne'er had the good luck to see. Me miserable, by what hard fortune do I come to it now? Well then, Denys,” continued the young man less warmly, “it is old enough to have been founded by a Roman lady in the first century of grace, and sacked by Attila the barbarous, and afterwards sore defaced by the Norman Lothaire. And it has a church for every week in the year forbye chapels and churches innumerable of convents and nunneries, and above all, the stupendous minster yet unfinished, and therein, but in their own chapel, lie the three kings that brought gifts to our Lord, Melchior gold, and Gaspar frankincense, and Balthazar the black king, he brought myrrh; and over their bones stands the shrine the wonder of the world; it is of ever-shining brass brighter than gold, studded with images fairly wrought, and inlaid with exquisite devices, and brave with colours; and two broad stripes run to and fro, of jewels so great, so rare, each might adorn a crown or ransom its wearer at need; and upon it stand the three kings curiously counterfeited, two in solid silver, richly gilt; these be bareheaded; but he of Aethiop ebony, and beareth a golden crown; and in the midst our blessed Lady, in virgin silver, with Christ in her arms; and at the corners, in golden branches, four goodly waxen tapers do burn night and day. Holy eyes have watched and renewed that light unceasingly for ages, and holy eyes shall watch them in saecula. I tell thee, Denys, the oldest song, the oldest Flemish or German legend, found them burning, and they shall light the earth to its grave. And there is St. Ursel's church, a British saint's, where lie her bones and all the other virgins her fellows; eleven thousand were they who died for the faith, being put to the sword by barbarous Moors, on the twenty-third day of October, two hundred and thirty-eight. Their bones are piled in the vaults, and many of their skulls are in the church. St. Ursel's is in a thin golden case, and stands on the high altar, but shown to humble Christians only on solemn days.”
“Thank goodness,” said Gerard happily. He added enthusiastically, with a hint of self-deception, “It would be a shame to be so close to Cologne and not see it. Oh, man, it’s a huge and ancient city like I’ve often dreamed about but never had the good fortune to visit. How unfortunate it is that I come to it now! Well then, Denys,” the young man continued, now less enthusiastically, “it’s old enough to have been founded by a Roman woman back in the first century, sacked by the barbarian Attila, and later severely damaged by the Norman Lothaire. There’s a church for every week of the year, plus countless chapels and churches from convents and nunneries, and above all, the magnificent cathedral that’s still unfinished. Inside, but in their own chapel, lie the three kings who brought gifts to our Lord: Melchior brought gold, Gaspar brought frankincense, and Balthazar, the black king, brought myrrh; and over their remains stands a shrine that is the wonder of the world. It’s made of ever-shining brass that’s brighter than gold, adorned with beautifully crafted images, inlaid with exquisite designs, and decorated with vibrant colors; and two broad stripes run across it, made of jewels so large and rare that each could adorn a crown or ransom its owner if needed. There stand the three kings beautifully represented, two made of solid silver, richly gilded; they are bareheaded, but the one of Ethiopian ebony wears a golden crown; and in the center, our blessed Lady, made of virgin silver, holds Christ in her arms; and at the corners, on golden branches, burn four fine wax candles day and night. Holy eyes have watched and renewed that light continuously for ages, and holy eyes will watch over them forever. I tell you, Denys, the oldest song, the oldest Flemish or German legend, found them burning, and they shall light the earth until the end. And there’s St. Ursel’s church, dedicated to a British saint, where her bones and all the other virgin martyrs rest; eleven thousand were they who died for their faith, killed by barbarous Moors on the twenty-third day of October, two hundred and thirty-eight. Their bones are piled in the vaults, and many of their skulls are housed in the church. St. Ursel’s is in a thin golden case, standing on the high altar, but it is only shown to humble Christians on special days.”
“Eleven thousand virgins!” cried Denys. “What babies German men must have been in days of yore. Well, would all their bones might turn flesh again, and their skulls sweet faces, as we pass through the gates. 'Tis odds but some of them are wearied of their estate by this time.”
“Eleven thousand virgins!” shouted Denys. “What babies German men must have been in the past. I wish all their bones could turn back into flesh, and their skulls into sweet faces, as we walk through the gates. It’s likely some of them are tired of their situation by now.”
“Tush, Denys!” said Gerard; “why wilt thou, being good, still make thyself seem evil? If thy wishing-cap be on, pray that we may meet the meanest she of all those wise virgins in the next world, and to that end let us reverence their holy dust in this one. And then there is the church of the Maccabees, and the cauldron in which they and their mother Solomona were boiled by a wicked king for refusing to eat swine's flesh.”
“Tush, Denys!” said Gerard; “why do you, being good, still make yourself seem evil? If you’re wearing your wishing-cap, pray that we may meet the least of all those wise virgins in the next world, and to that end let’s respect their holy dust in this one. And then there’s the church of the Maccabees and the cauldron in which they and their mother Solomona were boiled by a wicked king for refusing to eat pork.”
“Oh, peremptory king! and pig-headed Maccabees! I had eaten bacon with my pork liever than change places at the fire with my meat.”
“Oh, stubborn king! And pig-headed Maccabees! I would rather eat bacon than switch places at the fire with my meat.”
“What scurvy words are these? it was their faith.”
“What foul words are these? It was their belief.”
“Nay, bridle thy choler, and tell me, are there nought but churches in this thy so vaunted city? for I affect rather Sir Knight than Sir Priest.”
“Nah, calm your anger, and tell me, are there only churches in this city you brag about? Because I prefer a Knight over a Priest.”
“Ay, marry, there is an university near a hundred years old; and there is a market-place, no fairer in the world, and at the four sides of it houses great as palaces; and there is a stupendous senate-house all covered with images, and at the head of them stands one of stout Herman Gryn, a soldier like thyself, lad.”
“Yeah, there’s a university that’s almost a hundred years old, and there's a marketplace that's the best in the world, surrounded by houses as big as palaces. There's also an impressive senate house covered in statues, and at the top, there’s one of the strong Herman Gryn, a soldier just like you, kid.”
“Ay. Tell me of him! what feat of arms earned him his niche?”
“Yeah. Tell me about him! What act of bravery earned him his spot?”
“A rare one. He slew a lion in fair combat, with nought but his cloak and a short sword. He thrust the cloak in the brute's mouth, and cut his spine in twain, and there is the man's effigy and eke the lion's to prove it. The like was never done but by three more, I ween; Samson was one, and Lysimachus of Macedon another, and Benaiah, a captain of David's host.”
“A rare one. He killed a lion in fair combat, with nothing but his cloak and a short sword. He shoved the cloak in the beast's mouth and severed its spine, and there is the statue of the man and the lion to prove it. This has only been done by three others, I believe; Samson was one, and Lysimachus of Macedon was another, and Benaiah, a captain in David's army.”
“Marry! three tall fellows. I would like well to sup with them all to-night.”
“Wow! Three tall guys. I’d really like to have dinner with them all tonight.”
“So would not I,” said Gerard drily.
“So would I not,” Gerard said dryly.
“But tell me,” said Denys, with some surprise, “when wast thou in Cologne?”
“But tell me,” said Denys, a bit surprised, “when were you in Cologne?”
“Never but in the spirit. I prattle with the good monks by the way, and they tell me all the notable things both old and new.
“Never but in the spirit. I chat with the good monks along the way, and they share with me all the notable things, both old and new.
“Ay, ay, have not I seen your nose under their very cowls? But when I speak of matters that are out of sight, my words they are small, and the thing it was big; now thy words be as big or bigger than the things; art a good limner with thy tongue; I have said it; and for a saint, as ready with hand, or steel, or bolster—as any poor sinner living; and so, shall I tell thee which of all these things thou hast described draws me to Cologne?”
“Yeah, yeah, haven’t I seen your nose sticking out from under their hoods? But when I talk about stuff that’s out of sight, my words are minimal, and the reality is significant; now your words are as substantial or even more than the reality; you’re quite the artist with your words; I’ve said it; and for a saint, just as quick with your hand, or a weapon, or a pillow—as any poor sinner alive; so, can I tell you which of all these things you’ve mentioned pulls me to Cologne?”
“Ay, Denys.”
"Yeah, Denys."
“Thou, and thou only; no dead saint, but my living friend and comrade true; 'tis thou alone draws Denys of Burgundy to Cologne?”
“Only you; not some dead saint, but my living friend and true comrade; it's only you who brings Denys of Burgundy to Cologne?”
Gerard hung his head.
Gerard hung his head down.
At this juncture one of the younger boatmen suddenly inquired what was amiss with “little turnip-face?”
At this point, one of the younger boatmen suddenly asked what was wrong with “little turnip-face?”
His young nephew thus described had just come aft grave as a judge, and burst out crying in the midst without more ado. On this phenomenon, so sharply defined, he was subjected to many interrogatories, some coaxingly uttered, some not. Had he hurt himself? had he over-ate himself? was he frightened? was he cold? was he sick? was he an idiot?
His young nephew, as described, had just come back, serious as a judge, and suddenly started crying without any explanation. Because of this clear behavior, he faced a lot of questions, some spoken gently, others not so much. Did he hurt himself? Did he eat too much? Was he scared? Was he cold? Was he sick? Was he being foolish?
To all and each he uttered the same reply, which English writers render thus, oh! oh! oh! and French writers thus, hi! hi! hi! So fixed are Fiction's phonetics.
To everyone, he gave the same response, which English writers write as oh! oh! oh! and French writers write as hi! hi! hi! Fiction's phonetics are that consistent.
“Who can tell what ails the peevish brat?” snarled the young boatman impatiently. “Rather look this way and tell me whom be these after!” The old man and his other son looked, and saw four men walking along the east bank of the river; at the sight they left rowing awhile, and gathered mysteriously in the stern, whispering and casting glances alternately at their passengers and the pedestrians.
“Who knows what’s wrong with that cranky kid?” the young boatman snapped, annoyed. “Just look over here and tell me who those guys are!” The old man and his other son looked and saw four men walking along the east bank of the river; seeing them, they paused their rowing and huddled in the back, whispering and alternating glances between their passengers and the pedestrians.
The sequel may show they would have employed speculation better in trying to fathom the turnip-face mystery; I beg pardon of my age: I mean the deep mind of dauntless infancy.
The sequel might demonstrate that they could have used speculation more effectively in trying to understand the turnip-face mystery; I apologize for my age: I mean the profound thoughts of fearless childhood.
“If 'tis as I doubt,” whispered one of the young men, “why not give them a squeak for their lives; let us make for the west bank.”
“If it is as I fear,” whispered one of the young men, “why not give them a shout for their lives; let’s head for the west bank.”
The old man objected stoutly. “What,” said he, “run our heads into trouble for strangers! are ye mad? Nay, let us rather cross to the east side; still side with the strong arm! that is my rede. What say you, Werter?”
The old man strongly disagreed. “What,” he said, “risk our lives for strangers! Are you crazy? No, let’s just cross to the east side; we should still side with the strong! That’s my advice. What do you think, Werter?”
“I say, please yourselves.”
"Do what you want."
What age and youth could not decide upon, a puff of wind settled most impartially. Came a squall, and the little vessel heeled over; the men jumped to windward to trim her; but to their horror they saw in the very boat from stem to stern a ditch of water rushing to leeward, and the next moment they saw nothing, but felt the Rhine, the cold and rushing Rhine.
What age and youth couldn’t agree on, a gust of wind quickly determined. A squall hit, and the little boat tilted; the men rushed to the high side to adjust her, but to their horror, they saw a torrent of water pouring in from bow to stern, and the next moment, they saw nothing but felt the cold, rushing Rhine.
“Turnip-face” had drawn the plug.
“Turnip-face” had pulled the plug.
The officers unwound the cords from their waists.
The officers unwrapped the cords from their waists.
Gerard could swim like a duck; but the best swimmer, canted out of a boat capsized, must sink ere he can swim. The dark water bubbled loudly over his head, and then he came up almost blind and deaf for a moment; the next, he saw the black boat bottom uppermost, and figures clinging to it; he shook his head like a water-dog, and made for it by a sort of unthinking imitation; but ere he reached it he heard a voice behind him cry not loud but with deep manly distress, “Adieu, comrade, adieu!”
Gerard could swim like a duck, but even the best swimmer who falls out of a capsized boat has to sink before he can swim. The dark water bubbled loudly over his head, and then he surfaced, almost blind and deaf for a moment; the next thing he saw was the black boat upside down with people clinging to it. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and headed for it almost without thinking; but before he got there, he heard a voice behind him calling out—not loudly, but with deep, manly distress, “Goodbye, comrade, goodbye!”
He looked, and there was poor Denys sinking, sinking, weighed down by his wretched arbalest. His face was pale, and his eyes staring wide, and turned despairingly on his dear friend. Gerard uttered a wild cry of love and terror, and made for him, cleaving the water madly; but the next moment Denys was under water.
He looked, and there was poor Denys sinking, sinking, weighed down by his wretched crossbow. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide open, filled with despair as they turned to his dear friend. Gerard let out a frantic cry of love and fear, and swam towards him desperately; but in the next moment, Denys was underwater.
The next, Gerard was after him.
The next moment, Gerard was on his tail.
The officers knotted a rope and threw the end in.
The officers tied a rope into a knot and tossed the end in.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Things good and evil balance themselves in a remarkable manner and almost universally. The steel bow attached to the arbalestrier's back, and carried above his head, had sunk him. That very steel bow, owing to that very position, could not escape Gerard's hands, one of which grasped it, and the other went between the bow and the cord, which was as good. The next moment, Denys, by means of his crossbow, was hoisted with so eager a jerk that half his body bobbed up out of water.
Things good and evil balance out in a remarkable way and almost everywhere. The steel bow strapped to the crossbowman's back, and held above his head, had pulled him down. That very steel bow, because of that exact position, couldn’t escape Gerard's hands, one of which gripped it, while the other slipped between the bow and the string, which was just as effective. The next moment, Denys, using his crossbow, was yanked up with such a vigorous pull that half his body bobbed up out of the water.
“Now, grip me not! grip me not!” cried Gerard, in mortal terror of that fatal mistake.
“Now, don’t hold me! don’t hold me!” cried Gerard, in a panic over that deadly mistake.
“Pas si bete,” gurgled Denys.
"Not so stupid," gurgled Denys.
Seeing the sort of stuff he had to deal with, Gerard was hopeful and calm directly. “On thy back,” said he sharply, and seizing the arbalest, and taking a stroke forward, he aided the desired movement. “Hand on my shoulder! slap the water with the other hand! No—with a downward motion; so. Do nothing more than I bid thee.” Gerard had got hold of Denys's long hair, and twisting it hard, caught the end between his side teeth, and with the strong muscles of his youthful neck easily kept up the soldier's head, and struck out lustily across the current. A moment he had hesitated which side to make for, little knowing the awful importance of that simple decision; then seeing the west bank a trifle nearest, he made towards it, instead of swimming to jail like a good boy, and so furnishing one a novel incident. Owing to the force of the current they slanted considerably, and when they had covered near a hundred yards, Denys murmured uneasily, “How much more of it?”
Seeing the kind of situation he had to handle, Gerard felt hopeful and calm right away. “On your back,” he said sharply, grabbing the crossbow and moving forward to assist the needed action. “Hand on my shoulder! slap the water with the other hand! No—with a downward motion; like this. Just do exactly what I say.” Gerard grabbed Denys's long hair, twisting it tightly, caught the end between his teeth, and with the strong muscles in his youthful neck easily kept the soldier’s head above water while they paddled vigorously across the current. For a moment, he hesitated about which direction to swim, unaware of how crucial that simple choice was; then, seeing that the west bank was slightly closer, he headed towards it, instead of swimming to jail like a good boy and providing a novel incident. Due to the current's strength, they drifted quite a bit, and after they had covered nearly a hundred yards, Denys murmured uneasily, “How much longer?”
“Courage,” mumbled Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; art safe as in bed.”
“Courage,” muttered Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; it’s as safe as being in bed.”
The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow water, and so waded ashore. Once on terra firma, they looked at one another from head to foot as if eyes could devour, then by one impulse flung each an arm round the other's neck, and panted there with hearts too full to speak. And at this sacred moment life was sweet as heaven to both; sweetest perhaps to the poor exiled lover, who had just saved his friend. Oh, joy to whose height what poet has yet soared, or ever tried to soar? To save a human life; and that life a loved one. Such moments are worth living for, ay, three score years and ten. And then, calmer, they took hands, and so walked along the bank hand in hand like a pair of sweethearts, scarce knowing or caring whither they went.
The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow water and waded ashore. Once on solid ground, they looked at each other from head to toe as if their eyes could devour one another, then, in unison, they threw an arm around each other's neck and panted there with hearts too full to speak. At that sacred moment, life felt as sweet as heaven to both of them; maybe even sweeter for the poor exiled lover who had just saved his friend. Oh, what joy—what heights could any poet reach or even attempt to reach? To save a human life, and that life is someone you love. Moments like these are worth living for, even up to seventy years. Then, calmer, they took each other's hands and walked along the bank, hand in hand like a pair of sweethearts, barely knowing or caring where they were going.
The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft, Herr Turnip-face, the “Inverter of things,” being in the middle. All this fracas seemed not to have essentially deranged his habits. At least he was greeting when he shot our friends into the Rhine, and greeting when they got out again.
The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft, Herr Turnip-face, the "Inverter of things," being in the middle. All this commotion didn’t really disrupt his routine. At least he was cheerful as he shot our friends into the Rhine, and cheerful when they got out again.
“Shall we wait till they right the boat?”
“Should we wait until they fix the boat?”
“No, Denys, our fare is paid; we owe them nought. Let us on, and briskly.”
“No, Denys, we’ve already paid our fare; we don’t owe them anything. Let’s go, and let’s move quickly.”
Denys assented, observing that they could walk all the way to Cologne on this bank.
Denys agreed, noting that they could walk all the way to Cologne along this riverbank.
“I fare not to Cologne,” was the calm reply.
“I’m not going to Cologne,” was the calm reply.
“Why, whither then?”
"Why, where to then?"
“To Burgundy.”
"Cheers to Burgundy."
“To Burgundy? Ah, no! that is too good to be sooth.”
“To Burgundy? Oh no! That’s too good to be true.”
“Sooth 'tis, and sense into the bargain. What matters it to me how I go to Rome?”
“So true, and it makes sense too. What difference does it make to me how I get to Rome?”
“Nay, nay; you but say so to pleasure me. The change is too sudden; and think me not so ill-hearted as take you at your word. Also did I not see your eyes sparkle at the wonders of Cologne? the churches, the images, the relics
“Nah, nah; you’re just saying that to make me happy. The change is too abrupt; don’t think I’m so unkind as to take you seriously. Didn’t I see your eyes light up at the wonders of Cologne? The churches, the statues, the relics?
“How dull art thou, Denys; that was when we were to enjoy them together. Churches! I shall see plenty, go Rome-ward how I will. The bones of saints and martyrs; alas! the world is full of them; but a friend like thee, where on earth's face shall I find another? No, I will not turn thee farther from the road that leads to thy dear home, and her that pines for thee. Neither will I rob myself of thee by leaving thee. Since I drew thee out of Rhine I love thee better than I did. Thou art my pearl: I fished thee; and must keep thee. So gainsay me not, or thou wilt bring back my fever; but cry courage, and lead on; and hey for Burgundy!”
“How boring you are, Denys; that was when we were supposed to enjoy them together. Churches! I’ll see plenty of them, no matter how I head towards Rome. The remains of saints and martyrs; unfortunately, the world is full of them; but a friend like you, where else on this earth can I find another? No, I won't steer you away from the path that leads to your dear home, and to her who longs for you. I also won’t deprive myself of you by leaving. Ever since I brought you from the Rhine, I love you more than I did before. You are my treasure: I found you, and I must keep you. So don't oppose me, or you'll make my fever return; just encourage me, and lead on; and cheers for Burgundy!”
Denys gave a joyful caper. “Courage! va pour la Bourgogne. Oh! soyes tranquille! cette fois il est bien decidement mort, ce coquin-la.” And they turned their backs on the Rhine.
Denys jumped with joy. “Courage! Off to Burgundy. Oh! just relax! This time he’s definitely dead, that rascal.” And they turned their backs on the Rhine.
On this decision making itself clear, across the Rhine there was a commotion in the little party that had been watching the discussion, and the friends had not taken many steps ere a voice came to them over the water. “HALT!”
On this decision became clear, there was a commotion in the small group across the Rhine who had been watching the discussion, and the friends had not taken many steps before a voice called out to them over the water. “STOP!”
Gerard turned, and saw one of those four holding out a badge of office and a parchment slip. His heart sank; for he was a good citizen, and used to obey the voice that now bade him turn again to Dusseldorf—the Law's.
Gerard turned and saw one of those four holding out a badge of office and a piece of parchment. His heart sank because he was a good citizen and was accustomed to obeying the voice that was now telling him to head back to Dusseldorf—the Law's.
Denys did not share his scruples. He was a Frenchman, and despised every other nation, laws, inmates, and customs included. He was a soldier, and took a military view of the situation. Superior force opposed; river between; rear open; why, 'twas retreat made easy. He saw at a glance that the boat still drifted in mid-stream, and there was no ferry nearer than Dusseldorf. “I shall beat a quick retreat to that hill,” said he, “and then, being out of sight, quick step.”
Denys didn’t have any of those doubts. He was French and looked down on every other nation, including their laws, people, and customs. As a soldier, he saw the situation through a military lens. There was a stronger force opposing them, a river in between, and an open rear; it was an easy retreat. He quickly noticed that the boat was still drifting in the middle of the river, and the nearest ferry was in Dusseldorf. “I’ll make a quick retreat to that hill,” he said, “and then, once I’m out of sight, I’ll move fast.”
They sauntered off.
They walked away.
“Halt! in the bailiff's name,” cried a voice from the shore.
“Stop! In the bailiff's name,” shouted a voice from the shore.
Denys turned round and ostentatiously snapped his fingers at the bailiff, and proceeded.
Denys turned around and dramatically snapped his fingers at the bailiff, then continued on.
“Halt! in the archbishop's name.”
“Stop! in the archbishop's name.”
Denys snapped his fingers at his grace, and proceeded.
Denys snapped his fingers at his lord and continued on.
“Halt! in the emperor's name.”
"Stop! In the emperor's name."
Denys snapped his fingers at his majesty, and proceeded.
Denys snapped his fingers at the king and moved on.
Gerard saw this needless pantomime with regret, and as soon as they had passed the brow of the hill, said, “There is now but one course, we must run to Burgundy instead of walking;” and he set off, and ran the best part of a league without stopping.
Gerard watched this pointless show with regret, and as soon as they reached the top of the hill, he said, “There’s only one thing to do now, we need to run to Burgundy instead of walking;” and he took off, running nearly a league without pausing.
Denys was fairly blown, and inquired what on earth had become of Gerard's fever. “I begin to miss it sadly,” said he drily.
Denys was quite surprised and asked what had happened to Gerard's fever. “I’m starting to really miss it,” he said dryly.
“I dropped it in Rhine, I trow,” was the reply.
“I think I dropped it in the Rhine,” was the reply.
Presently they came to a little village, and here Denys purchased a loaf and a huge bottle of Rhenish wine. “For,” he said, “we must sleep in some hole or corner. If we lie at an inn, we shall be taken in our beds.” This was no more than common prudence on the old soldier's part.
Presently, they arrived at a small village, and Denys bought a loaf of bread and a big bottle of Rhenish wine. “Because,” he said, “we need to find a place to sleep that's out of sight. If we stay at an inn, we’ll be caught in our beds.” This was just common sense on the old soldier's part.
The official network for catching law-breakers, especially plebeian ones, was very close in that age; though the co-operation of the public was almost null, at all events upon the Continent. The innkeepers were everywhere under close surveillance as to their travellers, for whose acts they were even in some degree responsible, more so it would seem than for their sufferings.
The official network for catching law-breakers, especially common ones, was very tight in that time; although the public cooperation was nearly non-existent, at least on the Continent. Innkeepers were closely monitored regarding their guests, for whose actions they were somewhat responsible, seemingly even more so than for their well-being.
The friends were both glad when the sun set; and delighted, when, after a long trudge under the stars (for the moon, if I remember right, did not rise till about three in the morning) they came to a large barn belonging to a house at some distance. A quantity of barley had been lately thrashed; for the heap of straw on one side the thrashing-floor was almost as high as the unthrashed corn on the other.
The friends were both happy when the sun went down, and thrilled when, after a long walk under the stars (since the moon, if I remember correctly, didn’t rise until around three in the morning), they reached a big barn belonging to a house that was a bit far away. A lot of barley had recently been threshed; the pile of straw on one side of the thrashing floor was nearly as high as the unthreshed corn on the other.
“Here be two royal beds,” said Denys; “which shall we lie on, the mow, or the straw?”
“Here are two royal beds,” said Denys; “which one should we sleep on, the hay or the straw?”
“The straw for me,” said Gerard.
“The straw for me,” said Gerard.
They sat on the heap, and ate their brown bread, and drank their wine, and then Denys covered his friend up in straw, and heaped it high above him, leaving him only a breathing hole: “Water, they say, is death to fevered men; I'll make warm water on't, anyhow.”
They sat on the pile, ate their brown bread, and drank their wine. Then Denys covered his friend with straw, piling it high above him, leaving just a hole to breathe: “They say water is death for men with fevers; I'll make warm water on it, anyway.”
Gerard bade him make his mind easy. “These few drops from Rhine cannot chill me. I feel heat enough in my body now to parch a kennel, or boil a cloud if I was in one.” And with this epigram his consciousness went so rapidly, he might really be said to “fall asleep.”
Gerard told him to relax. “These few drops from the Rhine can’t cool me down. I’ve got enough heat in my body right now to dry up a doghouse or boil a cloud if I were in one.” And with this clever remark, he slipped away so quickly that you could say he “fell asleep.”
Denys, who lay awake awhile, heard that which made him nestle closer. Horses' hoofs came ringing up from Dusseldorf, and the wooden barn vibrated as they rattled past howling in a manner too well known and understood in the 15th century, but as unfamiliar in Europe now as a red Indian's war-whoop.
Denys, who lay awake for a while, heard something that made him cuddle closer. Horses' hooves clattered up from Dusseldorf, and the wooden barn shook as they thundered by, howling in a way that's well known and understood in the 15th century, but feels as foreign in Europe now as a Native American's war cry.
Denys shook where he lay.
Denys trembled where he lay.
Gerard slept like a top.
Gerard slept like a log.
It all swept by, and troop and howls died away.
It all rushed past, and the noise of the troops and the howls faded away.
The stout soldier drew a long breath, whistled in a whisper, closed his eyes, and slept like a top, too.
The sturdy soldier took a deep breath, whispered a whistle, closed his eyes, and slept soundly.
In the morning he sat up and put out his hand to wake Gerard. It lighted on the young man's forehead, and found it quite wet. Denys then in his quality of nurse forbore to wake him. “It is ill to check sleep or sweat in a sick man,” said he. “I know that far, though I ne'er minced ape nor gallows-bird.”
In the morning, he sat up and reached out to wake Gerard. His hand landed on the young man's forehead, which was quite damp. Denys, taking on the role of caregiver, decided not to wake him. “It’s not good to disturb the sleep or sweat of a sick person,” he said. “I understand that well enough, even if I’ve never dealt with a monkey or a criminal.”
After waiting a good hour he felt desperately hungry; so he turned, and in self-defence went to sleep again.
After waiting for a solid hour, he felt really hungry, so he turned around and, to protect himself, went back to sleep.
Poor fellow, in his hard life he had been often driven to this manoeuvre. At high noon he was waked by Gerard moving, and found him sitting up with the straw smoking round him like a dung-hill. Animal heat versus moisture. Gerard called him “a lazy loon.” He quietly grinned.
Poor guy, in his tough life he had often resorted to this trick. At noon, he was awakened by Gerard stirring, and saw him sitting up with the straw around him, smoking like a pile of dung. Animal heat versus moisture. Gerard called him “a lazy fool.” He just grinned.
They set out, and the first thing Denys did was to give Gerard his arbalest, etc., and mount a high tree on the road. “Coast clear to the next village,” said he, and on they went.
They set out, and the first thing Denys did was hand Gerard his crossbow and climb a tall tree along the path. “The coast is clear to the next village,” he said, and off they went.
On drawing near the village, Denys halted and suddenly inquired of Gerard how he felt.
On approaching the village, Denys stopped and abruptly asked Gerard how he was feeling.
“What! can you not see? I feel as if Rome was no further than yon hamlet.”
“What! Can’t you see? I feel like Rome is no farther away than that little village over there.”
“But thy body, lad; thy skin?”
“But your body, kid; your skin?”
“Neither hot nor cold; and yesterday 'twas hot one while and cold another. But what I cannot get rid of is this tiresome leg.”
“Neither hot nor cold; yesterday it was hot for a bit and cold for another. But what I can’t shake off is this annoying leg.”
“Le grand malheur! Many of my comrades have found no such difficulty.”
“Such bad luck! Many of my friends haven't faced any trouble like that.”
“Ah! there it goes again; itches consumedly.”
“Ah! There it goes again; it itches like crazy.”
“Unhappy youth,” said Denys solemnly, “the sum of thy troubles is this: thy fever is gone, and thy wound is—healing. Sith so it is,” added he indulgently, “I shall tell thee a little piece of news I had otherwise withheld.”
“Unhappy youth,” Denys said seriously, “the extent of your troubles is this: your fever is gone, and your wound is—healing. Since that’s the case,” he continued kindly, “I’ll share a bit of news I was going to keep to myself.”
“What is't?” asked Gerard, sparkling with curiosity.
“What is it?” asked Gerard, sparkling with curiosity.
“THE HUE AND CRY IS OUT AFTER US: AND ON FLEET HORSES.”
“THE HUE AND CRY IS OUT AFTER US: AND ON FLEET HORSES.”
“Oh!”
“Oh!"
CHAPTER XXIX
Gerard was staggered by this sudden communication, and his colour came and went. Then he clenched his teeth with ire. For men of any spirit at all are like the wild boar; he will run from a superior force, owing perhaps to his not being an ass; but if you stick to his heels too long and too close, and, in short, bore him, he will whirl, and come tearing at a multitude of hunters, and perhaps bore you. Gerard then set his teeth and looked battle, But the next moment his countenance fell, and he said plaintively, “And my axe is in Rhine.”
Gerard was shocked by this sudden message, and his face changed color. He then gritted his teeth in anger. Men with any spirit are like wild boars; they will run from a stronger force, perhaps because they aren't foolish; but if you stay on their heels for too long and annoy them, they will turn around and charge at a group of hunters, possibly even harming you. Gerard gritted his teeth and readied for a fight, but a moment later his expression dropped, and he said sadly, “And my axe is in the Rhine.”
They consulted together. Prudence bade them avoid that village; hunger said “buy food.”
They talked it over. Prudence advised them to steer clear of that village; hunger insisted, “buy food.”
Hunger spoke loudest. Prudence most convincingly. They settled to strike across the fields.
Hunger was the loudest voice. Prudence made the strongest argument. They decided to head across the fields.
They halted at a haystack and borrowed two bundles of hay, and lay on them in a dry ditch out of sight, but in nettles.
They stopped at a haystack and grabbed two bundles of hay, then lay down on them in a dry ditch where they couldn't be seen, but it was filled with nettles.
They sallied out in turn and came back with turnips. These they munched at intervals in their retreat until sunset.
They went out one by one and returned with turnips. They snacked on them periodically during their walk back until sunset.
Presently they crept out shivering into the rain and darkness, and got into the road on the other side of the village.
Right now, they crept out, shivering in the rain and darkness, and stepped onto the road on the other side of the village.
It was a dismal night, dark as pitch, and blowing hard. They could neither see, nor hear, nor be seen, nor heard; and for aught I know, passed like ghosts close to their foes. These they almost forgot in the natural horrors of the black tempestuous night, in which they seemed to grope and hew their way as in black marble. When the moon rose they were many a league from Dusseldorf. But they still trudged on. Presently they came to a huge building.
It was a gloomy night, pitch black and blowing hard. They couldn’t see or hear anything, nor could they be seen or heard; for all I know, they passed by their enemies like ghosts. They almost forgot about them in the natural terrors of the dark, stormy night, feeling their way through it as if navigating through black marble. By the time the moon rose, they were many leagues away from Dusseldorf. But they kept trudging on. Soon, they arrived at a massive building.
“Courage!” cried Denys, “I think I know this convent. Aye it is. We are in the see of Juliers. Cologne has no power here.”
“Courage!” shouted Denys, “I think I recognize this convent. Yes, it is. We are in the diocese of Juliers. Cologne has no authority here.”
The next moment they were safe within the walls.
The next moment, they were safe inside the walls.
CHAPTER XXX
Here Gerard made acquaintance with a monk, who had constructed the great dial in the prior's garden, and a wheel for drawing water, and a winnowing machine for the grain, etc., and had ever some ingenious mechanism on hand. He had made several psalteries and two dulcimers, and was now attempting a set of regalles, or little organ for the choir.
Here, Gerard met a monk who had built the big sundial in the prior's garden, a water wheel, and a grain winnowing machine, among other clever devices. He had created several psalteries and two dulcimers, and was currently working on a set of regals, or small organs for the choir.
Now Gerard played the humble psaltery a little; but the monk touched that instrument divinely, and showed him most agreeably what a novice he was in music. He also illuminated finely, but could not write so beautifully as Gerard. Comparing their acquirements with the earnestness and simplicity of an age in which accomplishments implied a true natural bent, Youth and Age soon became like brothers, and Gerard was pressed hard to stay that night. He consulted Denys, who assented with a rueful shrug.
Now Gerard played the simple psaltery a bit, but the monk played the instrument beautifully and showed him just how much of a beginner he was in music. He also illuminated skillfully, but couldn’t write as beautifully as Gerard. Comparing their skills with the sincerity and straightforwardness of a time when talents reflected a true natural ability, Youth and Age quickly became like brothers, and Gerard was urged to stay that night. He checked with Denys, who agreed with a regretful shrug.
Gerard told his old new friend whither he was going, and described their late adventures, softening down the bolster.
Gerard told his old new friend where he was going and talked about their recent adventures, fluffing up the pillow.
“Alack!” said the good old man, “I have been a great traveller in my day, but none molested me.” He then told him to avoid inns; they were always haunted by rogues and roysterers, whence his soul might take harm even did his body escape, and to manage each day's journey so as to lie at some peaceful monastery; then suddenly breaking off and looking as sharp as a needle at Gerard, he asked him how long since he had been shriven? Gerard coloured up and replied feebly—
“Alas!” said the old man, “I’ve traveled a lot in my time, but I was never bothered by anyone.” He then advised him to stay away from inns; they were always filled with thieves and rowdy people, which could hurt his soul even if his body got away unharmed. He suggested planning each day’s journey to end up at a quiet monastery. Then, suddenly stopping and looking sharply at Gerard, he asked him how long it had been since he had confessed. Gerard flushed and replied weakly—
“Better than a fortnight.”
“Better than two weeks.”
“And thou an exorcist! No wonder perils have overtaken thee. Come, thou must be assoiled out of hand.”
“And you’re an exorcist! No wonder dangers have come your way. Come on, you need to be freed right now.”
“Yes, father,” said Gerard, “and with all mine heart;” and was sinking down to his knees, with his hands joined, but the monk stopped him half fretfully—
“Yes, dad,” said Gerard, “with all my heart;” and he started to go down on his knees, hands together, but the monk interrupted him somewhat impatiently—
“Not to me! not to me! not to me! I am as full of the world as thou or any be that lives in't. My whole soul it is in these wooden pipes, and sorry leathern stops, which shall perish—with them whose minds are fixed on such like vanities.”
“Not to me! Not to me! Not to me! I am as full of the world as you or anyone else living in it. My entire soul is in these wooden pipes and sorry leather stops, which will vanish—along with those whose minds are stuck on such meaningless things.”
“Dear father,” said Gerard, “they are for the use of the Church, and surely that sanctifies the pains and labour spent on them?”
“Dear dad,” said Gerard, “they're for the Church, and that definitely makes all the effort and work that went into them worthwhile, right?”
“That is just what the devil has been whispering in mine ear this while,” said the monk, putting one hand behind his back and shaking his finger half threateningly, half playfully, at Gerard. “He was even so kind and thoughtful as to mind me that Solomon built the Lord a house with rare hangings, and that this in him was counted gracious and no sin. Oh! he can quote Scripture rarely. But I am not so simple a monk as you think, my lad,” cried the good father, with sudden defiance, addressing not Gerard but—Vacancy. “This one toy finished, vigils, fasts, and prayers for me; prayers standing, prayers lying on the chapel floor, and prayers in a right good tub of cold water.” He nudged Gerard and winked his eye knowingly. “Nothing he hates and dreads like seeing us monks at our orisons up to our chins in cold water. For corpus domat aqua. So now go confess thy little trumpery sins, pardonable in youth and secularity, and leave me to mine, sweet to me as honey, and to be expiated in proportion.”
“That’s just what the devil has been whispering in my ear all this time,” said the monk, putting one hand behind his back and shaking his finger at Gerard, half-threateningly, half-playfully. “He was even kind enough to remind me that Solomon built the Lord a house with rare hangings, and that this was considered gracious and not a sin. Oh! He can quote Scripture like nobody’s business. But I’m not as simple a monk as you think, my boy,” the good father exclaimed suddenly, addressing not Gerard but—Vacancy. “Once this one toy is finished, it’s vigils, fasts, and prayers for me; prayers standing, prayers lying on the chapel floor, and prayers in a nice cold tub of water.” He nudged Gerard and winked knowingly. “Nothing he hates and fears more than seeing us monks praying up to our chins in cold water. For the body is subdued by water. So now go confess your little silly sins, forgivable in youth and worldly matters, and leave me to mine, sweet to me as honey, and to be atoned for in proportion.”
Gerard bowed his head, but could not help saying, “Where shall I find a confessor more holy and clement?”
Gerard lowered his head but couldn't help asking, “Where will I find a confessor who is more holy and compassionate?”
“In each of these cells,” replied the monk simply (they were now in the corridor) “there, go to Brother Anselm, yonder.”
“In each of these cells,” the monk replied casually (they were now in the corridor), “over there, go to Brother Anselm.”
Gerard followed the monk's direction, and made for a cell; but the doors were pretty close to one another, and it seems he mistook; for just as he was about to tap, he heard his old friend crying to him in an agitated whisper, “Nay! nay! nay!” He turned, and there was the monk at his cell-door, in a strange state of anxiety, going up and down and beating the air double-handed, like a bottom sawyer. Gerard really thought the cell he was at must be inhabited by some dangerous wild beast, if not by that personage whose presence in the convent had been so distinctly proclaimed. He looked back inquiringly and went on to the next door. Then his old friend nodded his head rapidly, bursting in a moment into a comparatively blissful expression of face, and shot back into his den. He took his hour-glass, turned it, and went to work on his regalles; and often he looked up, and said to himself, “Well-a-day, the sands how swift they run when the man is bent over earthly toys.”
Gerard followed the monk's instructions and headed for a cell, but the doors were pretty close together, and it seems he got confused; just as he was about to knock, he heard his old friend urgently whispering, “No! No! No!” He turned around, and there was the monk at his cell door, looking anxious, pacing back and forth and flailing his arms like a frantic sawyer. Gerard seriously thought the cell he was at must be home to some dangerous wild beast, if not the person whose presence in the convent had been so clearly announced. He looked back in confusion and moved on to the next door. Then his old friend nodded rapidly, suddenly breaking into a much happier expression, and dashed back into his room. He grabbed his hourglass, turned it over, and got to work on his regales; often, he looked up and muttered to himself, “Wow, the sand runs so fast when a man is focused on earthly things.”
Father Anselm was a venerable monk, with an ample head, and a face all dignity and love. Therefore Gerard in confessing to him, and replying to his gentle though searching questions, could not help thinking, “Here is a head!—Oh dear! oh dear! I wonder whether you will let me draw it when I have done confessing.” And so his own head got confused, and he forgot a crime or two. However, he did not lower the bolstering this time, nor was he so uncandid as to detract from the pagan character of the bolstered.
Father Anselm was a respected monk, with a large head and a face full of dignity and warmth. So, while Gerard was confessing to him and answering his gentle but probing questions, he couldn't help but think, “What an impressive head!—Oh no! I hope you’ll let me sketch it once I’m done confessing.” This made his own thoughts jumble up, and he ended up forgetting a few of his sins. However, he didn’t lower the standard this time, nor was he dishonest enough to downplay the genuine nature of what he was confessing.
The penance inflicted was this: he was to enter the convent church, and prostrating himself, kiss the lowest step of the altar three times; then kneeling on the floor, to say three paternosters and a credo: “this done, come back to me on the instant.”
The punishment given was this: he had to enter the convent church and, bowing down, kiss the lowest step of the altar three times; then, kneeling on the floor, he needed to say three Our Fathers and a Creed: “once that’s finished, come back to me immediately.”
Accordingly, his short mortification performed, Gerard returned, and found Father Anselm spreading plaster.
Accordingly, after his brief embarrassment, Gerard came back and found Father Anselm applying plaster.
“After the soul the body,” said he; “know that I am the chirurgeon here, for want of a better. This is going on thy leg; to cool it, not to burn it; the saints forbid.”
“After the soul comes the body,” he said; “just so you know, I’m the surgeon here, for lack of a better term. This is going on your leg; it’s meant to cool it, not to burn it; heaven forbid.”
During the operation the monastic leech, who had naturally been interested by the Dusseldorf branch of Gerard's confession, rather sided with Denys upon “bleeding.” “We Dominicans seldom let blood nowadays; the lay leeches say 'tis from timidity and want of skill; but, in sooth, we have long found that simples will cure most of the ills that can be cured at all. Besides, they never kill in capable hands; and other remedies slay like thunderbolts. As for the blood, the Vulgate saith expressly it is the life of a man.' And in medicine or law, as in divinity, to be wiser than the All-wise is to be a fool. Moreover, simples are mighty. The little four-footed creature that kills the poisonous snake, if bitten herself, finds an herb powerful enough to quell that poison, though stronger and of swifter operation than any mortal malady; and we, taught by her wisdom, and our own traditions, still search and try the virtues of those plants the good God hath strewed this earth with, some to feed men's bodies, some to heal them. Only in desperate ills we mix heavenly with earthly virtue. We steep the hair or the bones of some dead saint in the medicine, and thus work marvellous cures.”
During the operation, the monk who was naturally intrigued by the Dusseldorf branch of Gerard's confession leaned more towards Denys regarding “bleeding.” “We Dominicans rarely let blood these days; the lay healers say it's because of fear and lack of skill; but honestly, we've found for a long time that simple remedies can fix most of the ailments that can actually be cured. Besides, they never harm in skilled hands; and other treatments can have devastating effects. As for blood, the Vulgate says clearly that it is a person's life. And in medicine or law, just like in theology, being wiser than the All-wise is foolishness. Furthermore, simple remedies are powerful. The little four-legged creature that kills the venomous snake, if bitten itself, finds a plant strong enough to counteract that poison, even though it's more potent and acts faster than any human illness; and we, learning from her wisdom and our own traditions, continue to explore and test the properties of those plants that God has scattered across the earth, some to nourish people’s bodies, some to heal them. Only in dire situations do we mix heavenly with earthly powers. We soak the hair or bones of some deceased saint in the medicine, and in doing so, create miraculous cures.”
“Think you, father, it is along of the reliques? for Peter a Floris, a learned leech and no pagan, denies it stoutly.”
“Do you think, father, that it’s because of the relics? Because Peter a Floris, a knowledgeable physician and not a pagan, strongly denies it.”
“What knows Peter a Floris? And what know I? I take not on me to say we can command the saints, and will they nill they, can draw corporal virtue from their blest remains. But I see that the patient drinking thus in faith is often bettered as by a charm. Doubtless faith in the recipient is for much in all these cures. But so 'twas ever. A sick woman, that all the Jewish leeches failed to cure, did but touch Christ's garment and was healed in a moment. Had she not touched that sacred piece of cloth she had never been healed. Had she without faith not touched it only, but worn it to her grave, I trow she had been none the better for't. But we do ill to search these things too curiously. All we see around us calls for faith. Have then a little patience. We shall soon know all. Meantime, I, thy confessor for the nonce, do strictly forbid thee, on thy soul's health, to hearken learned lay folk on things religious. Arrogance is their bane; with it they shut heaven's open door in their own faces. Mind, I say, learned laics. Unlearned ones have often been my masters in humility, and may be thine. Thy wound is cared for; in three days 'twill be but a scar. And now God speed thee, and the saints make thee as good and as happy as thou art thoughtful and gracious.” Gerard hoped there was no need to part yet, for he was to dine in the refectory. But Father Anselm told him, with a shade of regret just perceptible and no more, that he did not leave his cell this week, being himself in penitence; and with this he took Gerard's head delicately in both hands, and kissed him on the brow, and almost before the cell door had closed on him, was back to his pious offices. Gerard went away chilled to the heart by the isolation of the monastic life, and saddened too. “Alas!” he thought, “here is a kind face I must never look to see again on earth; a kind voice gone from mine ear and my heart for ever. There is nothing but meeting and parting in this sorrowful world. Well-a-day! well-a-day!” This pensive mood was interrupted by a young monk who came for him and took him to the refectory; there he found several monks seated at a table, and Denys standing like a poker, being examined as to the towns he should pass through: the friars then clubbed their knowledge, and marked out the route, noting all the religious houses on or near that road; and this they gave Gerard. Then supper, and after it the old monk carried Gerard to his cell, and they had an eager chat, and the friar incidentally revealed the cause of his pantomime in the corridor. “Ye had well-nigh fallen into Brother Jerome's clutches. Yon was his cell.”
“What does Peter know about Floris? And what do I know? I won’t claim that we can command the saints and, whether they like it or not, draw physical virtue from their blessed remains. But I see that drinking in faith often works like a charm. Surely, faith in the recipient plays a big role in all these healings. But that’s always been the case. A sick woman, whom all the Jewish doctors failed to cure, merely touched Christ's garment and was healed instantly. If she hadn’t touched that sacred piece of fabric, she would never have been healed. Even if she had worn it to her grave without faith, it wouldn’t have helped her at all. But we make a mistake by probing too deeply into these matters. Everything around us calls for faith. So, have a little patience. We’ll understand everything soon enough. In the meantime, I, your confessor for now, strictly forbid you, for the sake of your soul's health, to listen to learned laypeople about religious matters. Arrogance is their downfall; they close heaven’s open door in their own faces. Remember, I’m talking about learned laypeople. Unlearned ones have often been my teachers in humility, and they can be yours, too. Your wound is being treated; in three days it'll just be a scar. And now, may God speed you, and may the saints make you as good and as happy as you are thoughtful and gracious.” Gerard hoped there was no reason to part just yet, because he was supposed to dine in the refectory. But Father Anselm told him, with a hint of regret, that he wouldn’t leave his cell this week, as he was in penitence; then he gently took Gerard’s head in both hands, kissed him on the forehead, and almost before the cell door had closed behind him, he was back to his pious duties. Gerard walked away with a heavy heart, feeling the isolation of monastic life, and he was saddened, too. “Alas!” he thought, “This kind face I must never expect to see again on earth; a kind voice gone from my ears and my heart forever. It’s all about meeting and parting in this sorrowful world. Oh dear me! oh dear me!” His reflective mood was interrupted by a young monk who came to take him to the refectory; there, he found several monks seated at a table, and Denys standing like a statue, being asked about the towns he would pass through: the friars then shared their knowledge and outlined the route, noting all the religious houses along or near that road; and they gave this information to Gerard. After supper, the old monk escorted Gerard back to his cell, and they had a lively conversation, during which the friar casually revealed the reason for his antics in the corridor. “You almost fell into Brother Jerome's clutches. That was his cell.”
“Is Father Jerome an ill man, then?”
“Is Father Jerome sick?”
“An ill man!” and the friar crossed himself; “a saint, an anchorite, the very pillar of this house! He had sent ye barefoot to Loretto. Nay, I forgot, y'are bound for Italy; the spiteful old saint upon earth, had sent ye to Canterbury or Compostella. But Jerome was born old and with a cowl; Anselm and I were boys once, and wicked beyond anything you can imagine” (Gerard wore a somewhat incredulous look): “this keeps us humble more or less, and makes us reasonably lenient to youth and hot blood.”
“An ill man!” the friar said, crossing himself. “A saint, a hermit, the very foundation of this place! He had sent you there barefoot to Loretto. Oh, I forgot, you're heading to Italy; that grumpy old saint on Earth would have sent you to Canterbury or Compostela. But Jerome was born old and in a monk's robe; Anselm and I were once young and wilder than you can imagine.” (Gerard looked a bit skeptical.) “This keeps us humble to some extent and helps us be more understanding of youth and their passions.”
Then, at Gerard's earnest request, one more heavenly strain upon the psalterion, and so to bed, the troubled spirit calmed, and the sore heart soothed.
Then, at Gerard's sincere request, one more beautiful tune on the psalterion, and then off to bed, the restless spirit eased, and the aching heart comforted.
I have described in full this day, marked only by contrast, a day that came like oil on waves after so many passions and perils—because it must stand in this narrative as the representative of many such days which now succeeded to it. For our travellers on their weary way experienced that which most of my readers will find in the longer journey of life, viz., that stirring events are not evenly distributed over the whole road, but come by fits and starts, and as it were, in clusters. To some extent this may be because they draw one another by links more or less subtle. But there is more in it than that. It happens so. Life is an intermittent fever. Now all narrators, whether of history or fiction, are compelled to slur these barren portions of time or else line trunks. The practice, however, tends to give the unguarded reader a wrong arithmetical impression, which there is a particular reason for avoiding in these pages as far as possible. I invite therefore your intelligence to my aid, and ask you to try and realize that, although there were no more vivid adventures for a long while, one day's march succeeded another; one monastery after another fed and lodged them gratis with a welcome always charitable, sometimes genial; and though they met no enemy but winter and rough weather, antagonists not always contemptible, yet they trudged over a much larger tract of territory than that, their passage through which I have described so minutely. And so the pair, Gerard bronzed in the face and travel-stained from head to foot, and Denys with his shoes in tatters, stiff and footsore both of them, drew near the Burgundian frontier.
I’ve described this day in detail, marked only by contrast, a day that came like oil on waves after so many passions and dangers—because it must represent many such days that followed. Our travelers on their tiring journey faced what most of my readers will find in the longer journey of life: that exciting events aren’t evenly spread out along the path but occur in bursts, almost in clusters. To some extent, this might be because they connect with each other through more or less subtle links. But there’s more to it than that. It just happens this way. Life is an intermittent fever. Now, all storytellers, whether of history or fiction, have to gloss over these dull stretches of time or else fill them with details. This method, however, tends to give the unsuspecting reader a misleading numerical impression, which we specifically want to avoid in these pages as much as possible. So, I ask for your understanding and urge you to recognize that, although there weren't any more vivid adventures for a while, one day's march followed another; one monastery after another provided them free meals and lodging, always with kindness, sometimes with warmth; and even though they faced no enemy except for winter and rough weather—foes that aren’t always trivial—they trekked across a much larger area than what I’ve detailed here. Thus, the pair, Gerard with a bronzed face and covered in dirt, and Denys with his shoes in tatters, both stiff and sore-footed, approached the Burgundian border.
CHAPTER XXXI
Gerard was almost as eager for this promised land as Denys; for the latter constantly chanted its praises, and at every little annoyance showed him “they did things better in Burgundy;” and above all played on his foible by guaranteeing clean bedclothes at the inns of that polished nation. “I ask no more,” the Hollander would say; “to think that I have not lain once in a naked bed since I left home! When I look at their linen, instead of doffing habit and hose, it is mine eyes and nose I would fain be shut of.”
Gerard was just as excited about this promised land as Denys was; Denys constantly sang its praises and pointed out whenever something bothered him that “they do things better in Burgundy.” He especially played on Gerard's weakness by promising fresh bed linens at the inns of that refined country. “I ask for nothing more,” the Hollander would say; “to think that I haven't slept in a proper bed since I left home! When I look at their linens, instead of taking off my clothes, it’s my eyes and nose I wish I could close.”
Denys carried his love of country so far as to walk twenty leagues in shoes that had exploded, rather than buy of a German churl, who would throw all manner of obstacles in a customer's way, his incivility, his dinner, his body.
Denys loved his country so much that he walked twenty leagues in shoes that had fallen apart, instead of buying from a rude German who would put all sorts of obstacles in a customer's path—his rudeness, his dinner, his very presence.
Towards sunset they found themselves at equal distances from a little town and a monastery, only the latter was off the road. Denys was for the inn, Gerard for the convent. Denys gave way, but on condition that once in Burgundy they should always stop at an inn. Gerard consented to this the more readily that his chart with its list of convents ended here. So they turned off the road. And now Gerard asked with surprise whence this sudden aversion to places that had fed and lodged them gratis so often. The soldier hemmed and hawed at first, but at last his wrongs burst forth. It came out that this was no sudden aversion, but an ancient and abiding horror, which he had suppressed till now, but with infinite difficulty, and out of politeness: “I saw they had put powder in your drink,” said he, “so I forbore them. However, being the last, why not ease my mind? Know then I have been like a fish out of water in all those great dungeons. You straightway levant with some old shaveling: so you see not my purgatory.”
As the sun was setting, they found themselves equally distant from a small town and a monastery, although the monastery was off the main road. Denys wanted to stay at the inn, while Gerard preferred the convent. Denys relented, but only on the condition that once they entered Burgundy, they would always stop at an inn. Gerard agreed more readily because his map with its list of convents ended there. So, they turned off the road. Gerard then asked in surprise what had caused this sudden dislike for places that had often provided them free food and lodging. The soldier hesitated at first, but eventually, his frustrations spilled out. He revealed that this wasn’t a sudden dislike, but an old and ongoing dread that he had kept to himself out of politeness: “I saw they had put powder in your drink,” he said, “so I held back. But since we’re almost done, why not share my thoughts? Just so you know, I've felt like a fish out of water in all those big dungeons. You immediately run off with some old priest, so you don’t see my suffering.”
“Forgive me! I have been selfish.”
"Sorry! I’ve been selfish."
“Ay, ay, I forgive thee, little one; 'tis not thy fault: art not the first fool that has been priest-rid, and monk-hit. But I'll not forgive them my misery.” Then, about a century before Henry VIII.'s commissioners, he delivered his indictment. These gloomy piles were all built alike. Inns differed, but here all was monotony. Great gate, little gate, so many steps and then a gloomy cloister. Here the dortour, there the great cold refectory, where you must sit mumchance, or at least inaudible, he who liked to speak his mind out; “and then,” said he, “nobody is a man here, but all are slaves, and of what? of a peevish, tinkling bell, that never sleeps. An 'twere a trumpet now, aye sounding alarums, 'twouldn't freeze a man's heart so. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, and you must sit to meat with may be no stomach for food. Ere your meat settles in your stomach, tinkle, tinkle! and ye must to church with may be no stomach for devotion: I am not a hog at prayers, for one. Tinkle, tinkle, and now you must to bed with your eyes open. Well, by then you have contrived to shut them, some uneasy imp of darkness has got to the bell-rope, and tinkle, tinkle, it behoves you say a prayer in the dark, whether you know one or not. If they heard the sort of prayers I mutter when they break my rest with their tinkle! Well, you drop off again and get about an eyeful of sleep: lo, it is tinkle, tinkle, for matins.”
"Yeah, yeah, I forgive you, little one; it’s not your fault: you’re not the first fool to be led by priests and hit by monks. But I won't forgive them for my suffering." Then, about a century before Henry VIII’s commissioners, he delivered his indictment. These gloomy buildings were all the same. Inns were different, but here everything was monotonous. Big gate, little gate, so many steps and then a dark cloister. Here was the dormitory, there was the huge cold dining hall, where you had to sit quietly, or at least silently, if you wanted to express your thoughts. “And then,” he said, “nobody is a real person here, but everyone is a slave, and to what? To a petty, ringing bell that never rests. If it were a trumpet, blasting alarms, it wouldn’t chill a man’s heart so. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, and you have to eat with maybe no appetite for food. Before your meal settles in your stomach, tinkle, tinkle! and you have to go to church with maybe no heart for prayer: I'm not a pig when it comes to praying, for one. Tinkle, tinkle, and now you have to go to bed with your eyes wide open. By the time you manage to close them, some restless spirit of the night has grabbed the bell-rope, and tinkle, tinkle, you must say a prayer in the dark, whether you actually know one or not. If they heard the kind of prayers I mumble when they disturb my rest with their tinkle! Well, you drift off again and manage to catch a little sleep: oh look, it’s tinkle, tinkle, for morning prayers."
“And the only clapper you love is a woman's,” put in Gerard half contemptuously.
“And the only clapper you care about is a woman's,” Gerard said, half contemptuously.
“Because there is some music in that even when it scolds,” was the stout reply. “And then to be always checked. If I do but put my finger in the salt-cellar, straightway I hear, 'Have you no knife that you finger the salt?' And if I but wipe my knife on the cloth to save time, then 'tis, 'Wipe thy knife dirty on the bread, and clean upon the cloth!' Oh small of soul! these little peevish pedantries fall chill upon good fellowship like wee icicles a-melting down from strawen eaves.”
“Because there’s some music in that, even when it’s scolding,” was the solid reply. “And then to always be corrected. If I just put my finger in the salt shaker, right away I hear, 'Don’t you have a knife to use for the salt?' And if I wipe my knife on the cloth to save time, then it’s, 'Wipe your knife dirty on the bread and clean on the cloth!' Oh, so petty! These little annoying rules fall cold on good friendship like tiny icicles melting from thatched roofs.”
“I hold cleanliness no pedantry,” said Gerard. “Shouldst learn better manners once for all.”
“I don't see cleanliness as a pointless obsession,” said Gerard. “You should learn some proper manners once and for all.”
“Nay; 'tis they who lack manners. They stop a fellow's mouth at every word.”
“Nah; it’s them who lack manners. They cut someone off at every word.”
“At every other word, you mean; every obscene or blasphemous one.”
“At every other word, you mean; every rude or disrespectful one.”
“Exaggerator, go to! Why, at the very last of these dungeons I found the poor travellers sitting all chilled and mute round one shaveling, like rogues awaiting their turn to be hanged; so to cheer them up, I did but cry out, 'Courage, tout le monde, le dia—
“Exaggerator, come on! I found the poor travelers sitting all cold and silent around one shabby guy at the end of these dungeons, like criminals waiting for their turn to be hanged; so to lift their spirits, I just shouted, 'Courage, everyone, the dia—
“Connu! what befell?”
"Known! What happened?"
“Marry, this. 'Blaspheme not!' quo' the bourreau. 'Plait-il,' say I. Doesn't he wheel and wyte on me in a sort of Alsatian French, turning all the P's into B's. I had much ado not to laugh in his face.”
“Seriously, this. 'Don’t blaspheme!' said the executioner. 'What did you say?' I replied. Doesn’t he start talking to me in some kind of Alsatian French, turning all the P's into B's? I had a hard time not laughing in his face.”
“Being thyself unable to speak ten words of his language without a fault.”
“Being unable to speak ten words of his language correctly.”
“Well, all the world ought to speak French. What avail so many jargons except to put a frontier atwixt men's hearts?”
“Well, everyone in the world should speak French. What’s the point of so many different languages other than to create a barrier between people’s hearts?”
“But what said he?”
“But what did he say?”
“What signifies it what a fool says?”
“What does it matter what a fool says?”
“Oh, not all the words of a fool are folly, or I should not listen to you.”
“Oh, not everything a fool says is foolish, or I wouldn't be listening to you.”
“Well, then, he said, 'Such as begin by making free with the devil's name, aye end by doing it with all the names in heaven.' 'Father,' said I, 'I am a soldier, and this is but my “consigne” or watchword.” 'Oh, then, it is just a custom?' said he. I not divining the old fox, and thinking to clear myself, said, 'Ay, it was.' 'Then that is ten times worse,' said he. ''Twill bring him about your ears one of these days. He still comes where he hears his name often called.' Observe! no gratitude for the tidings which neither his missals nor his breviary had ever let him know. Then he was so good as to tell me, soldiers do commonly the crimes for which all other men are broke on the wheel; a savoir murder, rape, and pillage.”
“Well, then,” he said, “those who start by casually using the devil’s name often end up using every name in heaven.” “Father,” I replied, “I’m a soldier, and this is just my 'consigne' or watchword.” “Oh, so it’s just a custom?” he asked. I, not realizing the old fox’s intent and wanting to defend myself, said, “Yes, it is.” “Then that’s ten times worse,” he said. “It’ll come back to haunt you one of these days. He still shows up where he hears his name often called.” Notice! No gratitude for the information that neither his missals nor his breviary had ever revealed to him. Then he kindly informed me that soldiers commonly commit the crimes for which all other men are executed, namely murder, rape, and pillage.
“And is't not true?”
"And isn't that true?"
“True or not, it was ill manners,” replied Denys guardedly. “And so says this courteous host of mine, 'Being the foes of mankind, why make enemies of good spirits into the bargain, by still shouting the names of evil ones?' and a lot more stuff.”
“Whether it’s true or not, it was rude,” Denys responded cautiously. “And my polite host says, 'Since we’re already the enemies of humanity, why add to that by making enemies of good spirits too, by continuing to shout the names of bad ones?' and a lot more.”
“Well, but, Denys, whether you hearken his rede, or slight it, wherefore blame a man for raising his voice to save your soul?”
“Well, Denys, whether you listen to his advice or ignore it, why blame someone for raising their voice to save your soul?”
“How can his voice save my soul, when he keeps turning of his P's into B's.”
“How can his voice save my soul when he keeps turning his P's into B's?”
Gerard was staggered: ere he could recover at this thunderbolt of Gallicism, Denys went triumphant off at a tangent, and stigmatized all monks as hypocrites. “Do but look at them, how they creep about and cannot eye you like honest men.”
Gerard was shocked: before he could process this surprising statement, Denys triumphantly veered off and called all monks hypocrites. “Just look at them, how they sneak around and can't look you in the eye like honest people.”
“Nay,” said Gerard eagerly, “that modest downcast gaze is part of their discipline, 'tis 'custodia oculorum'.”
“Actually,” said Gerard eagerly, “that modest, downcast gaze is part of their discipline; it’s 'custodia oculorum'.”
“Cussed toads eating hoc hac horum? No such thing; just so looks a cut-purse. Can't meet a true man's eye. Doff cowl, monk; and behold, a thief; don cowl thief, and lo, a monk. Tell me not they will ever be able to look God Almighty in the face, when they can't even look a true man in the face down here. Ah, here it is, black as ink! into the well we go, comrade. Misericorde, there goes the tinkle already. 'Tis the best of tinkles though; 'tis for dinner: stay, listen! I thought so: the wolf in my stomach cried 'Amen!'” This last statement he confirmed with two oaths, and marched like a victorious gamecock into the convent, thinking by Gerard's silence he had convinced him, and not dreaming how profoundly he had disgusted him.
“Cursed toads eating hoc hac horum? No way; that's just how a pickpocket looks. They can't meet a real man's gaze. Take off your hood, monk; and look, there's a thief; put on the hood, thief, and voilà, a monk. Don’t tell me they’ll ever have the courage to face God Almighty when they can’t even look a true man in the eye down here. Ah, here it is, dark as ink! Off to the well we go, buddy. Misericorde, the bell is already ringing. It's the best of bells though; it's for dinner: wait, listen! I thought so: the wolf in my stomach cried 'Amen!'” He confirmed this last statement with two oaths and strutted into the convent like a triumphant rooster, thinking Gerard's silence meant he had convinced him, not realizing how utterly he had disgusted him.
CHAPTER XXXII
In the refectory allusion was made, at the table where Gerard sat, to the sudden death of the monk who had undertaken to write out fresh copies of the charter of the monastery, and the rule, etc.
In the dining hall, there was a mention, at the table where Gerard was sitting, of the sudden death of the monk who had taken on the task of rewriting new copies of the monastery's charter and rules, etc.
Gerard caught this, and timidly offered his services. There was a hesitation which he mistook. “Nay, not for hire, my lords, but for love, and as a trifling return for many a good night's lodging the brethren of your order have bestowed on me a poor wayfarer.”
Gerard noticed this and shyly offered his help. There was a pause that he misinterpreted. "No, not for payment, my lords, but out of kindness, and as a small way to repay the many nights of shelter that the members of your order have given me, a humble traveler."
A monk smiled approvingly; but hinted that the late brother was an excellent penman, and his work could not be continued but by a master. Gerard on this drew from his wallet with some trepidation a vellum deed, the back of which he had cleaned and written upon by way of specimen. The monk gave quite a start at sight of it, and very hastily went up the hall to the high table, and bending his knee so as just to touch in passing the fifth step and the tenth, or last, presented it to the prior with comments. Instantly a dozen knowing eyes were fixed on it, and a buzz of voices was heard; and soon Gerard saw the prior point more than once, and the monk came back, looking as proud as Punch, with a savoury crustade ryal, or game pie gravied and spiced, for Gerard, and a silver grace cup full of rich pimentum. This latter Gerard took, and bowing low, first to the distant prior, then to his own company, quaffed, and circulated the cup.
A monk smiled approvingly but suggested that the late brother was an outstanding writer, and his work could only be carried on by a master. Gerard, feeling a bit nervous, pulled out a vellum deed from his wallet, the back of which he had cleaned and written on as a sample. The monk jumped at the sight of it and quickly rushed up the hall to the high table, kneeling just enough to touch the fifth step and the last, tenth step, as he presented it to the prior with comments. Immediately, a dozen knowledgeable eyes were focused on it, and a buzz of voices filled the air. Soon, Gerard saw the prior point at it several times, and the monk returned, looking as proud as could be, with a savory pie or game pie full of rich gravy and spices for Gerard, along with a silver cup filled with rich spiced wine. Gerard accepted the cup, bowed low first to the distant prior and then to his companions, took a drink, and passed the cup around.
Instantly, to his surprise, the whole table hailed him as a brother: “Art convent bred, deny it not?” He acknowledged it, and gave Heaven thanks for it, for otherwise he had been as rude and ignorant as his brothers, Sybrandt and Cornelis.
Instantly, to his surprise, the whole table cheered him on as a brother: “Are you from a convent, no denying it?” He accepted it and thanked Heaven for it, because otherwise he would have been as rude and ignorant as his brothers, Sybrandt and Cornelis.
“But 'tis passing strange how you could know,” said he.
"But it's really odd how you could know," he said.
“You drank with the cup in both hands,” said two monks, speaking together.
“You held the cup with both hands while you drank,” said the two monks in unison.
The voices had for some time been loudish round a table at the bottom of the hall; but presently came a burst of mirth so obstreperous and prolonged, that the prior sent the very sub-prior all down the hall to check it, and inflict penance on every monk at the table. And Gerard's cheek burned with shame; for in the heart of the unruly merriment his ear had caught the word “courage!” and the trumpet tones of Denys of Burgundy.
The voices had been pretty loud for a while around a table at the end of the hall; but then there was a sudden outburst of laughter that was so noisy and long-lasting that the prior sent the sub-prior all the way down the hall to check it out and punish every monk at the table. And Gerard’s face turned hot with shame; because amid the chaotic laughter, he had heard the word “courage!” and the booming voice of Denys of Burgundy.
Soon Gerard was installed in feu Werter's cell, with wax lights, and a little frame that could be set at any angle, and all the materials of caligraphy. The work, however, was too much for one evening. Then came the question, how could he ask Denys, the monk-hater, to stay longer? However, he told him, and offered to abide by his decision. He was agreeably surprised when Denys said graciously, “A day's rest will do neither of us harm. Write thou, and I'll pass the time as I may.”
Soon, Gerard was settled into Werter's cell, with wax candles, a little adjustable frame, and all the calligraphy supplies. However, the work was too much for just one evening. Then came the question of how he could ask Denys, who disliked monks, to stay longer. Nonetheless, he told him and offered to respect his choice. He was pleasantly surprised when Denys said kindly, “A day’s rest won’t hurt either of us. You write, and I’ll find ways to pass the time.”
Gerard's work was vastly admired; they agreed that the records of the monastery had gained by poor Werter's death. The sub-prior forced a rix-dollar on Gerard, and several brushes and colours out of the convent stock, which was very large. He resumed his march warm at heart, for this was of good omen; since it was on the pen he relied to make his fortune and recover his well-beloved. “Come, Denys,” said he good-humouredly, “see what the good monks have given me; now, do try to be fairer to them; for to be round with you, it chilled my friendship for a moment to hear even you call my benefactors 'hypocrites.'”
Gerard's work was hugely praised; everyone agreed that the monastery had benefited from poor Werter's death. The sub-prior forced a rix-dollar on Gerard, along with several brushes and paints from the convent's extensive collection. He continued on his way, feeling uplifted, because this was a great sign; he was counting on his pen to make his fortune and win back his beloved. “Come on, Denys,” he said cheerfully, “look at what the good monks have given me; now, please try to be nicer to them; because honestly, it made me reconsider my friendship for a moment to even hear you call my supporters 'hypocrites.'”
“I recant,” said Denys.
"I take it back," said Denys.
“Thank you! thank you! Good Denys.”
“Thank you! Thank you! Good Denys.”
“I was a scurrilous vagabond.”
"I was a shady wanderer."
“Nay, nay, say not so, neither!”
“Come on, don’t say that!”
“But we soldiers are rude and hasty. I give myself the lie, and I offer those I misunderstood all my esteem. 'Tis unjust that thousands should be defamed for the hypocrisy of a few.”
“But we soldiers are rough and quick to judge. I admit my mistakes, and I offer everyone I misunderstood my full respect. It's unfair that thousands should be slandered because of the hypocrisy of a few.”
“Now are you reasonable. You have pondered what I said?”
“Are you being reasonable now? Have you thought about what I said?”
“Nay, it is their own doing.”
"Nope, it's their own fault."
Gerard crowed a little, we all like to be proved in the right; and was all attention when Denys offered to relate how his conversion was effected.
Gerard crowed a bit; we all enjoy being validated, and he was fully focused when Denys offered to explain how his conversion happened.
“Well then, at dinner the first day a young monk beside me did open his jaws and laughed right out and most musically. 'Good,' said I, 'at last I have fallen on a man and not a shorn ape.' So, to sound him further, I slapped his broad back and administered my consigne. 'Heaven forbid!' says he. I stared. For the dog looked as sad as Solomon; a better mime saw you never, even at a Mystery. 'I see war is no sharpener of the wits,' said he. 'What are the clergy for but to fight the foul fiend? and what else are the monks for?
"Well then, at dinner on the first day, a young monk sitting next to me opened his mouth and laughed out loud in the most musical way. 'Good,' I said, 'finally I've found a man and not a shorn ape.' So, to learn more about him, I gave his broad back a slap and shared my thoughts. 'Heaven forbid!' he replied. I was shocked. The guy looked as sad as Solomon; you’d never find a better performer, even at a Mystery. 'Looks like war doesn’t sharpen the wits,' he said. 'What are clergy for if not to fight the foul fiend? And what else are monks for?'"
“The fiend being dead,
The friars are sped.”
“The villain is dead, The monks have done their job.”
You may plough up the convents, and we poor monks shall have nought to do—but turn soldiers, and so bring him to life again.' Then there was a great laugh at my expense. 'Well, you are the monk for me,' said I. 'And you are the crossbowman for me,' quo' he. 'And I'll be bound you could tell us tales of the war should make our hair stand on end.' 'Excusez! the barber has put that out of the question,' quoth I, and then I had the laugh.”
You can tear down the convents, and us poor monks will have nothing to do but become soldiers, bringing him back to life. Then everyone laughed at my expense. "Well, you're the monk for me," I said. "And you're the crossbowman for me," he replied. "I'll bet you could tell us stories about the war that would make our hair stand on end." "Sorry, the barber has made that impossible," I said, and then I got the last laugh.
“What wretched ribaldry!” observed Gerard pensively.
“What horrible nonsense!” Gerard said thoughtfully.
The candid Denys at once admitted he had seen merrier jests hatched with less cackle. “'Twas a great matter to have got rid of hypocrisy. 'So,' said I, 'I can give you the chaire de poule, if that may content ye.' 'That we will see,' was the cry, and a signal went round.”
The frank Denys immediately acknowledged he had seen happier jokes created with less fuss. “It was a big deal to get rid of hypocrisy. ‘So,’ I said, ‘I can give you the goosebumps if that will please you.’ ‘We'll see about that,’ was the response, and a signal went out.”
Denys then related, bursting with glee, how at bedtime he had been taken to a cell instead of the great dortour, and strictly forbidden to sleep; and to aid his vigil, a book had been lent him of pictures representing a hundred merry adventures of monks in pursuit of the female laity; and how in due course he had been taken out barefooted and down to the parlour, where was a supper fit for the duke, and at it twelve jolly friars, the roaringest boys he had ever met in peace or war. How the story, the toast, the jest, the wine-cup had gone round, and some had played cards with a gorgeous pack, where Saint Theresa, and Saint Catherine, etc., bedizened with gold, stood for the four queens; and black, white, grey, and crutched friars for the four knaves; and had staked their very rosaries, swearing like troopers when they lost. And how about midnight a sly monk had stolen out, but had by him and others been as cannily followed into the garden, and seen to thrust his hand into the ivy and out with a rope-ladder. With this he had run up on the wall, which was ten feet broad, yet not so nimbly but what a russet kirtle had popped up from the outer world as quick as he; and so to billing and cooing: that this situation had struck him as rather feline than ecclesiastical, and drawn from him the appropriate comment of a “mew!” The monks had joined the mewsical chorus, and the lay visitor shrieked and been sore discomforted; but Abelard only cried, “What, are ye there, ye jealous miauling knaves? ye shall caterwaul to some tune to-morrow night. I'll fit every man-jack of ye with a fardingale.” That this brutal threat had reconciled him to stay another day—at Gerard's request.
Denys then excitedly shared how, at bedtime, he had been taken to a cell instead of the large dormitory and was strictly ordered not to sleep. To help him stay awake, he had been given a book filled with pictures depicting a hundred funny adventures of monks chasing after women. He talked about how, in due time, he had been taken out barefoot to the parlor, where there was a feast fit for a duke, accompanied by twelve cheerful friars, the liveliest guys he had ever met, in peace or war. He recounted how stories, toasts, jokes, and cups of wine were passed around, and some played cards with a fancy deck, where Saint Theresa and Saint Catherine, adorned in gold, represented the four queens, and black, white, gray, and crutched friars stood in for the four knaves. They even placed bets with their rosaries, swearing like soldiers when they lost. He described how around midnight, a sneaky monk had slipped out, but he and others had cleverly followed him into the garden and saw him pull out a rope ladder from the ivy. With this, he had climbed up the ten-foot-wide wall, not as quickly as a brown cloak popped up from the outside world right behind him, and they seemed to be getting cozy. Denys thought this situation was more cat-like than church-like, prompting him to comment with a “mew!” The monks joined in on the meows, and the guest screamed and felt very uncomfortable, but Abelard just shouted, “What, are you there, you jealous meowing fools? You’ll make a racket to some tune tomorrow night. I’ll get every one of you a farthingale.” This brutal threat made him agree to stay another day—at Gerard's request.
Gerard groaned.
Gerard sighed.
Meantime, unable to disconcert so brazen a monk, and the demoiselle beginning to whimper, they had danced caterwauling in a circle, then bestowed a solemn benediction on the two wall-flowers, and off to the parlour, where they found a pair lying dead drunk, and other two affectionate to tears. That they had straightway carried off the inanimate, and dragged off the loving and lachymose, kicked them all merrily each into his cell.
Meantime, unable to rattle such a bold monk, and with the young lady starting to cry, they had danced around making a fuss, then gave a serious blessing to the two shy ones, and headed to the living room, where they found a couple completely wasted and another two in tears. They quickly took away the unconscious ones and dragged off the loving and tearful, playfully kicking each one into their room.
“And so shut up in measureless content.”
“And so closed in limitless happiness.”
Gerard was disgusted: and said so.
Gerard was disgusted, and he said so.
Denys chuckled, and proceeded to tell him how the next day he and the young monks had drawn the fish-ponds and secreted much pike, carp, tench, and eel for their own use: and how, in the dead of night, he had been taken shoeless by crooked ways into the chapel, a ghost-like place, being dark, and then down some steps into a crypt below the chapel floor, where suddenly paradise had burst on him.
Denys laughed and went on to explain how the next day he and the young monks had mapped out the fish ponds and stashed away a lot of pike, carp, tench, and eel for themselves. He described how, in the dead of night, he had been led barefoot through winding paths into the chapel, a ghostly place that was dark, and then down some steps into a crypt beneath the chapel floor, where suddenly everything felt like paradise.
“'Tis there the holy fathers retire to pray,” put in Gerard.
"That's where the holy fathers go to pray," said Gerard.
“Not always,” said Denys; “wax candles by the dozen were lighted, and princely cheer; fifteen soups maigre, with marvellous twangs of venison, grouse, and hare in them, and twenty different fishes (being Friday), cooked with wondrous art, and each he between two buxom lasses, and each lass between two lads with a cowl; all but me: and to think I had to woo by interpreter. I doubt the knave put in three words for himself and one for me; if he didn't, hang him for a fool. And some of the weaker vessels were novices, and not wont to hold good wine; had to be coaxed ere they would put it to their white teeth; mais elles s'y faisaient; and the story, and the jest, and the cup went round (by-the-by, they had flagons made to simulate breviaries); and a monk touched the cittern, and sang ditties with a voice tunable as a lark in spring. The posies did turn the faces of the women folk bright red at first: but elles s'y faisaient.”
“Not always,” Denys said; “dozens of wax candles were lit, and it was a royal feast; fifteen light soups, featuring amazing flavors of venison, grouse, and hare, and twenty different types of fish (being Friday), all cooked with incredible skill. I was seated between two charming girls, and each girl was between two guys in hooded robes; all except me: and to think I had to flirt through an interpreter. I bet the guy threw in three words for himself and only one for me; if he didn’t, I’d call him a fool. Some of the more delicate ladies were inexperienced and not used to strong wine; they had to be encouraged before they would sip it. But they got the hang of it; and the stories, jokes, and drinks circulated (by the way, they had jugs made to look like prayer books); and a monk played the cittern and sang songs with a voice as sweet as a lark in spring. At first, the flowers made the women’s faces flush bright red: but they got used to it.”
Here Gerard exploded.
Here Gerard lost it.
“Miserable wretches! Corrupters of youth! Perverters of innocence! but for your being there, Denys, who have been taught no better, oh, would God the church had fallen on the whole gang. Impious, abominable hypocrites!”
“Miserable wretches! You corrupt the youth! You pervert innocence! If it weren't for you being here, Denys, who hasn’t been taught any better, oh, I wish God had taken down the whole group. Impious, dreadful hypocrites!”
“Hypocrites?” cried Denys, with unfeigned surprise. “Why, that is what I clept them ere I knew them: and you withstood me. Nay, they are sinners; all good fellows are that; but, by St. Denys his helmeted skull, no hypocrites, but right jolly roaring blades.”
“Hypocrites?” Denys exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “That’s what I called them before I even knew them, and you disagreed with me. Sure, they’re sinners; all decent guys are. But, I swear by St. Denys's helmeted skull, they’re not hypocrites, just a bunch of fun-loving party animals.”
“Denys,” said Gerard solemnly, “you little know the peril you ran that night. That church you defiled amongst you is haunted; I had it from one of the elder monks. The dead walk there, their light feet have been heard to patter o'er the stones.”
“Denys,” Gerard said seriously, “you have no idea how dangerous it was for you that night. That church you messed with is haunted; I heard it from one of the older monks. The dead walk there, and their light footsteps have been heard tapping over the stones.”
“Misericorde!” whispered Denys.
"Mercy!" whispered Denys.
“Ay, more,” said Gerard, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; “celestial sounds have issued from the purlieus of that very crypt you turned into a tavern. Voices of the dead holding unearthly communion have chilled the ear of midnight, and at times, Denys, the faithful in their nightly watches have even heard music from dead lips; and chords, made by no mortal finger, swept by no mortal hand, have rung faintly, like echoes, deep among the dead in those sacred vaults.”
“Yeah, even more,” said Gerard, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; “heavenly sounds have come from the area around that crypt you turned into a bar. Voices of the dead communicating in a way beyond our world have sent chills down the spine of midnight, and sometimes, Denys, those who keep watch at night have even heard music from the lips of the dead; and chords, played by no human fingers, touched by no human hand, have faintly resonated like echoes, deep among the dead in those sacred vaults.”
Denys wore a look of dismay. “Ugh! if I had known, mules and wain-ropes had not hauled me thither; and so” (with a sigh) “I had lost a merry time.”
Denys looked really upset. “Ugh! If I had known, mules and cart ropes wouldn’t have dragged me there; and so” (with a sigh) “I missed a fun time.”
Whether further discussion might have thrown any more light upon these ghostly sounds, who can tell? for up came a “bearded brother” from the monastery, spurring his mule, and waving a piece of vellum in his hand. It was the deed between Ghysbrecht and Floris Brandt. Gerard valued it deeply as a remembrance of home: he turned pale at first but to think he had so nearly lost it, and to Denys's infinite amusement not only gave a piece of money to the lay brother, but kissed the mule's nose.
Whether more discussion would have shed light on those eerie sounds, who knows? Just then, a “bearded brother” from the monastery rode up, urging his mule forward and waving a parchment in his hand. It was the agreement between Ghysbrecht and Floris Brandt. Gerard cherished it as a reminder of home; he initially turned pale at the thought of having almost lost it. To Denys's great amusement, he not only gave the lay brother a coin but also kissed the mule's nose.
“I'll read you now,” said Gerard, “were you twice as ill written; and—to make sure of never losing you”—here he sat down, and taking out needle and thread, sewed it with feminine dexterity to his doublet, and his mind, and heart, and soul were away to Sevenbergen.
“I'll read you now,” said Gerard, “even if you were written twice as poorly; and—to make sure I never lose you”—he sat down, took out a needle and thread, and sewed it with a woman's skill to his doublet, while his mind, heart, and soul were lost in Sevenbergen.
They reached the promised land, and Denys, who was in high spirits, doffed his bonnet to all the females; who curtsied and smiled in return; fired his consigne at most of the men; at which some stared, some grinned, some both; and finally landed his friend at one of the long-promised Burgundian inns.
They arrived at the promised land, and Denys, feeling really good, took off his hat to all the women; they curtsied and smiled back; he greeted most of the men; some stared, some grinned, and some did both; and finally dropped his friend off at one of the long-awaited Burgundian inns.
“It is a little one,” said he, “but I know it of old for a good one; Les Trois Poissons.' But what is this writ up? I mind not this;” and he pointed to an inscription that ran across the whole building in a single line of huge letters. “Oh, I see. 'Ici on loge a pied et a cheval,'” said Denys, going minutely through the inscription, and looking bumptious when he had effected it.
“It’s a small place,” he said, “but I know it well and it’s a good one; Les Trois Poissons.” But what does this sign say? I don’t remember this,” and he pointed to an inscription that stretched across the entire building in a single line of large letters. “Oh, I see. 'Ici on loge a pied et a cheval,'” Denys said, going over the inscription carefully and looking pleased with himself when he finished.
Gerard did look, and the sentence in question ran thus:
Gerard did look, and the sentence in question read as follows:
“ON NE LOGE CEANS A CREDIT; CE BONHOMME EST MORT, LES MAUVAIS PAIEURS L'ONT TUE.”
“NO ONE LIVES HERE ON CREDIT; THIS GOOD MAN IS DEAD, THE BAD PAYERS HAVE KILLED HIM.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
They met the landlord in the passage.
“Welcome, messieurs,” said he, taking off his cap, with a low bow.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, removing his cap with a slight bow.
“Come, we are not in Germany,” said Gerard.
“Come on, we’re not in Germany,” said Gerard.
In the public room they found the mistress, a buxom woman of forty. She curtsied to them, and smiled right cordially “Give yourself the trouble of sitting ye down, fair sir,” said she to Gerard, and dusted two chairs with her apron, not that they needed it.
In the living room, they found the lady of the house, a full-figured woman in her forties. She curtsied and smiled warmly at them. “Please, make yourself comfortable, kind sir,” she said to Gerard, and she dusted off two chairs with her apron, even though they didn’t really need it.
“Thank you, dame,” said Gerard. “Well,” thought he, “this is a polite nation: the trouble of sitting down? That will I with singular patience; and presently the labour of eating, also the toil of digestion, and finally, by Hercules his aid, the strain of going to bed, and the struggle of sinking fast asleep.
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Gerard. “Well,” he thought, “this is a polite country: the effort of sitting down? I'll do that with great patience; and soon the effort of eating, then the task of digesting, and finally, with Hercules’ help, the challenge of going to bed, and the struggle of falling fast asleep."
“Why, Denys, what are you doing? ordering supper for only two?”
“Why, Denys, what are you doing? Ordering dinner for just the two of us?”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“What, can we sup without waiting for forty more? Burgundy forever!”
“What, can we eat without waiting for forty more? Burgundy forever!”
“Aha! Courage, camarade. Le dia—”
“Aha! Courage, comrade. The day—”
“C'est convenu.”
"That's settled."
The salic law seemed not to have penetrated to French inns. In this one at least wimple and kirtle reigned supreme; doublets and hose were few in number, and feeble in act. The landlord himself wandered objectless, eternally taking off his cap to folk for want of thought; and the women, as they passed him in turn, thrust him quietly aside without looking at him, as we remove a live twig in bustling through a wood.
The salic law didn’t seem to have made its way to French inns. At least in this one, wimples and kirtles were the norm; there were only a few doublets and hose, and they seemed weak and ineffective. The landlord himself wandered around aimlessly, constantly taking off his cap to people out of habit; and the women, as they passed him one by one, pushed him gently aside without even looking at him, like we would move a live twig while making our way through a forest.
A maid brought in supper, and the mistress followed her, empty handed.
A maid brought in dinner, and the mistress followed her, with nothing in her hands.
“Fall to, my masters,” said she cheerily; “y'have but one enemy here; and he lies under your knife.” (I shrewdly suspect this of formula.)
“Get to work, my friends,” she said happily; “you only have one enemy here; and he’s right under your knife.” (I strongly suspect this is a formula.)
They fell to. The mistress drew her chair a little toward the table; and provided company as well as meat; gossiped genially with them like old acquaintances: but this form gone through, the busy dame was soon off and sent in her daughter, a beautiful young woman of about twenty, who took the vacant seat. She was not quite so broad and genial as the elder, but gentle and cheerful, and showed a womanly tenderness for Gerard on learning the distance the poor boy had come, and had to go. She stayed nearly half-an-hour, and when she left them Gerard said, “This an inn? Why, it is like home.”
They got to work. The woman pulled her chair a little closer to the table and provided both company and food, chatting warmly with them like they were old friends. But after that, the busy lady quickly got back to her tasks and sent in her daughter, a lovely young woman around twenty, who took the empty seat. She wasn’t quite as warm and lively as her mother, but she was kind and cheerful, showing a caring nature towards Gerard when she found out how far he had traveled and still had to go. She stayed for almost half an hour, and when she left, Gerard said, “Is this an inn? It feels just like home.”
“Qui fit Francois il fit courtois,” said Denys, bursting with gratified pride.
“Whoever made François made him courteous,” said Denys, filled with proud satisfaction.
“Courteous? nay, Christian; to welcome us like home guests and old friends, us vagrants, here to-day and gone to-morrow. But indeed who better merits pity and kindness than the worn traveller far from his folk? Hola! here's another.”
“Polite? No, more like a true friend; welcoming us like family, we wanderers, here today and gone tomorrow. But really, who deserves more compassion and kindness than the weary traveler far from home? Hey! Here’s another one.”
The new-comer was the chambermaid, a woman of about twenty-five, with a cocked nose, a large laughing mouth, and a sparkling black eye, and a bare arm very stout but not very shapely.
The newcomer was the chambermaid, a woman around twenty-five, with a turned-up nose, a big smiling mouth, and a bright black eye, along with a very strong but not very shapely bare arm.
The moment she came in, one of the travellers passed a somewhat free jest on her; the next the whole company were roaring at his expense, so swiftly had her practised tongue done his business. Even as, in a passage of arms between a novice and a master of fence, foils clash—novice pinked. On this another, and then another, must break a lance with her; but Marion stuck her great arms upon her haunches, and held the whole room in play. This country girl possessed in perfection that rude and ready humour which looks mean and vulgar on paper, but carries all before it spoken: not wit's rapier; its bludgeon. Nature had done much for her in this way, and daily practice in an inn the rest.
The moment she walked in, one of the travelers made a somewhat cheeky joke about her; immediately, the whole group burst out laughing at his expense, as her sharp tongue quickly put him in his place. It was like a duel between a novice and a master fencer—novice gets hit. Following this, another person, and then another, tried to challenge her; but Marion stood with her hands on her hips and captivated the entire room. This country girl had an incredible talent for that kind of rough and ready humor that seems mean and lowbrow in writing, but comes across powerfully when spoken: not clever banter, but a club. Nature had gifted her well in this regard, and daily practice in an inn completed the rest.
Yet shall she not be photographed by me, but feebly indicated: for it was just four hundred years ago, the raillery was coarse, she returned every stroke in kind, and though a virtuous woman, said things without winking, which no decent man of our day would say even among men.
Yet she won't be photographed by me, but rather hinted at: because it was just four hundred years ago, the teasing was rough, she shot back with equal force, and although she was a virtuous woman, she said things without a second thought that no respectable man today would even say among other men.
Gerard sat gaping with astonishment. This was to him almost a new variety of “that interesting species,” homo. He whispered “Denys, Now I see why you Frenchmen say 'a woman's tongue is her sword:'” just then she levelled another assailant; and the chivalrous Denys, to console and support “the weaker vessel,” the iron kettle among the clay pots, administered his consigne, “Courage, ma mie, le—-” etc.
Gerard sat there in shock. To him, this was like a whole new type of “that interesting species,” homo. He whispered, “Denys, now I understand why you French say 'a woman's tongue is her sword:'” just as she took down another attacker; and the chivalrous Denys, to comfort and support “the weaker vessel,” the iron kettle among the clay pots, gave his encouragement, “Courage, ma mie, le—-” etc.
She turned on him directly. “How can he be dead as long as there is an archer left alive?” (General laughter at her ally's expense.)
She confronted him directly. “How can he be dead as long as there’s still an archer alive?” (General laughter at her ally's expense.)
“It is 'washing day,' my masters,” said she, with sudden gravity.
“It’s ‘washing day,’ my masters,” she said, suddenly serious.
“Apres? We travellers cannot strip and go bare while you wash our clothes,” objected a peevish old fellow by the fireside, who had kept mumchance during the raillery, but crept out into the sunshine of commonplaces.
“Afterwards? We travelers can’t just strip down and go bare while you wash our clothes,” complained a cranky old guy by the fire, who had stayed quiet during the teasing but now chimed in with the usual remarks.
“I aimed not your way, ancient man,” replied Marion superciliously. “But since you ask me” (here she scanned him slowly from head to foot), “I trow you might take a turn in the tub, clothes and all, and no harm done” (laughter). “But what I spoke for, I thought this young sire might like his beard starched.”
“I wasn't aiming at you, old man,” Marion replied arrogantly. “But since you asked me” (here she looked him up and down slowly), “I suppose you could take a dip in the tub, clothes and all, and it wouldn't hurt” (laughter). “But what I meant was, I thought this young guy might want his beard starched.”
Poor Gerard's turn had come; his chin crop was thin and silky.
Poor Gerard's turn had come; his chin hair was thin and smooth.
The loudest of all the laughers this time was the traitor Denys, whose beard was of a good length, and singularly stiff and bristly; so that Shakespeare, though he never saw him, hit him in the bull's eye.
The loudest laugher this time was the traitor Denys, whose beard was a decent length and unusually stiff and bristly; so that Shakespeare, even though he never saw him, got it exactly right.
“Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.”
—As You Like It.
“Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the leopard.” —As You Like It.
Gerard bore the Amazonian satire mighty calmly. He had little personal vanity. “Nay, 'chambriere,'” said he, with a smile, “mine is all unworthy your pains; take you this fair growth in hand!” and he pointed to Denys's vegetable.
Gerard took the Amazonian satire in stride. He had little personal pride. “No, 'chambriere,'” he said with a smile, “mine is not worth your effort; take this beautiful growth instead!” and he gestured to Denys's plant.
“Oh, time for that, when I starch the besoms.”
“Oh, time for that when I starch the brooms.”
Whilst they were all shouting over this palpable hit, the mistress returned, and in no more time than it took her to cross the threshold, did our Amazon turn to a seeming Madonna meek and mild.
While they were all shouting over this obvious hit, the mistress returned, and in no more time than it took her to cross the threshold, our Amazon transformed into a seemingly meek and mild Madonna.
Mistresses are wonderful subjugators. Their like I think breathes not on the globe. Housemaids, decide! It was a waste of histrionic ability though; for the landlady had heard, and did not at heart disapprove, the peals of laughter.
Mistresses are amazing at taking control. I don't think anyone else like them exists in the world. Housemaids, choose! It was a waste of dramatic talent, though; because the landlady had heard and didn't actually disapprove of the bursts of laughter.
“Ah, Marion, lass,” said she good-humouredly, “if you laid me an egg every time you cackle, 'L'es Trois Poissons' would never lack an omelet.”
“Ah, Marion, girl,” she said playfully, “if you laid an egg every time you cackle, 'L'es Trois Poissons' would never be short of an omelet.”
“Now, dame,” said Gerard, “what is to pay?”
“Now, ma'am,” said Gerard, “what do I owe you?”
“What for?”
“Why?”
“Our supper.”
“Our dinner.”
“Where is the hurry? cannot you be content to pay when you go? lose the guest, find the money, is the rule of 'The Three Fish.'”
“What's the rush? Can't you be okay with paying when you leave? The rule of 'The Three Fish' is: lose the guest, find the money.”
“But, dame, outside 'The Three Fish' it is thus written—'Ici-on ne loge—”
“But, lady, outside 'The Three Fish' it says—'No lodging here—”
“Bah! Let that flea stick on the wall! Look hither,” and she pointed to the smoky ceiling, which was covered with hieroglyphics. These were accounts, vulgo scores; intelligible to this dame and her daughter, who wrote them at need by simply mounting a low stool, and scratching with a knife so as to show lines of ceiling through the deposit of smoke. The dame explained that the writing on the wall was put there to frighten moneyless folk from the inn altogether, or to be acted on at odd times when a non-paying face should come in and insist on being served. “We can't refuse them plump, you know. The law forbids us.”
“Bah! Let that flea stay on the wall! Look here,” and she pointed to the smoky ceiling, which was covered with hieroglyphics. These were records, commonly known as scores; they were understandable to this woman and her daughter, who wrote them whenever needed by simply standing on a low stool and scratching with a knife to reveal lines on the ceiling through the smoke buildup. The woman explained that the writing on the wall was meant to scare off broke people from the inn altogether or to be used at random times when a non-paying guest would come in and insist on being served. “We can't just refuse them outright, you know. The law doesn’t allow it.”
“And how know you mine is not such a face?”
“And how do you know mine isn’t such a face?”
“Out fie! it is the best face that has entered 'The Three Fish' this autumn.”
“Ugh! It’s the best face that has come into 'The Three Fish' this autumn.”
“And mine, dame?” said Denys; “dost see no knavery here?”
“And what about me, ma’am?” said Denys; “don’t you see any trickery here?”
She eyed him calmly. “Not such a good one as the lad's; nor ever will be. But it is the face of a true man. For all that,” added she drily, “an I were ten years younger, I'd as lieve not meet that face on a dark night too far from home.”
She looked at him calmly. “Not as good as the boy's; and it never will be. But it’s the face of a real man. Still,” she added dryly, “if I were ten years younger, I’d rather not come across that face on a dark night too far from home.”
Gerard stared. Denys laughed. “Why, dame, I would but sip the night dew off the flower; and you needn't take ten years off, nor ten days, to be worth risking a scratched face for.”
Gerard stared. Denys laughed. “Well, lady, I would just drink the night dew off the flower; and you don't need to take ten years off, or even ten days, to be worth risking a scratched face for.”
“There, our mistress,” said Marion, who had just come in, “said I not t'other day you could make a fool of them still, an if you were properly minded?”
“There, our lady,” said Marion, who had just walked in, “didn’t I say the other day you could still trick them if you set your mind to it?”
“I dare say ye did; it sounds like some daft wench's speech.”
"I would say you did; it sounds like something a silly girl would say."
“Dame,” said Gerard, “this is wonderful.”
“Ma'am,” said Gerard, “this is amazing.”
“What? Oh! no, no, that is no wonder at all. Why, I have been here all my life; and reading faces is the first thing a girl picks up in an inn.”
“What? Oh! no, no, that’s not surprising at all. I’ve been here my whole life, and reading faces is the first thing a girl learns in an inn.”
Marion. “And frying eggs the second; no, telling lies; frying eggs is the third, though.”
Marion. “And the second is telling lies; frying eggs is the third, though.”
The Mistress. “And holding her tongue the last, and modesty the day after never at all.”
The Mistress. “And keeping quiet last, and being modest the next day never at all.”
Marion. “Alack! Talk of my tongue. But I say no more. She under whose wing I live now deals the blow. I'm sped—'tis but a chambermaid gone. Catch what's left on't!” and she staggered and sank backwards on to the handsomest fellow in the room, which happened to be Gerard.
Marion. “Oh no! Don’t get me started. But I won’t say anything more. The one who I rely on now is the one causing the trouble. I’m done for—it’s just a maid who’s left. Grab what’s left of this!” and she staggered and fell back onto the handsomest guy in the room, who happened to be Gerard.
“Tic! tic!” cried he peevishly; “there, don't be stupid! that is too heavy a jest for me. See you not I am talking to the mistress?”
“Tic! tic!” he complained irritably; “come on, don’t be foolish! That’s way too much of a joke for me. Don’t you see I’m talking to the lady?”
Marion resumed her elasticity with a grimace, made two little bounds into the middle of the floor, and there turned a pirouette. “There, mistress,” said she, “I give in; 'tis you that reigns supreme with the men, leastways with male children.”
Marion regained her flexibility with a grimace, made two small jumps to the center of the floor, and then spun around. “There, ma'am,” she said, “I give up; it’s you who rules over the guys, at least when it comes to boys.”
“Young man,” said the mistress, “this girl is not so stupid as her deportment; in reading of faces, and frying of omelets, there we are great. 'Twould be hard if we failed at these arts, since they are about all we do know.”
“Young man,” said the mistress, “this girl isn’t as clueless as she seems; when it comes to reading faces and frying omelets, we excel. It would be pretty sad if we didn’t succeed at these skills, since they’re pretty much all we actually know.”
“You do not quite take me, dame,” said Gerard. “That honesty in a face should shine forth to your experienced eye, that seems reasonable: but how by looking on Denys here could you learn his one little foible, his insanity, his miserable mulierosity?” Poor Gerard got angrier the more he thought of it.
“You don’t really understand me, lady,” said Gerard. “It seems reasonable that honesty in someone’s face should be obvious to your experienced eye, but how could you figure out Denys’s one little flaw, his madness, his pathetic womanliness, just by looking at him?” Poor Gerard grew angrier the more he thought about it.
“His mule—his what?” (crossing herself with superstitious awe at the polysyllable).
“His mule—his what?” (crossing herself with superstitious awe at the complicated word).
“Nay, 'tis but the word I was fain to invent for him.”
“Nah, it’s just the word I wanted to make up for him.”
“Invent? What, can a child like you make other words than grow in Burgundy by nature? Take heed what ye do! why, we are overrun with them already, especially bad ones. Lord, these be times. I look to hear of a new thistle invented next.”
“Invent? What can a kid like you create besides what naturally grows in Burgundy? Be careful with what you’re doing! We already have too many words, especially the bad ones. Seriously, these are strange times. I expect to hear about a new type of thistle being invented next.”
“Well then, dame, mulierose—that means wrapped up, body and soul, in women. So prithee tell me; how did you ever detect the noodle's mulierosity?”
“Well then, lady, mulierose—that means completely absorbed, body and soul, in women. So please tell me; how did you ever notice the fool's obsession with women?”
“Alas! good youth, you make a mountain of a molehill. We that are women be notice-takers; and out of the tail of our eye see more than most men can, glaring through a prospect glass. Whiles I move to and fro doing this and that, my glance is still on my guests, and I did notice that this soldier's eyes were never off the womenfolk: my daughter, or Marion, or even an old woman like me, all was gold to him: and there a sat glowering; oh, you foolish, foolish man! Now you still turned to the speaker, her or him, and that is common sense.”
“Come on, good youth, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. We women are keen observers; we notice more in our peripheral vision than most men can see with a telescope. While I’m busy doing this and that, my eyes are always on my guests, and I noticed that this soldier couldn’t take his eyes off the women: my daughter, or Marion, or even an old woman like me—it was all tempting to him: and there he sat glaring; oh, you silly, silly man! Now you keep turning to the speaker, whether it's her or him, and that’s just common sense.”
Denys burst into a hoarse laugh. “You never were more out. Why, this silky, smooth-faced companion is a very Turk—all but his beard. He is what d'ye call 'em oser than ere an archer in the Duke's body-guard. He is more wrapped up in one single Dutch lass called Margaret, than I am in the whole bundle of ye, brown and fair.”
Denys broke into a rough laugh. “You couldn’t be more wrong. This smooth-faced guy is practically a Turk—except for his beard. He’s what you’d call a better archer than anyone in the Duke’s bodyguard. He’s more wrapped up in one Dutch girl named Margaret than I am in all of you, both brown and fair.”
“Man alive, that is just the contrary,” said the hostess. “Yourn is the bane, and hisn the cure. Cling you still to Margaret, my dear. I hope she is an honest girl.”
“Wow, that's just the opposite,” said the hostess. “Yours is the problem, and his is the solution. Keep holding on to Margaret, my dear. I hope she’s a good girl.”
“Dame, she is an angel.”
"Lady, she's an angel."
“Ay, ay, they are all that till better acquainted. I'd as lieve have her no more than honest, and then she will serve to keep you out of worse company. As for you, soldier, there is trouble in store for you. Your eyes were never made for the good of your soul.”
“Ay, ay, they are all that until we get to know them better. I’d rather have her just be honest, and then she can keep you away from worse company. As for you, soldier, trouble is ahead for you. Your eyes were never meant for the good of your soul.”
“Nor of his pouch either,” said Marion, striking in, “and his lips, they will sip the dew, as he calls it, off many a bramble bush.”
“Neither of his pouch either,” said Marion, jumping in, “and his lips, they will sip the dew, as he calls it, off many a bramble bush.”
“Overmuch clack! Marion overmuch clack.”
"Too much chatter! Marion too much chatter."
“Ods bodikins, mistress; ye didn't hire me to be one o' your three fishes, did ye?” and Marion sulked thirty seconds.
“Ods bodikins, mistress; you didn't hire me to be one of your three fishes, did you?” and Marion sulked for thirty seconds.
“Is that the way to speak to our mistress?” remonstrated the landlord, who had slipped in.
“Is that how you talk to our mistress?” protested the landlord, who had quietly entered.
“Hold your whisht,” said his wife sharply; “it is not your business to check the girl; she is a good servant to you.”
“Be quiet,” his wife said sharply; “it's not your place to criticize the girl; she's a good servant to you.”
“What, is the cock never to crow, and the hens at it all day?”
“What, is the rooster never going to crow, and the hens doing their thing all day?”
“You can crow as loud as you like, my man out o' doors. But the hen means to rule the roost.”
“You can shout as much as you want, my guy outdoors. But the hen is determined to run the show.”
“I know a byword to that tune.” said Gerard.
“I know a saying that goes with that tune,” said Gerard.
“Do ye, now? out wi't then.”
“Do you, now? Out with it then.”
“Femme veut en toute saison,
Estre dame en sa mason.”
“A woman always wants
To be a lady in her home.”“I never heard it afore; but 'tis as sooth as gospel. Ay, they that set these bywords a rolling had eyes and tongues, and tongues and eyes. Before all the world give me an old saw.”
“I’ve never heard it before; but it’s as true as gospel. Yes, those who started these sayings had both sight and speech, and speech and sight. In front of everyone, give me an old saying.”
“And me a young husband,” said Marion. “Now there was a chance for you all, and nobody spoke. Oh! it is too late now, I've changed my mind.”
“And I'm a young husband,” said Marion. “Now there was an opportunity for you all, and nobody said anything. Oh! It's too late now, I've changed my mind.”
“All the better for some poor fellow,” suggested Denys.
“All the better for some poor guy,” suggested Denys.
And now the arrival of the young mistress, or, as she was called, the little mistress, was the signal for them all to draw round the fire, like one happy family, travellers, host, hostess, and even servants in the outer ring, and tell stories till bedtime. And Gerard in his turn told a tremendous one out of his repertory, a MS. collection of “acts of the saints,” and made them all shudder deliciously; but soon after began to nod, exhausted by the effort, I should say. The young mistress saw, and gave Marion a look. She instantly lighted a rush, and laying her hand on Gerard's shoulder, invited him to follow her. She showed him a room where were two nice white beds, and bade him choose.
And now the arrival of the young mistress, or as she was called, the little mistress, was the signal for everyone to gather around the fire, like one happy family—travelers, host, hostess, and even the servants in the outer ring—and tell stories until bedtime. Gerard, in his turn, shared an incredible tale from his collection of "acts of the saints," sending shivers of delight through everyone; but soon after, he started to nod off, probably exhausted from the effort. The young mistress noticed and gave Marion a look. She quickly lit a rush candle and, placing her hand on Gerard's shoulder, invited him to follow her. She led him to a room with two nice white beds and told him to pick one.
“Either is paradise,” said he. “I'll take this one. Do you know, I have not lain in a naked bed once since I left my home in Holland.”
“Either is paradise,” he said. “I'll choose this one. You know, I haven't slept in a bare bed once since I left my home in Holland.”
“Alack! poor soul!” said she; “well, then, the sooner my flax and your down (he! he!) come together, the better; so—allons!” and she held out her cheek as business-like as if it had been her hand for a fee.
“Alas! poor thing!” she said; “well, then, the sooner my flax and your down (ha! ha!) come together, the better; so—let’s go!” and she held out her cheek as practically as if it had been her hand for payment.
“Allons? what does that mean?”
"What does 'Allons' mean?"
“It means 'good-night.' Ahem! What, don't they salute the chambermaid in your part?”
“It means 'goodnight.' Ahem! What, don’t they greet the maid in your area?”
“Not all in a moment.”
"Not everything happens at once."
“What, do they make a business on't?”
“What, do they run a business on that?”
“Nay, perverter of words, I mean we make not so free with strange women.
“Nah, you manipulator of words, I’m saying we don’t get too involved with unfamiliar women.”
“They must be strange women if they do not think you strange fools, then. Here is a coil. Why, all the old greasy greybeards that lie at our inn do kiss us chambermaids; faugh! and what have we poor wretches to set on t'other side the compt but now and then a nice young——? Alack! time flies, chambermaids can't be spared long in the nursery, so how is't to be?”
“They must be odd women if they don’t think you’re strange fools, then. Here’s the situation. All those old, greasy greybeards at our inn kiss us chambermaids; gross! And what do we poor wretches have on the other side of the count except now and then a nice young ——? Alas! Time flies, and chambermaids can’t be away from the nursery for long, so what’s going to happen?”
“An't please you arrange with my comrade for both. He is mulierose; I am not.”
“Please arrange with my friend for both. He is womanizing; I am not.”
“Nay, 'tis the curb he will want, not the spur. Well! well! you shall to bed without paying the usual toll; and oh, but 'tis sweet to fall in with a young man who can withstand these ancient ill customs, and gainsay brazen hussies. Shalt have thy reward.”
“Nah, it’s the restraint he needs, not the encouragement. Alright! You can go to bed without paying the usual fee; and oh, it’s nice to meet a young man who can resist these old bad habits and stand up to bold women. You’ll get your reward.”
“Thank you! But what are you doing with my bed?”
“Thanks! But what are you doing with my bed?”
“Me? oh, only taking off these sheets, and going to put on the pair the drunken miller slept in last night.”
“Me? Oh, I’m just taking off these sheets and putting on the ones the drunk miller slept in last night.”
“Oh, no! no! You cruel, black-hearted thing! There! there!”
“Oh, no! No! You heartless monster! There! There!”
“A la bonne heure! What will not perseverance effect? But note now the frowardness of a mad wench! I cared not for't a button. I am dead sick of that sport this five years. But you denied me; so then forthwith I behoved to have it; belike had gone through fire and water for't. Alas, young sir, we women are kittle cattle; poor perverse toads: excuse us: and keep us in our place, savoir, at arm's length; and so good-night!”
“Aha! What won’t perseverance accomplish? But look at the stubbornness of a crazy girl! I didn’t care at all. I’m really tired of that game for the past five years. But you turned me down; so I immediately had to have it; I probably would have gone through fire and water for it. Alas, young man, we women are tricky creatures; poor contradictory beings: forgive us; and keep us at a distance, you know, at arm's length; and so goodnight!”
At the door she turned and said, with a complete change of tone and manner: “The Virgin guard thy head, and the holy Evangelists watch the bed where lies a poor young wanderer far from home! Amen!”
At the door, she turned and said, with a noticeable shift in tone and demeanor: “May the Virgin protect your head, and may the holy Evangelists watch over the bed where a poor young traveler lies far from home! Amen!”
And the next moment he heard her run tearing down the stairs, and soon a peal of laughter from the salle betrayed her whereabouts.
And the next moment, he heard her sprinting down the stairs, and soon a burst of laughter from the living room revealed where she was.
“Now that is a character,” said Gerard profoundly, and yawned over the discovery.
“Now that's a character,” Gerard said thoughtfully, yawning at the realization.
In a very few minutes he was in a dry bath of cold, clean linen, inexpressibly refreshing to him after so long disuse: then came a delicious glow; and then—Sevenbergen.
In just a few minutes, he found himself in a dry bath of cold, clean linen, incredibly refreshing for him after such a long time without it: then came a wonderful warmth; and then—Sevenbergen.
In the morning Gerard awoke infinitely refreshed, and was for rising, but found himself a close prisoner. His linen had vanished. Now this was paralysis; for the nightgown is a recent institution. In Gerard's century, and indeed long after, men did not play fast and loose with clean sheets (when they could get them), but crept into them clothed with their innocence, like Adam: out of bed they seem to have taken most after his eldest son.
In the morning, Gerard woke up feeling incredibly refreshed and was ready to get up, but realized he was a captive. His clothes were gone. This was a real shock; the nightgown is a modern thing. In Gerard's time, and for a long while after, men didn't mess around with clean sheets (when they were available) but got into bed fully dressed, like Adam: getting out of bed, they seemed to resemble his firstborn son the most.
Gerard bewailed his captivity to Denys; but that instant the door opened, and in sailed Marion with their linen, newly washed and ironed, on her two arms, and set it down on the table.
Gerard complained about being trapped by Denys; but just then the door opened, and in walked Marion with their freshly washed and ironed linens in her arms, and placed them on the table.
“Oh you good girl,” cried Gerard.
“Oh, you good girl,” cried Gerard.
“Alack, have you found me out at last?”
"Wow, have you finally figured me out?"
“Yes, indeed. Is this another custom?”
“Yes, for sure. Is this a different tradition?”
“Nay, not to take them unbidden: but at night we aye question travellers, are they for linen washed. So I came into you, but you were both sound. Then said I to the little mistress, 'La! where is the sense of waking wearied men, t'ask them is Charles the Great dead, and would they liever carry foul linen or clean, especially this one with a skin like cream? 'And so he has, I declare,' said the young mistress.”
“Not to take them uninvited: but at night we always ask travelers if they have any laundry that needs washing. So I came to you, but you were both fast asleep. Then I said to the young lady, 'Oh! what’s the point of waking tired men to ask if Charlemagne is dead, and would they rather carry dirty laundry or clean, especially this one with skin as smooth as cream?' 'And he really has,' said the young lady.”
“That was me,” remarked Denys, with the air of a commentator.
“That was me,” Denys said, sounding like a commentator.
“Guess once more, and you'll hit the mark.”
“Take another guess, and you’ll get it right.”
“Notice him not, Marion, he is an impudent fellow; and I am sure we cannot be grateful enough for your goodness, and I am sorry I ever refused you—anything you fancied you should like.”
“Don’t pay attention to him, Marion, he’s a rude guy; and I know we can’t thank you enough for your kindness, and I regret ever turning you down—anything you wanted, you should have had.”
“Oh, are ye there,” said l'espiegle. “I take that to mean you would fain brush the morning dew off, as your bashful companion calls it; well then, excuse me, 'tis customary, but not prudent. I decline. Quits with you, lad.”
“Oh, you’re here,” said l'espiegle. “I take that to mean you want to shake off the morning dew, as your shy friend puts it; well then, excuse me, it’s the usual thing to do, but not wise. I’ll pass. We're even, kid.”
“Stop! stop!” cried Denys, as she was making off victorious, “I am curious to know how many, of ye were here last night a-feasting your eyes on us twain.
“Stop! Stop!” shouted Denys, as she was walking away triumphantly, “I want to know how many of you were here last night watching us.”
“'Twas so satisfactory a feast as we weren't half a minute over't. Who? why the big mistress, the little mistress, Janet, and me, and the whole posse comitatus, on tiptoe. We mostly make our rounds the last thing, not to get burned down; and in prodigious numbers. Somehow that maketh us bolder, especially where archers lie scattered about.”
“ It was such a satisfying feast that we didn’t spend more than a minute on it. Who? Well, the big mistress, the little mistress, Janet, and I, along with the whole crew, all on edge. We usually make our rounds last to avoid getting burned; and in large numbers. Somehow, that makes us bolder, especially where archers are scattered around.”
“Why did not you tell me? I'd have lain awake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have stayed up.”
“Beau sire, the saying goes that the good and the ill are all one while their lids are closed. So we said, 'Here is one who will serve God best asleep, Break not his rest!'”
“Good sir, there's a saying that the good and the bad are the same while their eyes are shut. So we said, 'Here is someone who will serve God best while asleep, so don’t disturb his rest!'”
“She is funny,” said Gerard dictatorially.
"She's hilarious," Gerard said authoritatively.
“I must be either that or knavish.”
“I have to be either that or deceitful.”
“How so?”
“How come?”
“Because 'The Three Fish' pay me to be funny. You will eat before you part? Good! then I'll go see the meat be fit for such worshipful teeth.”
“Because 'The Three Fish' pay me to be funny. Are you going to eat before you leave? Good! Then I’ll go make sure the meat is suitable for such honorable teeth.”
“Denys!”
“Denys!”
“What is your will?”
"What do you want?"
“I wish that was a great boy, and going along with us, to keep us cheery.”
“I wish there was a great guy with us to keep our spirits up.”
“So do not I. But I wish it was going along with us as it is.”
“So do I not. But I wish it were going along with us as it is.”
“Now Heaven forefend! A fine fool you would make of yourself.”
“Now heaven forbid! You’d make a real fool of yourself.”
They broke their fast, settled their score, and said farewell. Then it was they found that Marion had not exaggerated the “custom of the country.” The three principal women took and kissed them right heartily, and they kissed the three principal women. The landlord took and kissed them, and they kissed the landlord; and the cry was, “Come back, the sooner the better!”
They had breakfast, settled their accounts, and said goodbye. Then they realized that Marion hadn’t exaggerated about the “custom of the country.” The three main women warmly embraced and kissed them, and they kissed the three main women back. The landlord hugged and kissed them, and they returned the gesture; the shout was, “Come back as soon as you can!”
“Never pass 'The Three Fish'; should your purses be void, bring yourselves: 'le sieur credit' is not dead for you.”
“Never bypass 'The Three Fish'; if you’re short on cash, just bring yourselves: 'le sieur credit' isn’t dead for you.”
And they took the road again.
And they hit the road again.
They came to a little town, and Denys went to buy shoes. The shopkeeper was in the doorway, but wide awake. He received Denys with a bow down to the ground. The customer was soon fitted, and followed to the street, and dismissed with graceful salutes from the doorstep.
They arrived in a small town, and Denys went to buy some shoes. The shopkeeper stood in the doorway, alert and attentive. He greeted Denys with a deep bow. Denys was quickly fitted with shoes, then he followed the shopkeeper to the street and was sent off with polite farewells from the doorstep.
The friends agreed it was Elysium to deal with such a shoemaker as this. “Not but what my German shoes have lasted well enough,” said Gerard the just.
The friends agreed it was a paradise to deal with such a shoemaker as this. “Not that my German shoes haven't held up pretty well,” said Gerard the just.
Outside the town was a pebbled walk.
Outside the town was a path made of pebbles.
“This is to keep the burghers's feet dry, a-walking o' Sundays with their wives and daughters,” said Denys.
“This is to keep the townsfolk's feet dry when they walk on Sundays with their wives and daughters,” said Denys.
Those simple words of Denys, one stroke of a careless tongue, painted “home” in Gerard's heart. “Oh, how sweet!” said he.
Those simple words from Denys, a slip of the tongue, engraved "home" in Gerard's heart. "Oh, how sweet!" he said.
“Mercy! what is this? A gibbet! and ugh, two skeletons thereon! Oh, Denys, what a sorry sight to woo by!”
“Mercy! What is this? A gallows! And ugh, two skeletons hanging there! Oh, Denys, what a sad sight to try to impress someone by!”
“Nay,” said Denys, “a comfortable sight; for every rogue i' the air there is one the less a-foot.”
“Nah,” said Denys, “it’s a nice sight; for every scammer in the air, there’s one less on the ground.”
A little farther on they came to two pillars, and between these was a huge wheel closely studded with iron prongs; and entangled in these were bones and fragments of cloth miserably dispersed over the wheel.
A bit further along, they reached two pillars, and between them was a massive wheel covered in sharp iron spikes; caught in these were bones and scraps of fabric sadly scattered across the wheel.
Gerard hid his face in his hands. “Oh, to think those patches and bones are all that is left of a man! of one who was what we are now.”
Gerard covered his face with his hands. “Oh, to think those scraps and bones are all that’s left of a man! Of someone who was what we are now.”
“Excusez! a thing that went on two legs and stole; are we no more than that?”
“Excuse me! Is a creature that walks on two legs and steals all we are?”
“How know ye he stole? Have true men never suffered death and torture too?”
“How do you know he stole? Have honest people never experienced death and torture too?”
“None of my kith ever found their way to the gibbet, I know.”
“None of my friends ever ended up on the gallows, I know.”
“The better their luck. Prithee, how died the saints?”
“The better their luck. Please, how did the saints die?”
“Hard. But not in Burgundy.”
“Difficult. But not in Burgundy.”
“Ye massacred them wholesale at Lyons, and that is on Burgundy's threshold. To you the gibbet proves the crime, because you read not story. Alas! had you stood on Calvary that bloody day we sigh for to this hour, I tremble to think you had perhaps shouted for joy at the gibbet builded there; for the cross was but the Roman gallows, Father Martin says.”
"You massacred them completely in Lyons, and that's right on Burgundy's doorstep. To you, the gallows reveal the crime because you don't read history. Unfortunately! If you had been standing on Calvary that bloody day we still mourn, I dread to think you might have cheered at the gallows built there; because the cross was just the Roman execution device, as Father Martin says."
“The blaspheming old hound!”
“The foul-mouthed old dog!”
“Oh, fie! fie! a holy and a book-learned man. Ay, Denys, y'had read them, that suffered there, by the bare light of the gibbet. 'Drive in the nails!' y'had cried: 'drive in the spear!' Here be three malefactors. Three 'roues.' Yet of those little three one was the first Christian saint, and another was the Saviour of the world which gibbeted him.”
“Oh, come on! A holy and educated man. Yes, Denys, you would have read about them, the ones who suffered there, under the bare light of the gallows. 'Nail them in!' you would have shouted: 'stick that spear in!' Here are three criminals. Three 'roues.' Yet of those three, one was the first Christian saint, and another was the Savior of the world who was hung there.”
Denys assured him on his honour they managed things better in Burgundy. He added, too, after profound reflection, that the horrors Gerard had alluded to had more than once made him curse and swear with rage when told by the good cure in his native village at Eastertide: “but they chanced in an outlandish nation, and near a thousand years agone. Mort de ma vie, let us hope it is not true; or at least sore exaggerated. Do but see how all tales gather as they roll!”
Denys promised him, on his honor, that they did things better in Burgundy. He also added, after thinking it over, that the terrible events Gerard had mentioned had often made him curse and swear in anger when the good priest in his hometown told him about them at Easter: “but those happened in a foreign land, nearly a thousand years ago. For heaven's sake, let’s hope it isn’t true; or at least heavily exaggerated. Just look at how stories grow as they're told!”
Then he reflected again, and all in a moment turned red with ire. “Do ye not blush to play with your book-craft on your unlettered friend, and throw dust in his eyes, evening the saints with these reptiles?”
Then he thought again, and all of a sudden, he turned red with anger. "Don't you feel ashamed to mess with your writing skills on your uneducated friend and try to deceive him, comparing the saints to these creatures?"
Then suddenly he recovered his good humour. “Since your heart beats for vermin, feel for the carrion crows! they be as good vermin as these; would ye send them to bed supperless, poor pretty poppets? Why, these be their larder; the pangs of hunger would gnaw them dead, but for cold cut-purse hung up here and there.”
Then suddenly he regained his good mood. “Since you care for pests, feel for the scavenger crows! They’re just as much pests as these; would you send them to bed without dinner, poor little things? Well, these are their pantry; the pains of hunger would eat them alive, if it weren't for the cold leftovers hung up here and there.”
Gerard, who had for some time maintained a dead silence, informed him the subject was closed between them, and for ever. “There are things,” said he, “in which our hearts seem wide as the poles asunder, and eke our heads. But I love thee dearly all the same,” he added, with infinite grace and tenderness.
Gerard, who had been silent for a while, told him that the topic was closed between them, and it always would be. “There are things,” he said, “in which our hearts seem worlds apart, just like our thoughts. But I love you dearly all the same,” he added, with immense grace and warmth.
Towards afternoon they heard a faint wailing noise on ahead; it grew distincter as they proceeded. Being fast walkers they soon came up with its cause: a score of pikemen, accompanied by several constables, were marching along, and in advance of them was a herd of animals they were driving. These creatures, in number rather more than a hundred, were of various ages, only very few were downright old: the males were downcast and silent. It was the females from whom all the outcry came. In other words, the animals thus driven along at the law's point were men and women.
Towards the afternoon, they heard a faint wailing noise up ahead; it became clearer as they continued. Being fast walkers, they soon caught up with the source: a group of about twenty pikemen, along with several constables, were marching along, and in front of them was a herd of animals they were driving. These creatures, numbering a little over a hundred, were of various ages, with only a few being quite old: the males were dejected and quiet. It was the females who were making all the noise. In other words, the animals being driven under the law's authority were men and women.
“Good Heaven!” cried Gerard, “what a band of them! But stay, surely all those children cannot be thieves; why, there are some in arms. What on earth is this, Denys?”
“Good grief!” shouted Gerard, “what a group of them! But hold on, surely all those kids can’t be thieves; I mean, some of them are in their parents' arms. What the heck is going on, Denys?”
Denys advised him to ask that “bourgeois” with the badge; “This is Burgundy: here a civil question ever draws a civil reply.”
Denys suggested he should ask that “bourgeois” with the badge; “This is Burgundy: here, a civil question always gets a civil answer.”
Gerard went up to the officer, and removing his cap, a civility which was immediately returned, said, “For our Lady's sake, sir, what do ye with these poor folk?”
Gerard approached the officer, taking off his cap in a gesture of respect, which was promptly acknowledged in return, and said, “For our Lady's sake, sir, what are you doing with these poor people?”
“Nay, what is that to you, my lad?” replied the functionary suspiciously.
“Nah, what’s that to you, kid?” the official replied suspiciously.
“Master, I'm a stranger, and athirst for knowledge.”
“Master, I'm a newcomer, and I crave knowledge.”
“That is another matter. What are we doing? ahem. Why we—Dost hear, Jacques? Here is a stranger seeks to know what we are doing,” and the two machines were tickled that there should be a man who did not know something they happened to know. In all ages this has tickled. However, the chuckle was brief and moderated by the native courtesy, and the official turned to Gerard again. “What we are doing? hum!” and now he hesitated, not from any doubt as to what he was doing, but because he was hunting for a single word that should convey the matter.
“That’s a different story. What are we doing? Ahem. Why—Do you hear, Jacques? Here’s a stranger who wants to know what we’re up to,” and the two machines found it amusing that there was a man who didn’t know something they happened to know. This has amused people in all ages. However, the laughter was quick and tempered by the instinctive courtesy, and the official turned to Gerard again. “What are we doing? Hmm!” Now he paused, not because he doubted what he was doing, but because he was searching for just the right word to explain it.
“Ce que nous faisons, mon gars?—Mais—dam—NOUS TRANSVASONS.”
“What's up, man?—But—damn—WE’RE TRANSFERRING.”
“You decant? that should mean you pour from one vessel to another.”
“You decant? That should mean you pour from one container to another.”
“Precisely.” He explained that last year the town of Charmes had been sore thinned by a pestilence, whole houses emptied and trades short of hands. Much ado to get in the rye, and the flax half spoiled. So the bailiff and aldermen had written to the duke's secretary; and the duke he sent far and wide to know what town was too full. “That are we,” had the baillie of Toul writ back. “Then send four or five score of your townsfolk,” was the order. “Was not this to decant the full town into the empty, and is not the good duke the father of his people, and will not let the duchy be weakened, nor its fair towns laid waste by sword nor pestilence; but meets the one with pike, and arbalest (touching his cap to the sergeant and Denys alternately), and t'other with policy? LONG LIVE THE DUKE!”
“Exactly.” He explained that last year the town of Charmes had been severely impacted by a plague, with entire houses empty and trades lacking workers. It was a struggle to gather the rye, and the flax was mostly ruined. So the bailiff and the aldermen wrote to the duke's secretary; and the duke sent out word far and wide to find out which town was overpopulated. “That would be us,” the bailiff of Toul replied. “Then send four or five score of your townsfolk,” was the command. “Isn't this just transferring the excess population from one town to another, and isn't the good duke a father to his people, making sure the duchy stays strong and its beautiful towns aren't destroyed by war or disease; but dealing with one problem with force and the other with strategy?” LONG LIVE THE DUKE!
The pikemen of course were not to be outdone in loyalty; so they shouted with stentorian lungs “LONG LIVE THE DUKE!” Then the decanted ones, partly because loyalty was a non-reasoning sentiment in those days, partly perhaps because they feared some further ill consequence should they alone be mute, raised a feeble, tremulous shout, “Long live the Duke!”
The pikemen definitely weren't going to be outdone in loyalty; so they yelled loudly, "LONG LIVE THE DUKE!" Then the ones who had been released, partly because loyalty was an unreasoned feeling back then, and partly because they were afraid of some negative outcome if they stayed silent, managed a weak, shaky shout, "Long live the Duke!"
But, at this, insulted nature rebelled. Perhaps indeed the sham sentiment drew out the real, for, on the very heels of that royal noise, a loud and piercing wail burst from every woman's bosom, and a deep, deep groan from every man's; oh! the air filled in a moment with womanly and manly anguish. Judge what it must have been when the rude pikemen halted unbidden, all confused; as if a wall of sorrow had started up before them.
But at this, nature felt insulted and fought back. Maybe the fake sentiment actually brought out the genuine feelings, because right after that royal noise, a loud, piercing cry erupted from every woman, and a deep groan came from every man; oh! the air was suddenly filled with the pain of both women and men. Just imagine what it must have been like when the rough pikemen stopped in their tracks, bewildered, as if a wall of sorrow had suddenly appeared in front of them.
“En avant,” roared the sergeant, and they marched again, but muttering and cursing.
“Forward,” shouted the sergeant, and they marched on, grumbling and swearing.
“Ah the ugly sound,” said the civilian, wincing. “Les malheureux!” cried he ruefully: for where is the single man can hear the sudden agony of a multitude and not be moved? “Les ingrats! They are going whence they were de trop to where they will be welcome: from starvation to plenty—and they object. They even make dismal noises. One would think we were thrusting them forth from Burgundy.”
“Ah, that awful noise,” said the civilian, cringing. “Those poor souls!” he exclaimed sadly: because who among us can hear the sudden suffering of many and not feel something? “Ungrateful ones! They’re leaving where they weren’t wanted for a place where they’ll be accepted: from hunger to abundance—and they complain. They even make gloomy sounds. You’d think we were driving them away from Burgundy.”
“Come away,” whispered Gerard, trembling; “come away,” and the friends strode forward.
“Let’s go,” whispered Gerard, shaking; “let’s go,” and the friends moved ahead.
When they passed the head of the column, and saw the men walk with their eyes bent in bitter gloom upon the ground, and the women, some carrying, some leading little children, and weeping as they went, and the poor bairns, some frolicking, some weeping because “their mammies” wept, Gerard tried hard to say a word of comfort, but choked and could utter nothing to the mourners; but gasped, “Come on, Denys, I cannot mock such sorrow with little words of comfort.” And now, artist-like, all his aim was to get swiftly out of the grief he could not soothe. He almost ran not to hear these sighs and sobs.
When they reached the front of the line and saw the men walking with their eyes downcast in deep sadness, and the women, some carrying and some leading small children, crying as they moved along, and the poor kids, some playing and some crying because their mothers were crying, Gerard struggled to find words of comfort but choked and couldn’t say anything to the grieving people; instead, he gasped, “Come on, Denys, I can’t pretend to offer comfort in the face of such pain.” Now, like an artist, his only goal was to escape the sorrow he couldn’t ease. He almost ran to avoid hearing those sighs and sobs.
“Why, mate,” said Denys, “art the colour of a lemon. Man alive, take not other folk's troubles to heart! not one of those whining milksops there but would see thee, a stranger, hanged without winking.”
“Why, mate,” said Denys, “you look like the color of a lemon. Seriously, don’t stress over other people's problems! Not one of those whiny weaklings over there would care if they saw you, a stranger, get hanged without batting an eye.”
Gerard scarce listened to him.
Gerard hardly listened to him.
“Decant them?” he groaned; “ay, if blood were no thicker than wine. Princes, ye are wolves. Poor things! Poor things! Ah, Denys! Denys! with looking on their grief mine own comes home to me. Well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!”
“Decant them?” he groaned; “yeah, if blood were as thin as wine. Princes, you are wolves. Poor things! Poor things! Ah, Denys! Denys! Seeing their grief brings mine back to me. Well, what a pity! Ah, what a pity!”
“Ay, now you talk reason. That you, poor lad, should be driven all the way from Holland to Rome is pitiful indeed. But these snivelling curs, where is their hurt? There is six score of 'em to keep one another company: besides, they are not going out of Burgundy.”
“Aye, now you're making sense. It's truly sad that you, poor kid, have been forced all the way from Holland to Rome. But these whiny mutts, what are they even complaining about? There are a hundred and twenty of them to keep each other company: plus, they aren't leaving Burgundy.”
“Better for them if they had never been in it.”
“Better for them if they had never been involved.”
“Mechant, va! they are but going from one village to another, a mule's journey! whilst thou—there, no more. Courage, camarade, le diable est mort.”
“Go on, they're just moving from one village to another, a mule's trip! Meanwhile—you, that's it. Hang in there, buddy, the devil is dead.”
Gerard shook his head very doubtfully, but kept silence for about a mile, and then he said thoughtfully, “Ay, Denys, but then I am sustained by booklearning. These are simple folk that likely thought their village was the world: now what is this? more weeping. Oh! 'tis a sweet world Humph! A little girl that hath broke her pipkin. Now may I hang on one of your gibbets but I'll dry somebody's tears,” and he pounced savagely upon this little martyr, like a kite on a chick, but with more generous intentions. It was a pretty little lass of about twelve; the tears were raining down her two peaches, and her palms lifted to heaven in that utter, though temporary, desolation which attends calamity at twelve; and at her feet the fatal cause, a broken pot, worth, say the fifth of a modern farthing.
Gerard shook his head with uncertainty, but stayed quiet for about a mile. Then he thoughtfully said, “Yeah, Denys, but I rely on what I’ve learned from books. These are simple people who probably thought their village was the whole world: now what’s this? More crying. Oh! It’s a lovely world. Hmm! A little girl who broke her pot. I swear, if I could hang one of your gallows, I’d make sure to dry someone’s tears,” and he swooped down on this little victim like a kite on a chick, but with kinder intentions. She was a cute little girl, around twelve; tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her hands were raised to the sky in utter, though temporary, despair that comes with misfortune at twelve; and at her feet lay the cause of her distress, a broken pot worth maybe a fifth of a modern penny.
“What, hast broken thy pot, little one?” said Gerard, acting intensest sympathy.
“What, did you break your pot, little one?” said Gerard, acting with deep sympathy.
“Helas! bel gars; as you behold;” and the hands came down from the sky and both pointed at the fragments. A statuette of adversity.
“Alas! Beautiful boy; as you see;” and the hands came down from the sky and both pointed at the fragments. A figurine of hardship.
“And you weep so for that?”
“And you cry so much over that?”
“Needs I must, bel gars. My mammy will massacre me. Do they not already” (with a fresh burst of woe) “c-c-call me J-J-Jean-net-on C-c-casse tout? It wanted but this; that I should break my poor pot. Helas! fallait-il donc, mere de Dieu?”
“Unfortunately, I have to, good guys. My mom will kill me. Don’t they already call me Jean-net-on Casse tout? It was just this that made me break my poor pot. Alas! Was it necessary, Mother of God?”
“Courage, little love,” said Gerard; “'tis not thy heart lies broken; money will soon mend pots. See now, here is a piece of silver, and there, scarce a stone's throw off, is a potter; take the bit of silver to him, and buy another pot, and the copper the potter will give thee keep that to play with thy comrades.”
“Courage, my little love,” said Gerard; “it’s not your heart that's broken; money can easily fix things. Look, here’s a piece of silver, and not far away, there’s a potter; take this piece of silver to him and buy another pot, and keep the change he gives you to play with your friends.”
The little mind took in all this, and smiles began to struggle with the tears: but spasms are like waves, they cannot go down the very moment the wind of trouble is lulled. So Denys thought well to bring up his reserve of consolation “Courage, ma mie, le diable est mort!” cried that inventive warrior gaily. Gerard shrugged his shoulders at such a way of cheering a little girl,
The young mind absorbed all of this, and smiles began to compete with tears: but spasms are like waves; they can't settle the moment the winds of trouble calm down. So Denys thought it was a good idea to tap into his stock of comfort. “Hang in there, my dear, the devil is dead!” exclaimed that inventive warrior cheerfully. Gerard rolled his eyes at such a way of trying to cheer up a little girl.
“What a fine thing
Is a lute with one string,”
“What a great thing
Is a lute with one string,”said he.
he said.
The little girl's face broke into warm sunshine.
The little girl's face lit up with warm sunshine.
“Oh, the good news! oh, the good news!” she sang out with such heartfelt joy, it went off into a honeyed whine; even as our gay old tunes have a pathos underneath “So then,” said she, “they will no longer be able to threaten us little girls with him, making our lives a burden!” And she bounded off “to tell Nanette,” she said.
“Oh, the good news! Oh, the good news!” she called out with such genuine joy that it turned into a sweet whine; just like our cheerful old songs have a deeper emotion beneath them. “So then,” she said, “they won’t be able to threaten us little girls with him anymore, making our lives a hassle!” And she took off “to tell Nanette,” she said.
There is a theory that everything has its counterpart; if true, Denys it would seem had found the mind his consigne fitted.
There’s a theory that everything has its counterpart; if that’s true, it seems Denys had found the mindset that suits him.
While he was roaring with laughter at its unexpected success and Gerard's amazement, a little hand pulled his jerkin and a little face peeped round his waist. Curiosity was now the dominant passion in that small but vivid countenance.
While he was laughing hysterically at its surprising success and Gerard's shock, a small hand tugged at his jacket and a little face peeked around his waist. Curiosity was now the main emotion on that small but bright face.
“Est-ce toi qui l'a tue, beau soldat?”
“Is it you who killed him, handsome soldier?”
“Oui, ma mie,” said Denys, as gruffly as ever he could, rightly deeming this would smack of supernatural puissance to owners of bell-like trebles. “C'est moi. Ca vaut une petite embrassade—pas?”
“Yeah, my dear,” said Denys, as gruffly as he could, knowing that this would sound like supernatural power to those with high-pitched voices. “It’s me. It’s worth a little hug—right?”
“Je crois ben. Aie! aie!”
"I really believe. Ouch! Ouch!"
“Qu'as-tu?”
"What's wrong?"
“Ca pique! ca pique!”
"It stings! It stings!"
“Quel dommage! je vais la couper.”
“Such a shame! I’m going to cut it.”
“Nein, ce n'est rien; et pisque t'as tue ce mechant. T'es fierement beau, tout d' meme, toi; t'es lien miex que ma grande soeur.
“No, it’s nothing; and since you killed that jerk. You’re really handsome, after all; you’re much better looking than my older sister.”
“Will you not kiss me, too, ma mie?” said Gerard.
“Will you not kiss me, too, my dear?” said Gerard.
“Je ne demande par miex. Tiens, tiens, tiens! c'est doulce celle-ci. Ah! que j'aimons les hommes! Des fames, ca ne m'aurait jamais donne l'arjan, blanc, plutot ca m'aurait ri au nez. C'est si peu de chose, les fames. Serviteur, beaulx sires! Bon voiage; et n'oubliez point la Jeanneton!”
“I'm not asking for much. Wow, wow, wow! This one is nice. Ah! How I love men! Women would never have given me money, they'd rather laugh in my face. Women are so insignificant. Servants, good sirs! Have a good trip; and don't forget about Jeanneton!”
“Adieu, petit coeur,” said Gerard, and on they marched; but presently looking back they saw the contemner of women in the middle of the road, making them a reverence, and blowing them kisses with little May morning face.
“Goodbye, little heart,” said Gerard, and they continued on their way; but soon they turned back and saw the man who disdains women in the middle of the road, bowing to them and blowing them kisses with his small May morning face.
“Come on,” cried Gerard lustily. “I shall win to Rome yet. Holy St. Bavon, what a sunbeam of innocence hath shot across our bloodthirsty road! Forget thee, little Jeanneton? not likely, amidst all this slobbering, and gibbeting, and decanting. Come on, thou laggard! forward!”
“Come on,” Gerard shouted energetically. “I will make it to Rome yet. Holy St. Bavon, what a ray of innocence has crossed our bloody path! Forget you, little Jeanneton? Not a chance, with all this drooling, hanging, and pouring. Let’s go, you slowpoke! Move it!”
“Dost call this marching?” remonstrated Denys; “why, we shall walk o'er Christmas Day and never see it.”
“Do you call this marching?” protested Denys; “we'll walk all Christmas Day and never see it.”
At the next town they came to, suddenly an arbalestrier ran out of a tavern after them, and in a moment his beard and Denys's were like two brushes stuck together. It was a comrade. He insisted on their coming into the tavern with him, and breaking a bottle of wine. In course of conversation, he told Denys there was an insurrection in the Duke's Flemish provinces, and soldiers were ordered thither from all parts of Burgundy. “Indeed, I marvelled to see thy face turned this way.
At the next town they reached, suddenly a crossbowman rushed out of a tavern after them, and in an instant, his beard and Denys's were like two brushes stuck together. It was a friend. He insisted they come into the tavern with him and share a bottle of wine. In the course of their conversation, he informed Denys that there was a rebellion in the Duke's Flemish provinces, and soldiers were being sent there from all parts of Burgundy. “Honestly, I was surprised to see you heading this way.
“I go to embrace my folk that I have not seen these three years. Ye can quell a bit of a rising without me I trow.”
“I’m going to hug my family that I haven’t seen in three years. You can handle a little uprising without me, I suppose.”
Suddenly Denys gave a start. “Dost hear Gerard? this comrade is bound for Holland.”
Suddenly, Denys jumped. “Do you hear, Gerard? This guy is headed for Holland.”
“What then? ah, a letter! a letter to Margaret! but will he be so good, so kind?”
“What now? Oh, a letter! A letter to Margaret! But will he be so good, so kind?”
The soldier with a torrent of blasphemy informed him he would not only take it, but go a league or two out of his way to do it.
The soldier, swearing up a storm, told him he wouldn't just take it, but would go a mile or two out of his way to do so.
In an instant out came inkhorn and paper from Gerard's wallet; and he wrote a long letter to Margaret, and told her briefly what I fear I have spun too tediously; dwelt most on the bear, and the plunge in the Rhine, and the character of Denys, whom he painted to the life. And with many endearing expressions bade her to be of good cheer; some trouble and peril there had been, but all that was over now, and his only grief left was, that he could not hope to have a word from her hand till he should reach Rome. He ended with comforting her again as hard as he could. And so absorbed was he in his love and his work, that he did not see all the people in the room were standing peeping, to watch the nimble and true finger execute such rare penmanship.
In an instant, Gerard took out his ink and paper from his wallet; he wrote a long letter to Margaret and briefly explained what I fear I’ve gone on about too much. He focused mostly on the bear, the plunge into the Rhine, and Denys’s character, which he described vividly. With many affectionate words, he urged her to stay cheerful; there had been some trouble and danger, but that was all in the past now. His only sadness was that he wouldn’t receive a letter from her until he reached Rome. He ended by offering her more comfort as best as he could. So caught up was he in his love and his writing that he didn’t notice all the people in the room watching, peeking to see his skillful penmanship.
Denys, proud of his friend's skill, let him alone, till presently the writer's face worked, and soon the scalding tears began to run down his young cheeks, one after another, on the paper where he was then writing comfort, comfort. Then Denys rudely repulsed the curious, and asked his comrade with a faltering voice whether he had the heart to let so sweet a love-letter miscarry? The other swore by the face of St. Luke he would lose the forefinger of his right hand sooner.
Denys, proud of his friend's talent, stepped back, and soon the writer's face twisted with emotion, and hot tears started streaming down his young cheeks, one after another, onto the paper where he was writing "comfort, comfort." Then Denys harshly shooed away the curious onlookers and asked his friend with a shaky voice if he really had the heart to let such a beautiful love letter go to waste. The other swore on the face of St. Luke that he would rather lose the index finger of his right hand.
Seeing him so ready, Gerard charged him also with a short, cold letter to his parents; and in it he drew hastily with his pen two hands grasping each other, to signify farewell. By-the-by, one drop of bitterness found its way into his letter to Margaret. But of that anon.
Seeing him so prepared, Gerard also entrusted him with a brief, cold letter for his parents; in it, he quickly sketched two hands clasping each other to symbolize goodbye. By the way, a hint of bitterness made its way into his letter to Margaret. But more on that later.
Gerard now offered money to the soldier. He hesitated, but declined it. “No, no! art comrade of my comrade; and may” (etc.) “but thy love for the wench touches me. I'll break another bottle at thy charge an thou wilt, and so cry quits.”
Gerard now offered money to the soldier. He hesitated but turned it down. “No, no! You're a friend of my friend; and may” (etc.) “but your love for the girl moves me. I'll buy another round on your tab if you want, and we'll call it even.”
“Well said, comrade,” cried Denys. “Hadst taken money, I had invited thee to walk in the courtyard and cross swords with me.”
“Well said, buddy,” yelled Denys. “If you had taken the money, I would have invited you to come out to the courtyard and duel with me.”
“Whereupon I had cut thy comb for thee,” retorted the other.
“That's why I cut your hair for you,” the other replied.
“Hadst done thy endeavour, drole, I doubt not.”
“Had you done your best, my friend, I have no doubt.”
They drank the new bottle, shook hands, adhered to custom, and parted on opposite routes.
They finished the new bottle, shook hands, followed tradition, and went their separate ways.
This delay, however, somewhat put out Denys's calculations, and evening surprised them ere they reached a little town he was making for, where was a famous hotel. However, they fell in with a roadside auberge, and Denys, seeing a buxom girl at the door, said, “This seems a decent inn,” and led the way into the kitchen. They ordered supper, to which no objection was raised, only the landlord requested them to pay for it beforehand. It was not an uncommon proposal in any part of the world. Still it was not universal, and Denys was nettled, and dashed his hand somewhat ostentatiously into his purse and pulled out a gold angel. “Count me the change, and speedily,” said he. “You tavern-keepers are more likely to rob me than I you.”
This delay, however, threw off Denys's plans a bit, and evening caught up with them before they reached a small town he was aiming for, which had a famous hotel. Instead, they came across a roadside inn, and Denys, noticing a pretty girl at the door, said, “This looks like a nice place,” and led the way into the kitchen. They ordered dinner, and there were no objections, except the landlord asked them to pay upfront. That wasn’t an unusual request in many parts of the world. Still, it wasn’t common everywhere, and Denys was annoyed. He pulled out a gold coin from his purse with a bit of flair. “Count me the change, and do it quickly,” he said. “You innkeepers are more likely to cheat me than I am to cheat you.”
While the supper was preparing, Denys disappeared, and was eventually found by Gerard in the yard, helping Manon, his plump but not bright decoy duck, to draw water, and pouring extravagant compliments into her dullish ear. Gerard grunted and returned to table, but Denys did not come in for a good quarter of an hour.
While dinner was being prepared, Denys vanished and was eventually found by Gerard in the yard, helping Manon, his plump but not particularly bright decoy duck, draw water and pouring overly flattering compliments into her rather dull ear. Gerard grunted and went back to the table, but Denys didn't come in for at least fifteen more minutes.
“Uphill work at the end of a march,” said he, shrugging his shoulders.
“Uphill work at the end of a march,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What matters that to you!” said Gerard drily. “The mad dog bites all the world.”
“What does that matter to you!” Gerard said dryly. “The rabid dog bites everyone.”
“Exaggerator. You know I bite but the fairer half. Well, here comes supper; that is better worth biting.”
“Exaggerator. You know I bite just the nicer part. Well, here comes dinner; that’s more worth biting.”
During supper the girl kept constantly coming in and out, and looking point-blank at them, especially at Denys; and at last in leaning over him to remove a dish, dropped a word in his ear; and he replied with a nod.
During dinner, the girl kept coming in and out, looking straight at them, especially at Denys. Finally, while leaning over him to take away a dish, she whispered something in his ear, and he nodded in response.
As soon as supper was cleared away, Denys rose and strolled to the door, telling Gerard the sullen fair had relented, and given him a little rendezvous in the stable-yard.
As soon as dinner was cleared away, Denys got up and walked to the door, telling Gerard that the moody girl had softened up and given him a little meeting in the stable yard.
Gerard suggested that the calf-pen would have been a more appropriate locality. “I shall go to bed, then,” said he, a little crossly. “Where is the landlord? out at this time of night? no matter. I know our room. Shall you be long, pray?”
Gerard suggested that the calf pen would have been a better place. “I’ll go to bed then,” he said, a bit annoyed. “Where’s the landlord? Out this late at night? Whatever. I know our room. Will you be long, please?”
“Not I. I grudge leaving the fire and thee. But what can I do? There are two sorts of invitations a Burgundian never declines.”
“Not me. I hate leaving the fire and you. But what can I do? There are two types of invitations a Burgundian never turns down.”
Denys found a figure seated by the well. It was Manon; but instead of receiving him as he thought he had a right to expect, coming by invitation, all she did was to sob. He asked her what ailed her? She sobbed. Could he do anything for her? She sobbed.
Denys found someone sitting by the well. It was Manon; but instead of welcoming him as he thought she would, since he came by invitation, all she did was cry. He asked her what was wrong. She cried. Could he do anything to help her? She cried.
The good-natured Denys, driven to his wits' end, which was no great distance, proffered the custom of the country by way of consolation. She repulsed him roughly. “Is it a time for fooling?” said she, and sobbed.
The good-natured Denys, completely at a loss, which wasn’t saying much, offered the local custom as a way to comfort her. She rejected him harshly. “Is this really a time for jokes?” she said, and began to cry.
“You seem to think so,” said Denys, waxing wroth. But the next moment he added tenderly, “and I, who could never bear to see beauty in distress.”
“You seem to think so,” Denys said, getting angry. But a moment later, he added gently, “and I, who could never stand to see beauty in pain.”
“It is not for myself.”
“It's not for me.”
“Who then? your sweetheart?”
“Who is it? Your crush?”
“Oh, que nenni. My sweetheart is not on earth now: and to think I have not an ecu to buy masses for his soul;” and in this shallow nature the grief seemed now to be all turned in another direction.
“Oh, no way. My sweetheart is not on earth anymore: and to think I don’t have a single coin to buy masses for his soul;” and in this shallow nature, the grief seemed now to be all directed elsewhere.
“Come, come,” said Denys, “shalt have money to buy masses for thy dead lad; I swear it. Meantime tell me why you weep.”
“Come on,” said Denys, “you’ll have money to buy masses for your dead boy; I promise. In the meantime, tell me why you’re crying.”
“For you.”
"For you."
“For me? Art mad?”
“For me? Crazy about art?”
“No; I am not mad. 'Tis you that were mad to open your purse before him.”
“No; I'm not crazy. It was you who was crazy to open your wallet in front of him.”
The mystery seemed to thicken, and Denys, wearied of stirring up the mud by questions, held his peace to see if it would not clear of itself. Then the girl, finding herself no longer questioned, seemed to go through some internal combat. At last she said, doggedly and aloud, “I will. The Virgin give me courage? What matters it if they kill me, since he is dead? Soldier, the landlord is out.”
The mystery seemed to deepen, and Denys, tired of digging through the murk with questions, chose to stay silent and see if it would sort itself out. Then the girl, no longer being questioned, appeared to go through some inner struggle. Finally, she said, determined and loud, “I will. Will the Virgin give me courage? What does it matter if they kill me, since he’s dead? Soldier, the landlord is gone.”
“Oh, is he?”
“Oh, really?”
“What, do landlords leave their taverns at this time of night? also see what a tempest! We are sheltered here, but t'other side it blows a hurricane.”
“What, do landlords leave their bars at this time of night? Also, look at this storm! We’re safe here, but on the other side it’s like a hurricane.”
Denys said nothing.
Denys stayed silent.
“He is gone to fetch the band.”
“He's gone to get the band.”
“The band! what band?”
“The band! Which band?”
“Those who will cut your throat and take your gold. Wretched man; to go and shake gold in an innkeeper's face!”
“Those who will stab you in the back and steal your gold. Wretched man; to go and flaunt gold in an innkeeper's face!”
The blow came so unexpectedly it staggered even Denys, accustomed as he was to sudden perils. He muttered a single word, but in it a volume.
The blow hit so suddenly that it shocked even Denys, who was used to unexpected dangers. He whispered one word, but it carried a lot of meaning.
“Gerard!”
“Gerard!”
“Gerard! What is that? Oh, 'tis thy comrade's name, poor lad. Get him out quick ere they come; and fly to the next town.”
“Gerard! What is that? Oh, it’s your friend’s name, poor guy. Get him out quickly before they arrive; and run to the next town.”
“And thou?”
"And you?"
“They will kill me.”
"They're going to kill me."
“That shall they not. Fly with us.”
“That won't happen. Fly with us.”
“'Twill avail me nought: one of the band will be sent to kill me. They are sworn to slay all who betray them.”
“It won’t help me at all: one of the group will be sent to kill me. They are committed to killing anyone who betrays them.”
“I'll take thee to my native place full thirty leagues from hence, and put thee under my own mother's wing, ere they shall hurt a hair o' thy head. But first Gerard. Stay thou here whilst I fetch him!”
“I'll take you to my home, which is thirty leagues away, and put you under my mother’s care before they can harm a single hair on your head. But first, Gerard. Stay here while I go get him!”
As he was darting off, the girl seized him convulsively, and with all the iron strength excitement lends to women. “Stay me not! for pity's sake,” he cried; “'tis life or death.”
As he was taking off, the girl grabbed him tightly, with all the strength that excitement gives to women. “Don’t stop me! For pity’s sake,” he shouted; “it’s a matter of life or death.”
“Sh!—sh!” whispered the girl, shutting his mouth hard with her hand, and putting her pale lips close to him, and her eyes, that seemed to turn backwards, straining towards some indistinct sound.
“Sh!—sh!” the girl whispered, pressing her hand firmly over his mouth and leaning her pale lips in close to him, her eyes, which looked as if they were searching backwards, straining to catch some unclear sound.
He listened.
He paid attention.
He heard footsteps, many footsteps, and no voices. She whispered in his ear, “They are come.” And trembled like a leaf.
He heard footsteps, lots of footsteps, but no voices. She whispered in his ear, “They're here.” And trembled like a leaf.
Denys felt it was so. Travellers in that number would never have come in dead silence.
Denys felt that way. Travelers in that number would never have arrived in complete silence.
The feet were now at the very door.
The feet were now right at the door.
“How many?” said he, in a hollow whisper.
“How many?” he asked in a hollow whisper.
“Hush!” and she put her mouth to his very ear. And who, that had seen this man and woman in that attitude, would have guessed what freezing hearts were theirs, and what terrible whispers passed between them?
“Hush!” she whispered directly into his ear. And who, seeing this man and woman in that moment, would have suspected the coldness of their hearts and the awful secrets shared between them?
“How armed?”
"How armed are they?"
“Sword and dagger: and the giant with his axe. They call him the Abbot.”
“Sword and dagger: and the giant with his axe. They call him the Abbot.”
“And my comrade?”
“And my friend?”
“Nothing can save him. Better lose one life than two. Fly!”
“Nothing can save him. It's better to lose one life than two. Go!”
Denys's blood froze at this cynical advice. “Poor creature, you know not a soldier's heart.”
Denys's blood ran cold at this cynical advice. “Poor thing, you don't understand a soldier's heart.”
He put his head in his hands a moment, and a hundred thoughts of dangers baffled whirled through his brain.
He held his head in his hands for a moment, and a whirlwind of a hundred thoughts about dangers and confusion raced through his mind.
“Listen, girl! There is one chance for our lives, if thou wilt but be true to us. Run to the town; to the nearest tavern, and tell the first soldier there, that a soldier here is sore beset, but armed, and his life to be saved if they will but run. Then to the bailiff. But first to the soldiers. Nay, not a word, but buss me, good lass, and fly! men's lives hang on thy heels.”
“Listen, girl! We have one chance to save our lives, if you will just be true to us. Run to town, to the nearest tavern, and tell the first soldier you see that a soldier here is in serious trouble, but armed, and his life can be saved if they hurry. Then go to the bailiff. But first, go to the soldiers. No time for chatter, just kiss me, good girl, and go! Men’s lives depend on you.”
She kilted up her gown to run. He came round to the road with her, saw her cross the road cringing with fear, then glide away, then turn into an erect shadow, then melt away in the storm.
She hiked up her dress to run. He came out to the road with her, saw her cross the street, cowering in fear, then glide away, then turn into a tall shadow, then disappear in the storm.
And now he must get to Gerard. But how? He had to run the gauntlet of the whole band. He asked himself, what was the worst thing they could do? for he had learned in war that an enemy does, not what you hope he will do, but what you hope he will not do. “Attack me as I enter the kitchen! Then I must not give them time.”
And now he had to reach Gerard. But how? He had to get through the entire group. He wondered, what was the worst they could do? He had learned in war that an enemy acts not how you want them to, but in ways you hope they won’t. “They’ll attack me as I walk into the kitchen! Then I can’t let them waste any time.”
Just as he drew near to the latch, a terrible thought crossed him. “Suppose they had already dealt with Gerard. Why, then,” thought he, “nought is left but to kill, and be killed;” and he strung his bow, and walked rapidly into the kitchen. There were seven hideous faces seated round the fire, and the landlord pouring them out neat brandy, blood's forerunner in every age.
Just as he got close to the latch, a horrifying thought hit him. “What if they’ve already taken care of Gerard? If that’s the case,” he pondered, “there’s nothing left but to fight or die,” and he readied his bow and hurried into the kitchen. There were seven monstrous faces gathered around the fire, and the landlord was pouring them straight brandy, a prelude to violence throughout history.
“What? company!” cried Denys gaily; “one minute, my lads, and I'll be with you;” and he snatched up a lighted candle off the table, opened the door that led to the staircase, and went up it hallooing. “What, Gerard! whither hast thou skulked to?” There was no answer. He hallooed louder, “Gerard, where art thou?”
“What? Company!” Denys exclaimed cheerfully. “Just a minute, guys, and I’ll be right with you!” He grabbed a lit candle from the table, opened the door that led to the stairs, and went up calling out. “What, Gerard! Where have you hidden?” There was no reply. He shouted louder, “Gerard, where are you?”
After a moment, in which Denys lived an hour of agony, a peevish, half-inarticulate noise issued from the room at the head of the little stairs. Denys burst in, and there was Gerard asleep.
After a moment, during which Denys experienced an hour of agony, a cranky, muffled sound came from the room at the top of the small staircase. Denys hurried in, and there was Gerard asleep.
“Thank God!” he said, in a choking voice, then began to sing loud, untuneful ditties. Gerard put his fingers into his ears; but presently he saw in Denys's face a horror that contrasted strangely with this sudden merriment.
“Thank God!” he said, his voice thick with emotion, then started singing loud, off-key songs. Gerard covered his ears; but soon he noticed a look of horror on Denys’s face that was oddly out of place with this sudden joy.
“What ails thee?” said he, sitting up and staring.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said, sitting up and staring.
“Hush!” said Denys, and his hand spoke even more plainly than his lips. “Listen to me.”
“Hush!” Denys said, and his hand communicated even more clearly than his words. “Listen to me.”
Denys then pointing significantly to the door, to show Gerard sharp ears were listening hard by, continued his song aloud but under cover of it threw in short muttered syllables.
Denys then pointed meaningfully to the door, to indicate that Gerard's sharp ears were listening closely nearby. He continued his song loudly, but while doing so, he slipped in short, whispered syllables.
“(Our lives are in peril.)
(Our lives are in danger.)
“(Thieves.)
(Thieves.)
“(Thy doublet.)
“(Your shirt.)”
“(Thy sword.)
"Your sword."
“Aid.
Help.
“Coming.
"On my way."
“Put off time.” Then aloud—
"Postpone time." Then aloud—
“Well, now, wilt have t'other bottle?—Say nay.”
“Well, now, will you have the other bottle?—Say no.”
“No, not I.”
“No, not me.”
“But I tell thee, there are half-a-dozen jolly fellows. Tired.”
“But I tell you, there are half a dozen fun guys. Tired.”
“Ay, but I am too wearied,” said Gerard. “Go thou.”
“Aye, but I’m too tired,” said Gerard. “You go.”
“Nay, nay!” Then he went to the door and called out cheerfully “Landlord, the young milksop will not rise. Give those honest fellows t'other bottle. I will pay for't in the morning.”
“Nah, nah!” Then he went to the door and called out cheerfully, “Landlord, the young softie won’t get up. Give those good guys another bottle. I’ll pay for it in the morning.”
He heard a brutal and fierce chuckle.
He heard a harsh and intense chuckle.
Having thus by observation made sure the kitchen door was shut, and the miscreants were not actually listening, he examined the chamber door closely: then quietly shut it, but did not bolt it; and went and inspected the window.
Having carefully checked that the kitchen door was closed and that the troublemakers weren't actually listening, he looked closely at the room door. Then he quietly closed it but didn't lock it, and went to check the window.
It was too small to get out of, and yet a thick bar of iron had been let in the stone to make it smaller; and just as he made this chilling discovery, the outer door of the house was bolted with a loud clang.
It was too small to escape from, and yet a thick iron bar had been embedded in the stone to reduce the size even more; and just as he realized this terrifying fact, the outer door of the house was secured with a loud bang.
Denys groaned. “The beasts are in the shambles.”
Denys groaned. “The animals are in the mess.”
But would the thieves attack them while they were awake? Probably not.
But would the thieves strike while they were awake? Probably not.
Not to throw away this their best chance, the poor souls now made a series of desperate efforts to converse, as if discussing ordinary matters; and by this means Gerard learned all that had passed, and that the girl was gone for aid.
Not wanting to waste their best chance, the poor souls made a series of desperate attempts to chat, as if they were discussing everyday things; through this, Gerard found out everything that had happened, and that the girl had gone to get help.
“Pray Heaven she may not lose heart by the way,” said Denys, sorrowfully.
“Hopefully, she won't lose hope along the way,” said Denys, sadly.
And Denys begged Gerard's forgiveness for bringing him out of his way for this.
And Denys asked Gerard to forgive him for making him go out of his way for this.
Gerard forgave him.
Gerard forgave him.
“I would fear them less, Gerard, but for one they call the Abbot. I picked him out at once. Taller than you, bigger than us both put together. Fights with an axe. Gerard, a man to lead a herd of deer to battle. I shall kill that man to-night, or he will kill me. I think somehow 'tis he will kill me.”
“I’d be less afraid of them, Gerard, if it weren't for a guy they call the Abbot. I noticed him right away. He’s taller than you, bigger than both of us put together. He fights with an axe. Gerard, he’s the kind of man who could lead a herd of deer into battle. I plan to kill that man tonight, or he’ll kill me. Somehow, I feel like it’s going to be him who takes me down.”
“Saints forbid! Shoot him at the door! What avails his strength against your weapon?”
“God forbid! Shoot him at the door! What good is his strength against your weapon?”
“I shall pick him out; but if it comes to hand fighting, run swiftly under his guard, or you are a dead man. I tell thee neither of us may stand a blow of that axe: thou never sawest such a body of a man.”
“I’ll choose him; but if it comes down to hand-to-hand combat, quickly duck under his guard, or you’ll be a dead man. I’m telling you, neither of us can take a hit from that axe: you’ve never seen such a massive guy.”
Gerard was for bolting the door; but Denys with a sign showed him that half the door-post turned outward on a hinge, and the great bolt was little more than a blind. “I have forborne to bolt it,” said he, “that they may think us the less suspicious.”
Gerard wanted to bolt the door, but Denys signaled to him that half of the door frame swung open on a hinge, and the big bolt was basically just for show. “I didn’t want to bolt it,” he said, “so they wouldn’t see us as too suspicious.”
Near an hour rolled away thus. It seemed an age. Yet it was but a little hour, and the town was a league distant. And some of the voices in the kitchen became angry and impatient.
Nearly an hour passed like this. It felt like forever. Yet it was just a short hour, and the town was a league away. Some of the voices in the kitchen grew angry and impatient.
“They will not wait much longer,” said Denys, “and we have no chance at all unless we surprise them.”
“They won’t wait much longer,” said Denys, “and we have no chance at all unless we catch them off guard.”
“I will do whate'er you bid,” said Gerard meekly.
“I will do whatever you ask,” said Gerard meekly.
There was a cupboard on the same side as the door; but between it and the window. It reached nearly to the ground, but not quite. Denys opened the cupboard door and placed Gerard on a chair behind it. “If they run for the bed, strike at the napes of their necks! a sword cut there always kills or disables.” He then arranged the bolsters and their shoes in the bed so as to deceive a person peeping from a distance, and drew the short curtains at the head.
There was a cabinet on the same side as the door, but between it and the window. It was almost on the floor, but not completely. Denys opened the cabinet door and set Gerard down on a chair behind it. “If they go for the bed, aim for the back of their necks! A sword strike there always kills or incapacitates.” He then arranged the pillows and their shoes on the bed to trick someone looking from a distance, and pulled the short curtains at the head.
Meantime Gerard was on his knees. Denys looked round and saw him.
Meantime, Gerard was on his knees. Denys looked around and saw him.
“Ah!” said Denys, “above all, pray them to forgive me for bringing you into this guet-apens!”
“Ah!” said Denys, “more than anything, please ask them to forgive me for getting you caught up in this trap!”
And now they grasped hands and looked in one another's eyes oh, such a look! Denys's hand was cold, and Gerard's warm.
And now they held hands and looked into each other's eyes—oh, what a look! Denys's hand was cold, and Gerard's was warm.
They took their posts.
They took their positions.
Denys blew out the candle.
Denys snuffed out the candle.
“We must keep silence now.”
“We need to stay silent now.”
But in the terrible tension of their nerves and very souls they found they could hear a whisper fainter than any man could catch at all outside that door. They could hear each other's hearts thump at times.
But in the intense strain of their nerves and souls, they realized they could hear a whisper softer than anything a person outside that door could catch. At times, they could hear each other's hearts beating.
“Good news!” breathed Denys, listening at the door. “They are casting lots.”
“Good news!” whispered Denys, eavesdropping at the door. “They’re drawing lots.”
“Pray that it may be the Abbot.”
“Hope it’s the Abbot.”
“Yes. Why?
"Yes. What's up?"
“If he comes alone I can make sure of him.”
“If he comes alone, I can take care of him.”
“Denys!”
“Denys!”
“Ay!”
“Hey!”
“I fear I shall go mad, if they do not come soon.”
“I’m worried I’ll go crazy if they don’t come soon.”
“Shall I feign sleep? Shall I snore?”
“Should I pretend to be asleep? Should I snore?”
“Will that———-?
“Will that———-?
“Perhaps”
"Maybe"
“Do then and God have mercy on us!”
“Do it then, and may God have mercy on us!”
Denys snored at intervals.
Denys snored intermittently.
There was a scuffling of feet heard in the kitchen, and then all was still.
There was a shuffling of feet heard in the kitchen, and then everything went silent.
Denys snored again. Then took up his position behind the door.
Denys snored again. Then he took his place behind the door.
But he, or they, who had drawn the lot, seemed determined to run no foolish risks. Nothing was attempted in a hurry.
But he, or they, who had drawn the short straw, seemed set on avoiding any unnecessary risks. Nothing was done in a rush.
When they were almost starved with cold, and waiting for the attack, the door on the stairs opened softly and closed again. Nothing more.
When they were nearly frozen and waiting for the attack, the door on the stairs opened quietly and closed again. Nothing else happened.
There was another harrowing silence.
There was another tense silence.
Then a single light footstep on the stair; and nothing more.
Then a soft footstep on the stairs; and nothing else.
Then a light crept under the door and nothing more.
Then a light slipped under the door and nothing else.
Presently there was a gentle scratching, not half so loud as a mouse's, and the false door-post opened by degrees, and left a perpendicular space, through which the light streamed in. The door, had it been bolted, would now have hung by the bare tip of the bolt, which went into the real door-post, but as it was, it swung gently open of itself. It opened inwards, so Denys did not raise his crossbow from the ground, but merely grasped his dagger.
Right now, there was a soft scratching, not nearly as loud as a mouse, and the fake doorpost opened slowly, creating a vertical opening through which light poured in. The door, if it had been bolted, would have dangled by the very tip of the bolt that fit into the real doorpost, but instead, it swung open gently on its own. It opened inward, so Denys didn’t lift his crossbow from the ground; he just grabbed his dagger.
The candle was held up, and shaded from behind by a man's hand.
The man held up the candle, shielding it from behind with his hand.
He was inspecting the beds from the threshold, satisfied that his victims were both in bed.
He was looking at the beds from the doorway, pleased that his targets were both in bed.
The man glided into the apartment. But at the first step something in the position of the cupboard and chair made him uneasy. He ventured no further, but put the candle on the floor and stooped to peer under the chair; but as he stooped, an iron hand grasped his shoulder, and a dagger was driven so fiercely through his neck that the point came out at his gullet. There was a terrible hiccough, but no cry; and half-a-dozen silent strokes followed in swift succession, each a death-blow, and the assassin was laid noiselessly on the floor.
The man slid into the apartment. But with his first step, something about the placement of the cupboard and chair made him uncomfortable. He didn't go any further; instead, he set the candle on the floor and leaned down to look under the chair. Just as he bent down, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder, and a dagger was plunged so violently into his neck that the tip came out at his throat. There was a horrible hiccup, but no scream; then half a dozen silent strikes came quickly one after another, each a fatal blow, and the attacker was silently dropped onto the floor.
Denys closed the door, bolted it gently, drew the post to, and even while he was going whispered Gerard to bring a chair. It was done.
Denys closed the door, locked it quietly, pulled the post shut, and while he was leaving, he whispered for Gerard to bring a chair. It was done.
“Help me set him up.”
"Help me get him ready."
“Dead?”
"Is it dead?"
“Parbleu.”
"Darn."
“What for?”
"What's the purpose?"
“Frighten them! Gain time.”
"Scare them! Buy time."
Even while saying this, Denys had whipped a piece of string round the dead man's neck, and tied him to the chair, and there the ghastly figure sat fronting the door.
Even as he said this, Denys had looped a piece of string around the dead man's neck and tied him to the chair, and there the grim figure sat facing the door.
“Denys, I can do better. Saints forgive me!”
“Denys, I can do better. Saints, forgive me!”
“What? Be quick then, we have not many moments.”
“What? Hurry up then, we don’t have much time.”
And Denys got his crossbow ready, and tearing off his straw mattress, reared it before him and prepared to shoot the moment the door should open, for he had no hope any more would come singly, when they found the first did not return.
And Denys got his crossbow ready, and ripped off his straw mattress, propping it up in front of him and getting ready to shoot the moment the door opened, since he didn’t think anyone would come one at a time anymore after they saw the first one didn’t come back.
While thus employed, Gerard was busy about the seated corpse, and to his amazement Denys saw a luminous glow spreading rapidly over the white face.
While doing this, Gerard was focused on the seated corpse, and to his surprise, Denys noticed a bright glow quickly spreading across the pale face.
Gerard blew out the candle; and on this the corpse's face shone still more like a glowworm's head.
Gerard blew out the candle, and with that, the corpse's face gleamed even more like a glowworm's head.
Denys shook in his shoes, and his teeth chattered.
Denys trembled in his shoes, and his teeth rattled.
“What, in Heaven's name, is this?” he whispered.
“What on Earth is this?” he whispered.
“Hush! 'tis but phosphorus, but 'twill serve.”
“Hush! It's just phosphorus, but it will do.”
“Away! they will surprise thee.”
"Go away! They will shock you."
In fact, uneasy mutterings were heard below, and at last a deep voice said, “What makes him so long? is the drole rifling them?”
In fact, there were some anxious whispers coming from below, and finally a deep voice said, “Why is he taking so long? Is he messing with them?”
It was their comrade they suspected then, not the enemy. Soon a step came softly but rapidly up the stairs: the door was gently tried.
It was their teammate they suspected, not the enemy. Soon a step came softly but quickly up the stairs: the door was gently tested.
When this resisted, which was clearly not expected, the sham post was very cautiously moved, and an eye no doubt peeped through the aperture: for there was a howl of dismay, and the man was heard to stumble back and burst into the kitchen, here a Babel of voices rose directly on his return.
When this was resisted, which was obviously unexpected, the fake post was carefully moved, and someone definitely peeked through the opening: a howl of dismay erupted, and the man was heard stumbling back and bursting into the kitchen, where a chaotic mix of voices rose up immediately upon his return.
Gerard ran to the dead thief and began to work on him again.
Gerard rushed over to the dead thief and started to help him again.
“Back, madman!” whispered Denys.
“Back, crazy person!” whispered Denys.
“Nay, nay. I know these ignorant brutes; they will not venture here awhile. I can make him ten times more fearful.”
“Nah, nah. I know these clueless idiots; they won’t dare come here for a while. I can make him way more scared.”
“At least close that opening! Let them not see you at your devilish work.”
“At least close that opening! Don’t let them see you doing your evil work.”
Gerard closed the sham post, and in half a minute his brush gave the dead head a sight to strike any man with dismay. He put his art to a strange use, and one unparalleled perhaps in the history of mankind. He illuminated his dead enemy's face to frighten his living foe: the staring eyeballs he made globes of fire; the teeth he left white, for so they were more terrible by the contrast; but the palate and tongue he tipped with fire, and made one lurid cavern of the red depths the chapfallen jaw revealed: and on the brow he wrote in burning letters “La Mort.” And, while he was doing it, the stout Denys was quaking, and fearing the vengeance of Heaven; for one mans courage is not another's; and the band of miscreants below were quarrelling and disputing loudly, and now without disguise.
Gerard closed the fake post, and in just half a minute, his brush made the dead head look alarming enough to shock anyone. He used his artistic skills in a strange way, perhaps unlike anything else in human history. He lit up his dead enemy's face to scare his living foe: he turned the staring eyeballs into fiery orbs; he left the teeth white, making them appear even more terrifying by contrast; but he painted the palate and tongue with fire, creating a disturbing cavern of red depths shown by the drooping jaw: and on the forehead, he wrote in burning letters “La Mort.” Meanwhile, the sturdy Denys was trembling, terrified of divine retribution; because one person's bravery isn't the same as another's; and the gang of miscreants below were loudly arguing and disputing, now with no pretense.
The steps that led down to the kitchen were fifteen, but they were nearly perpendicular: there was therefore in point of fact no distance between the besiegers and besieged, and the latter now caught almost every word. At last one was heard to cry out, “I tell ye the devil has got him and branded him with hellfire. I am more like to leave this cursed house than go again into a room that is full of fiends.”
The fifteen steps leading down to the kitchen were almost vertical, so there was practically no distance between those attacking and those being attacked, and the latter could hear almost every word. Finally, one person shouted, “I tell you, the devil has taken him and marked him with hellfire. I’d rather leave this cursed house than go back into a room full of demons.”
“Art drunk? or mad? or a coward?” said another.
“Art drunk? Or mad? Or a coward?” said another.
“Call me a coward, I'll give thee my dagger's point, and send thee where Pierre sits o' fire for ever.
“Call me a coward, and I’ll stab you with my dagger and send you where Pierre burns forever.
“Come, no quarrelling when work is afoot,” roared a tremendous diapason, “or I'll brain ye both with my fist, and send ye where we shall all go soon or late.”
“Come on, no arguing when it's time to work,” shouted a booming voice, “or I'll knock you both out and send you where we’ll all end up sooner or later.”
“The Abbot,” whispered Denys gravely.
“The Abbot,” Denys whispered seriously.
He felt the voice he had just heard could belong to no man but the colossus he had seen in passing through the kitchen. It made the place vibrate. The quarrelling continued some time, and then there was a dead silence.
He felt that the voice he had just heard could belong to no one but the giant he had seen while passing through the kitchen. It made the place buzz with energy. The arguing went on for a while, and then there was complete silence.
“Look out, Gerard.”
“Watch out, Gerard.”
“Ay. What will they do next?”
“Ay. What will they do next?”
“We shall soon know.”
“We'll know soon.”
“Shall I wait for you, or cut down the first that opens the door?”
“Should I wait for you, or take down the first person who opens the door?”
“Wait for me, lest we strike the same and waste a blow. Alas! we cannot afford that.”
“Wait for me, so we don't hit at the same time and waste a swing. Oh no! We can't afford that.”
Dead silence.
Dead silence.
Sudden came into the room a thing that made them start and their hearts quiver.
Suddenly, something entered the room that made them jump and their hearts race.
And what was it? A moonbeam.
And what was it? A moonbeam.
Even so can this machine, the body, by the soul's action, be strung up to start and quiver. The sudden ray shot keen and pure into that shamble.
Even so, this machine, the body, can be energized by the soul's influence to start moving and shake. The sudden light pierced sharply and clearly into that mess.
Its calm, cold, silvery soul traversed the apartment in a stream of no great volume, for the window was narrow.
Its calm, cold, silvery essence flowed through the apartment in a small stream, as the window was narrow.
After the first tremor Gerard whispered, “Courage, Denys! God's eye is on us even here.” And he fell upon his knees with his face turned towards the window.
After the first tremor, Gerard whispered, “Stay strong, Denys! God is watching over us even here.” Then he dropped to his knees with his face turned towards the window.
Ay it was like a holy eye opening suddenly on human crime and human passions. Many a scene of blood and crime that pure cold eye had rested on; but on few more ghastly than this, where two men, with a lighted corpse between them, waited panting, to kill and be killed. Nor did the moonlight deaden that horrible corpse-light. If anything it added to its ghastliness: for the body sat at the edge of the moonbeam, which cut sharp across the shoulder and the ear, and seemed blue and ghastly and unnatural by the side of that lurid glow in which the face and eyes and teeth shone horribly. But Denys dared not look that way.
Ay, it was like a holy eye suddenly opening to human crime and human passions. Many scenes of blood and crime had fallen under that cold, keen gaze; but few were more horrifying than this, where two men, with a lighted corpse between them, waited, panting, to kill and be killed. The moonlight did not soften that dreadful corpse-light. If anything, it made it even more ghastly: the body sat at the edge of the moonbeam, sharp across the shoulder and ear, appearing blue, horrific, and unnatural next to the sickly glow illuminating the face, eyes, and teeth that shone grotesquely. But Denys did not dare to look that way.
The moon drew a broad stripe of light across the door, and on that his eyes were glued. Presently he whispered, “Gerard!”
The moon cast a wide beam of light across the door, and his eyes were fixed on it. Soon, he whispered, “Gerard!”
Gerard looked and raised his sword.
Gerard looked up and raised his sword.
Acutely as they had listened, they had heard of late no sound on the stair. Yet therein the door-post, at the edge of the stream of moonlight, were the tips of the fingers of a hand.
Acutely as they had listened, they had heard of late no sound on the stair. Yet there in the door-post, at the edge of the stream of moonlight, were the tips of the fingers of a hand.
The nails glistened.
The nails sparkled.
Presently they began to crawl and crawl down towards the bolt, but with infinite slowness and caution. In so doing they crept into the moonlight. The actual motion was imperceptible, but slowly, slowly, the fingers came out whiter and whiter; but the hand between the main knuckles and the wrist remained dark.
Presently, they started to crawl down towards the bolt, but with extreme slowness and caution. As they did this, they moved into the moonlight. The actual movement was barely noticeable, but gradually, the fingers became whiter and whiter; however, the area between the main knuckles and the wrist stayed dark.
Denys slowly raised his crossbow.
Denys slowly lifted his crossbow.
He levelled it. He took a long steady aim.
He aimed it. He took a long, steady shot.
Gerard palpitated. At last the crossbow twanged. The hand was instantly nailed, with a stern jar, to the quivering door-post. There was a scream of anguish. “Cut,” whispered Denys eagerly, and Gerard's uplifted sword descended and severed the wrist with two swift blows. A body sank down moaning outside.
Gerard's heart raced. Finally, the crossbow shot. The hand was immediately pinned with a sharp thud to the trembling doorframe. A scream of pain echoed. “Cut,” Denys urged quietly, and Gerard's raised sword came down and chopped through the wrist in two quick strikes. A body collapsed outside, moaning.
The hand remained inside, immovable, with blood trickling from it down the wall. The fierce bolt, slightly barbed, had gone through it and deep into the real door-post.
The hand stayed inside, unmoving, with blood dripping down the wall from it. The sharp bolt, a bit barbed, had pierced through it and deep into the actual door frame.
“Two,” said Denys, with terrible cynicism.
“Two,” Denys said with a harsh cynicism.
He strung his crossbow, and kneeled behind his cover again.
He loaded his crossbow and knelt down behind his cover again.
“The next will be the Abbot.”
“The next one will be the Abbot.”
The wounded man moved, and presently crawled down to his companions on the stairs, and the kitchen door was shut.
The injured man shifted and eventually crawled down to join his friends on the stairs, and then the kitchen door was closed.
There nothing was heard now but low muttering. The last incident had revealed the mortal character of the weapons used by the besieged.
There was now only low muttering. The last event had shown the deadly nature of the weapons used by those under siege.
“I begin to think the Abbot's stomach is not so great as his body,” said Denys.
“I’m starting to think the Abbot’s stomach isn’t as impressive as his physique,” said Denys.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the following events happened all in a couple of seconds. The kitchen door was opened roughly, a heavy but active man darted up the stairs without any manner of disguise, and a single ponderous blow sent the door not only off its hinges, but right across the room on to Denys's fortification, which it struck so rudely as nearly to lay him flat. And in the doorway stood a colossus with a glittering axe.
The words had barely left his lips when the following events unfolded in just a couple of seconds. The kitchen door burst open, and a heavy but agile man rushed up the stairs without trying to hide at all. A single powerful blow knocked the door off its hinges and sent it crashing across the room onto Denys's fortification, hitting it so hard that it almost knocked him down. In the doorway stood a giant wielding a gleaming axe.
He saw the dead man with the moon's blue light on half his face, and the red light on the other half and inside his chapfallen jaws: he stared, his arms fell, his knees knocked together, and he crouched with terror.
He saw the dead man with the moon's blue light on one side of his face and the red light on the other side, illuminating his fallen jaw: he stared, his arms dropped, his knees shook, and he crouched in fear.
“LA MORT!” he cried, in tones of terror, and turned and fled. In which act Denys started up and shot him through both jaws. He sprang with one bound into the kitchen, and there leaned on his axe, spitting blood and teeth and curses.
“DEATH!” he shouted, terrified, and turned to run. In that moment, Denys jumped up and shot him through both jaws. He leaped into the kitchen, leaned on his axe, spitting blood, teeth, and curses.
Denys strung his bow and put his hand into his breast.
Denys grabbed his bow and reached into his chest.
He drew it out dismayed.
He pulled it out, dismayed.
“My last bolt is gone,” he groaned.
“My last bolt is gone,” he said with a sigh.
“But we have our swords, and you have slain the giant.”
“But we have our swords, and you have killed the giant.”
“No, Gerard,” said Denys gravely, “I have not. And the worst is I have wounded him. Fool! to shoot at a retreating lion. He had never faced thy handiwork again, but for my meddling.”
“No, Gerard,” Denys said seriously, “I haven’t. And the worst part is I’ve hurt him. Fool! Shooting at a retreating lion. He would never have faced your skill again if it weren’t for my interference.”
“Ha! to your guard! I hear them open the door.”
“Ha! Watch out! I hear them opening the door.”
Then Denys, depressed by the one error he had committed in all this fearful night, felt convinced his last hour had come. He drew his sword, but like one doomed. But what is this? a red light flickers on the ceiling. Gerard flew to the window and looked out. There were men with torches, and breastplates gleaming red. “We are saved! Armed men!” And he dashed his sword through the window shouting, “Quick! quick! we are sore pressed.”
Then Denys, weighed down by the one mistake he made during this terrifying night, felt certain that his last moments had arrived. He unsheathed his sword, resigned to his fate. But what is this? A red light flickers on the ceiling. Gerard rushed to the window and looked outside. There were men with torches, their armor shining red. “We’re saved! Armed men!” He thrust his sword out of the window, shouting, “Hurry! Hurry! We’re in serious trouble.”
“Back!” yelled Denys; “they come! strike none but him!”
“Back!” shouted Denys; “they're coming! Only hit him!”
That very moment the Abbot and two men with naked weapons rushed into the room. Even as they came, the outer door was hammered fiercely, and the Abbot's comrades hearing it, and seeing the torchlight, turned and fled. Not so the terrible Abbot: wild with rage and pain, he spurned his dead comrade, chair and all, across the room, then, as the men faced him on each side with kindling eyeballs, he waved his tremendous axe like a feather right and left, and cleared a space, then lifted it to hew them both in pieces.
At that very moment, the Abbot and two men with drawn weapons burst into the room. Just as they arrived, the outer door was pounded on fiercely, and the Abbot's companions, hearing the noise and seeing the light from the torches, turned and ran away. But not the furious Abbot: filled with rage and sorrow, he kicked his dead comrade, chair and all, across the room. Then, as the men confronted him on either side with blazing eyes, he swung his massive axe like it was light as a feather, clearing a space, and then raised it to chop them both to pieces.
His antagonists were inferior in strength, but not in swiftness and daring, and above all they had settled how to attack him. The moment he reared his axe, they flew at him like cats, and both together. If he struck a full blow with his weapon he would most likely kill one, but the other would certainly kill him: he saw this, and intelligent as well as powerful, he thrust the handle fiercely in Denys's face, and, turning, jobbed with the steel at Gerard. Denys went staggering back covered with blood. Gerard had rushed in like lightning, and, just as the axe turned to descend on him, drove his sword so fiercely through the giant's body, that the very hilt sounded on his ribs like the blow of a pugilist, and Denys, staggering back to help his friend, saw a steel point come out of the Abbot behind.
His opponents were weaker in strength but not in speed and bravery, and most importantly, they had figured out how to attack him. The moment he raised his axe, they lunged at him like cats, both at once. If he landed a solid hit with his weapon, he would probably kill one, but the other would definitely kill him: he realized this, and being both smart and strong, he drove the handle fiercely into Denys's face, and then turned to jab at Gerard with the blade. Denys stumbled back, covered in blood. Gerard had charged in like lightning, and just as the axe was about to strike him, he thrust his sword so forcefully into the giant's body that the hilt thudded against his ribs like a punch, and Denys, staggering back to assist his friend, saw a steel tip protruding from the Abbot behind.
The stricken giant bellowed like a bull, dropped his axe, and clutching Gerard's throat tremendously, shook him like a child. Then Denys with a fierce snarl drove his sword into the giant's back. “Stand firm now!” and he pushed the cold steel through and through the giant and out at his breast.
The wounded giant roared like a bull, let go of his axe, and grabbed Gerard's throat with a powerful grip, shaking him like a toy. Then Denys, with a fierce growl, plunged his sword into the giant's back. “Hold steady now!” he said, pushing the cold steel all the way through the giant and out through his chest.
Thus horribly spitted on both sides, the Abbot gave a violent shudder, and his heels hammered the ground convulsively. His lips, fast turning blue, opened wide and deep, and he cried, “LA MORT!-LA MORT!-LA MORT!!” the first time in a roar of despair, and then twice in a horror-stricken whisper, never to be forgotten.
Thus horribly impaled on both sides, the Abbot shuddered violently, and his heels pounded the ground in convulsion. His lips, quickly turning blue, opened wide and deep as he cried, “DEATH!-DEATH!-DEATH!!” the first time in a roar of despair, and then twice in a terrified whisper, never to be forgotten.
Just then the street door was forced.
Just then, someone broke through the front door.
Suddenly the Abbot's arms whirled like windmills, and his huge body wrenched wildly and carried them to the doorway, twisting their wrists and nearly throwing them off their legs.
Suddenly, the Abbot's arms spun like windmills, and his massive body twisted violently, dragging them to the doorway, twisting their wrists and almost knocking them off their feet.
“He'll win clear yet,” cried Denys: “out steel! and in again!”
“He'll win easily now,” shouted Denys: “out with the steel! and back in again!”
They tore out their smoking swords, but ere they could stab again, the Abbot leaped full five feet high, and fell with a tremendous crash against the door below, carrying it away with him like a sheet of paper, and through the aperture the glare of torches burst on the awe-struck faces above, half blinding them.
They pulled out their swords, but before they could stab again, the Abbot jumped five feet into the air and crashed down hard against the door below, smashing it like it was made of paper. Through the opening, the bright light of torches illuminated the shocked faces above, nearly blinding them.
The thieves at the first alarm had made for the back door, but driven thence by a strong guard ran back to the kitchen, just in time to see the lock forced out of the socket, and half-a-dozen mailed archers burst in upon them. On these in pure despair they drew their swords.
The thieves had rushed to the back door at the first sound of the alarm, but after being pushed back by a strong guard, they ran to the kitchen, just in time to see the lock being forced open and half a dozen armored archers bursting in on them. In total despair, they drew their swords against them.
But ere a blow was struck on either side, the staircase door behind them was battered into their midst with one ponderous blow, and with it the Abbot's body came flying, hurled as they thought by no mortal hand, and rolled on the floor spouting blood from back and bosom in two furious jets, and quivered, but breathed no more.
But before either side could strike a blow, the staircase door behind them was smashed open with a heavy hit, and with it, the Abbot's body came flying in, as if thrown by no human hand. It rolled on the floor, spewing blood from his back and chest in two furious streams, and it quivered but no longer breathed.
The thieves smitten with dismay fell on their knees directly, and the archers bound them, while, above, the rescued ones still stood like statues rooted to the spot, their dripping swords extended in the red torchlight, expecting their indomitable enemy to leap back on them as wonderfully as he had gone.
The thieves, filled with despair, immediately dropped to their knees, and the archers tied them up. Meanwhile, the rescued individuals remained frozen like statues, their wet swords extended in the red torchlight, bracing themselves for their relentless enemy to come back at them as dramatically as he had vanished.
CHAPTER XXXIV
“Where be the true men?”
“Here be we. God bless you all! God bless you!”
“Here we are. God bless you all! God bless you!”
There was a rush to the stairs, and half-a-dozen hard but friendly hands were held out and grasped them warmly.
There was a scramble to the stairs, and half a dozen tough but friendly hands reached out and grabbed them warmly.
“Y'have saved our lives, lads,” cried Denys, “y'have saved our lives this night.”
“You've saved our lives, guys,” shouted Denys, “you've saved our lives tonight.”
A wild sight met the eyes of the rescued pair. The room flaring with torches, the glittering breastplates of the archers, their bronzed faces, the white cheeks of the bound thieves, and the bleeding giant, whose dead body these hard men left lying there in its own gore.
A chaotic scene greeted the rescued pair. The room was lit by torches, the archers wore shining breastplates, their bronzed faces visible, the pale cheeks of the tied-up thieves, and the bleeding giant, whose lifeless body these tough men left lying there in its own blood.
Gerard went round the archers and took them each by the hand with glistening eyes, and on this they all kissed him; and this time he kissed them in return. Then he said to one handsome archer of his own age, “Prithee, good soldier, have an eye to me. A strange drowsiness overcomes me. Let no one cut my throat while I sleep—for pity's sake.”
Gerard went around the archers, shaking each of their hands with shining eyes, and they all kissed him; this time, he kissed them back. Then he said to a handsome archer his age, “Please, good soldier, keep an eye on me. I'm feeling really sleepy. Don’t let anyone slit my throat while I sleep—for the love of God.”
The archer promised with a laugh; for he thought Gerard was jesting: and the latter went off into a deep sleep almost immediately.
The archer laughed and made a promise, thinking Gerard was joking, and Gerard quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Denys was surprised at this: but did not interfere; for it suited his immediate purpose. A couple of archers were inspecting the Abbot's body, turning it half over with their feet, and inquiring, “Which of the two had flung this enormous rogue down from an upper storey like that; they would fain have the trick of his arm.”
Denys was taken aback by this, but he didn’t get involved since it served his immediate interests. A couple of archers were examining the Abbot's body, turning it over with their feet, and asking, “Which of the two threw this big guy down from an upper floor like that? They would love to know how he did it.”
Denys at first pished and pshawed, but dared not play the braggart, for he said to himself, “That young vagabond will break in and say 'twas the finger of Heaven, and no mortal arm, or some such stuff, and make me look like a fool.” But now, seeing Gerard unconscious, he suddenly gave this required information.
Denys initially scoffed and dismissed the idea, but he didn't want to act arrogant, thinking to himself, “That young troublemaker will jump in and claim it was the hand of God, not just some human effort, or something like that, and make me look ridiculous.” But now, seeing Gerard passed out, he quickly provided the needed information.
“Well, then, you see, comrades, I had run my sword through this one up to the hilt, and one or two more of 'em came buzzing about me; so it behoved me have my sword or die: so I just put my foot against his stomach, gave a tug with my hand and a spring with my foot, and sent him flying to kingdom come! He died in the air, and his carrion rolled in amongst you without ceremony: made you jump, I warrant me. But pikestaves and pillage! what avails prattling of, these trifles once they are gone by? buvons, camarades, buvons.”
"Well, you see, friends, I had run my sword through this one all the way, and a couple more of them were buzzing around me; so I had to have my sword or I would die. So, I put my foot against his stomach, yanked with my hand, jumped with my foot, and sent him flying! He died in the air, and his body rolled in among you without any ceremony: I bet it made you jump. But pikestaves and looting! What good is talking about those little things once they’re gone? Let’s drink, comrades, let’s drink."
The archers remarked that it was easy to say “buvons” where no liquor was, but not so easy to do it.
The archers noted that it was easy to say "let's drink" when there was no booze around, but not so easy to actually do it.
“Nay, I'll soon find you liquor. My nose hath a natural alacrity at scenting out the wine. You follow me: and I my nose: bring a torch!” And they left the room, and finding a short flight of stone steps, descended them and entered a large, low, damp cellar.
“Nah, I'll find you some drinks soon. I have a knack for sniffing out wine. Just follow me, and I’ll lead the way with my nose; grab a flashlight!” And they left the room, found a small set of stone steps, went down them, and entered a large, low, damp cellar.
It smelt close and dank: and the walls were encrusted here and there with what seemed cobwebs; but proved to be saltpetre that had oozed out of the damp stones and crystallized.
It smelled musty and damp: and the walls were covered here and there with what looked like cobwebs; but turned out to be saltpeter that had seeped out of the wet stones and crystallized.
“Oh! the fine mouldy smell,” said Denys; “in such places still lurks the good wine; advance thy torch. Diable! what is that in the corner? A pile of rags? No: 'tis a man.”
“Oh! that strong musty smell,” said Denys; “in places like this, the good wine still hides; bring your torch closer. Damn! what’s that in the corner? A pile of rags? No: it’s a man.”
They gathered round with the torch, and lo! a figure crouched on a heap in the corner, pale as ashes and shivering.
They gathered around with the torch, and look! a figure crouched on a pile in the corner, pale as ashes and shivering.
“Why, it is the landlord,” said Denys.
“Why, it’s the landlord,” said Denys.
“Get up, thou craven heart!” shouted one of the archers.
“Get up, you coward!” shouted one of the archers.
“Why, man, the thieves are bound, and we are dry that bound them. Up! and show us thy wine; for no bottles see here.”
“Come on, man, the thieves are tied up, and we’re out of the wine that we used to bind them. Get up! Show us your wine; we don’t see any bottles here.”
“What, be the rascals bound?” stammered the pale landlord; “good news. W-w-wine? that will I, honest sirs.”
“What, are those rascals tied up?” stammered the pale landlord; “good news. W-w-wine? I’ll get that for you, honest sirs.”
And he rose with unsure joints and offered to lead the way to the wine cellar. But Denys interposed. “You are all in the dark, comrades. He is in league with the thieves.”
And he got up with shaky joints and offered to lead the way to the wine cellar. But Denys interrupted. “You’re all in the dark, guys. He’s working with the thieves.”
“Alack, good soldier, me in league with the accursed robbers! Is that reasonable?”
“Come on, good soldier, me in cahoots with the cursed thieves! Is that even reasonable?”
“The girl said so anyway.”
“The girl said that anyway.”
“The girl! What girl? Ah! Curse her, traitress!”
“The girl! What girl? Ah! Damn her, traitor!”
“Well,” interposed the other archer; “the girl is not here, but gone on to the bailiff. So let the burghers settle whether this craven be guilty or no: for we caught him not in the act: and let him draw us our wine.”
“Well,” said the other archer; “the girl isn’t here, but she’s gone to the bailiff. So let the townspeople decide whether this coward is guilty or not: we didn’t catch him in the act, and he should get us our wine.”
“One moment,” said Denys shrewdly. “Why cursed he the girl? If he be a true man, he should bless her as we do.”
“One moment,” said Denys wisely. “Why did he curse the girl? If he's a real man, he should be blessing her like we do.”
“Alas, sir!” said the landlord, “I have but my good name to live by, and I cursed her to you, because you said she had belied me.”
“Unfortunately, sir!” said the landlord, “I have only my good name to uphold, and I cursed her to you because you claimed she had lied about me.”
“Humph! I trow thou art a thief, and where is the thief that cannot lie with a smooth face? Therefore hold him, comrades: a prisoner can draw wine an if his hands be not bound.”
“Humph! I bet you're a thief, and where's the thief who can't lie with a straight face? So hold him, friends: a prisoner can still pour wine if his hands aren't tied.”
The landlord offered no objection; but on the contrary said he would with pleasure show them where his little stock of wine was, but hoped they would pay for what they should drink, for his rent was due this two months.
The landlord didn't object at all; in fact, he gladly offered to show them where his small supply of wine was. However, he hoped they would pay for what they drank since his rent had been due for the last two months.
The archers smiled grimly at his simplicity, as they thought it; one of them laid a hand quietly but firmly on his shoulder, the other led on with the torch.
The archers smiled grimly at his straightforwardness, as they perceived it; one of them quietly but firmly placed a hand on his shoulder, while the other continued on with the torch.
They had reached the threshold when Denys cried “Halt!”
They had reached the doorway when Denys shouted, “Stop!”
“What is't?”
"What is it?"
“Here be bottles in this corner; advance thy light.”
“Here are bottles in this corner; shine your light over here.”
The torch-bearer went towards him. He had just taken off his scabbard and was probing the heap the landlord had just been crouched upon.
The torchbearer approached him. He had just removed his scabbard and was poking through the pile the landlord had just been squatting on.
“Nay, nay,” cried the landlord, “the wine is in the next cellar. There is nothing there.”
“Nah, nah,” the landlord shouted, “the wine is in the next cellar. There's nothing here.”
“Nothing is mighty hard, then,” said Denys, and drew out something with his hand from the heap.
“Nothing is really that tough, then,” said Denys, and pulled something out of the pile with his hand.
It proved to be only a bone.
It turned out to be just a bone.
Denys threw it on the floor: it rattled.
Denys tossed it on the floor: it clattered.
“There is nought there but the bones of the house,” said the landlord.
“There’s nothing there but the bones of the house,” said the landlord.
“Just now 'twas nothing. Now that we have found something 'tis nothing but bones. Here's another. Humph? look at this one, comrade; and you come too and look at it, and bring you smooth knave along.”
“Just now it was nothing. Now that we’ve found something, it’s nothing but bones. Here’s another one. Huh? Take a look at this one, buddy; you come over too and check it out, and bring your smooth-talking friend along.”
The archer with the torch, whose name was Philippe, held the bone to the light and turned it round and round.
The archer with the torch, named Philippe, held the bone up to the light and rotated it.
“Well?” said Denys.
"Well?" Denys said.
“Well, if this was a field of battle, I should say 'twas the shankbone of a man; no more, no less. But 'tisn't a battlefield, nor a churchyard; 'tis an inn.”
“Well, if this were a battlefield, I would say it was the shankbone of a man; no more, no less. But it’s not a battlefield, nor a graveyard; it’s an inn.”
“True, mate; but yon knave's ashy face is as good a light to me as a field of battle. I read the bone by it, Bring yon face nearer, I say. When the chine is amissing, and the house dog can't look at you without his tail creeping between his legs, who was the thief? Good brothers mine, my mind it doth misgive me. The deeper I thrust the more there be. Mayhap if these bones could tell their tale they would make true men's flesh creep that heard it.”
“True, buddy; but that guy's pale face is just as clear to me as a battlefield. I can read his intentions by it. Bring that face closer, I say. When the backbone is missing, and the house dog can't even look at you without tucking his tail, who was the thief? Good brothers of mine, I feel uneasy. The deeper I dig, the more I find. Maybe if these bones could tell their story, it would send chills down the spines of anyone who heard it.”
“Alas! young man, what hideous fancies are these! The bones are bones of beeves, and sheep, and kids, and not, as you think, of men and women. Holy saints preserve us!”
“Wow! Young man, what terrible thoughts are these! The bones are from cows, sheep, and goats, not, as you believe, from men and women. Holy saints, save us!”
“Hold thy peace! thy words are air. Thou hast not got burghers by the ear, that know not a veal knuckle from their grandsire's ribs; but soldiers-men that have gone to look for their dear comrades, and found their bones picked as clean by the crows as these I doubt have been by thee and thy mates. Men and women, saidst thou? And prithee, when spake I a word of women's bones? Wouldst make a child suspect thee. Field of battle, comrade! Was not this house a field of battle half an hour agone? Drag him close to me, let me read his face: now then, what is this, thou knave?” and he thrust a small object suddenly in his face.
“Be quiet! Your words mean nothing. You’re not talking to naive townsfolk who can't tell a veal knuckle from their grandfather's ribs; you're talking to soldiers who went searching for their fallen friends and found their bones picked as clean by crows as I suspect yours have been by you and your buddies. Men and women, you say? And when did I mention women's bones? You’re making a child doubt you. A battlefield, comrade! Wasn’t this house a battlefield just half an hour ago? Drag him closer to me, I want to see his face: now then, what is this, you scoundrel?” and he suddenly thrust a small object in front of him.
“Alas! I know not.”
"Unfortunately, I don't know."
“Well, I would not swear neither: but it is too like the thumb bone of a man's hand; mates, my flesh it creeps. Churchyard! how know I this is not one?”
"Well, I wouldn't swear either: but it definitely looks like the thumb bone of a man's hand; friends, my skin is crawling. Graveyard! How do I know this isn't one?"
And he now drew his sword out of the scabbard and began to rake the heap of earth and broken crockery and bones out on the floor.
And he now pulled his sword out of the sheath and started to sift through the pile of dirt, shattered pottery, and bones on the floor.
The landlord assured him he but wasted his time. “We poor innkeepers are sinners,” said he; “we give short measure and baptize the wine: we are fain to do these things; the laws are so unjust to us; but we are not assassins. How could we afford to kill our customers? May Heaven's lightning strike me dead if there be any bones there but such as have been used for meat. 'Tis the kitchen wench flings them here: I swear by God's holy mother, by holy Paul, by holy Dominic, and Denys my patron saint—ah!”
The landlord told him he was just wasting his time. “We poor innkeepers have our faults,” he said; “we don’t give full measures and water down the wine: it’s something we have to do because the laws are so unfair to us, but we’re not murderers. How could we possibly afford to kill our customers? May lightning from Heaven strike me dead if there are any bones here except those that come from food. It’s the kitchen girl who throws them here: I swear on God’s holy mother, on holy Paul, on holy Dominic, and on Denys, my patron saint—ah!”
Denys held out a bone under his eye in dead silence. It was a bone no man, however ignorant, however lying, could confound with those of sheep or oxen. The sight of it shut the lying lips, and palsied the heartless heart.
Denys held out a bone in complete silence. It was a bone that no man, no matter how clueless or deceitful, could mistake for those of sheep or cows. The sight of it silenced the liars and paralyzed the cold-hearted.
The landlord's hair rose visibly on his head like spikes, and his knees gave way as if his limbs had been struck from under him. But the archers dragged him fiercely up, and kept him erect under the torch, staring fascinated at the dead skull which, white as the living cheek opposed, but no whiter, glared back again at its murderer, whose pale lip now opened and opened, but could utter no sound.
The landlord's hair stood up on his head like spikes, and his knees buckled as if his legs had been swept out from under him. But the archers pulled him up fiercely, keeping him standing under the torchlight, staring in fascination at the dead skull that, as white as the living cheek opposite it, glared back at its killer, whose pale lips parted again and again, but could make no sound.
“Ah!” said Denys solemnly, and trembling now with rage, “look on the sockets out of which thou hast picked the eyes, and let them blast thine eyes, that crows shall pick out ere this week shall end. Now, hold thou that while I search on. Hold it, I say, or here I rob the gallows—” and he threatened the quaking wretch with his naked sword, till with a groan he took the skull and held it, almost fainting.
“Ah!” Denys said seriously, trembling with anger now. “Look at the eye sockets from which you’ve taken the eyes, and let them ruin your vision, so that crows will pick out your eyes before this week is over. Now, hold this while I keep searching. I said hold it, or I might end up robbing the gallows—” he threatened the trembling wretch with his unsheathed sword until, with a groan, he took the skull and held it, nearly fainting.
Oh! that every murderer, and contriver of murder, could see him, sick, and staggering with terror, and with his hair on end, holding the cold skull, and feeling that his own head would soon be like it. And soon the heap was scattered, and alas! not one nor two, but many skulls were brought to light, the culprit moaning at each discovery.
Oh! if only every murderer and planner of murder could see him, sick and shaking with fear, his hair standing on end, holding the cold skull, knowing that his own head would soon be like that. And soon the pile was scattered, and sadly, not just one or two, but many skulls were uncovered, the criminal groaning with each find.
Suddenly Denys uttered a strange cry of distress to come from so bold and hard a man; and held up to the torch a mass of human hair. It was long, glossy, and golden. A woman's beautiful hair. At the sight of it the archers instinctively shook the craven wretch in their hands: and he whined.
Suddenly, Denys let out a weird cry of distress that seemed surprising for such a bold and tough guy; he held up a bunch of human hair to the torchlight. It was long, shiny, and golden—beautiful hair belonging to a woman. The moment they saw it, the archers instinctively shook the cowardly wretch in their grip, and he whimpered.
“I have a little sister with hair just so fair and shining as this,” gulped Denys. “Jesu! if it should be hers! There quick, take my sword and dagger, and keep them from my hand, lest I strike him dead and wrong the gibbet. And thou, poor innocent victim, on whose head this most lovely hair did grow, hear me swear this, on bended knee, never to leave this man till I see him broken to pieces on the wheel even for thy sake.”
“I have a little sister with hair that's as fair and shining as this,” Denys gasped. “Jesus! What if this is hers! Quickly, take my sword and dagger, and keep them away from me, so I don’t strike him down and ruin everything. And you, poor innocent victim, whose beautiful hair this belonged to, hear me swear this, on my knees, that I will never leave this man until I see him crushed to pieces on the wheel, all for your sake.”
He rose from his knee. “Ay, had he as many lives as here be hairs, I'd have them all, by God,” and he put the hair into his bosom. Then in a sudden fury seized the landlord fiercely by the neck, and forced him to his knees; and foot on head ground his face savagely among the bones of his victims, where they lay thickest; and the assassin first yelled, then whined and whimpered, just as a dog first yells, then whines, when his nose is so forced into some leveret or other innocent he has killed.
He got up from his knee. “Yeah, if he had as many lives as there are hairs here, I’d take them all, I swear,” and he tucked the hair into his shirt. Then, in a sudden rage, he seized the landlord aggressively by the neck and forced him to his knees; with his foot on his head, he ground his face savagely among the bones of his victims, where they lay thickest; and the assassin first howled, then cried and whined, just like a dog who first howls, then whines, when his nose is forced into some rabbit or other innocent creature he has killed.
“Now lend me thy bowstring, Philippe!” He passed it through the eyes of a skull alternately, and hung the ghastly relic of mortality and crime round the man's neck; then pulled him up and kicked him industriously into the kitchen, where one of the aldermen of the burgh had arrived with constables, and was even now taking an archer's deposition.
“Now give me your bowstring, Philippe!” He threaded it through the eye sockets of a skull and hung the creepy reminder of death and wrongdoing around the man's neck; then he yanked him up and forcefully kicked him into the kitchen, where one of the town's officials had shown up with police officers and was currently taking a statement from an archer.
The grave burgher was much startled at sight of the landlord driven in bleeding from a dozen scratches inflicted by the bones of his own victims, and carrying his horrible collar. But Denys came panting after, and in a few fiery words soon made all clear.
The serious townsman was quite shocked to see the landlord arrive, bleeding from multiple scratches inflicted by the bones of his own victims, and wearing his dreadful collar. But Denys followed closely behind, out of breath, and with a few intense words quickly explained everything.
“Bind him like the rest,” said the alderman sternly. “I count him the blackest of them all.”
“Bind him like the others,” said the alderman firmly. “I consider him the worst of them all.”
While his hands were being bound, the poor wretch begged piteously that “the skull might be taken from him.”
While his hands were being tied, the poor guy begged desperately that "the skull be taken away from him."
“Humph!” said the alderman. “Certes I had not ordered such a thing to be put on mortal man. Yet being there, I will not lift voice nor finger to doff it. Methinks it fits thee truly, thou bloody dog. 'Tis thy ensign, and hangs well above a heart so foul as thine.”
“Humph!” said the alderman. “Surely, I did not order such a thing to be placed on any mortal. Yet, since it’s there, I won’t raise my voice or lift a finger to remove it. I think it suits you perfectly, you bloody dog. It’s your badge, and it hangs well above a heart as foul as yours.”
He then inquired of Denys if he thought they had secured the whole gang, or but a part.
He then asked Denys if he thought they had captured the whole gang or just a部分.
“Your worship,” said Denys, “there are but seven of them, and this landlord. One we slew upstairs, one we trundled down dead, the rest are bound before you.”
“Your honor,” said Denys, “there are only seven of them, plus this landlord. We killed one upstairs, we dragged another down dead, and the rest are tied up in front of you.”
“Good! go fetch the dead one from upstairs, and lay him beside him I caused to be removed.”
“Great! Go get the dead body from upstairs and lay it down next to the one I had removed.”
Here a voice like a guinea-fowl's broke peevishly in. “Now, now, now, where is the hand? that is what I want to see.” The speaker was a little pettifogging clerk.
Here a voice like a guinea fowl's interrupted impatiently. “Now, now, now, where's the hand? That's what I want to see.” The speaker was a small, petty clerk.
“You will find it above, nailed to the door-post by a crossbow bolt.”
“You’ll find it up there, nailed to the door post with a crossbow bolt.”
“Good!” said the clerk. He whispered his master, “What a goodly show will the 'pieces de conviction' make!” and with this he wrote them down, enumerating them in separate squeaks as he penned them. Skulls—Bones—A woman's hair—A thief's hands 1 axe—2 carcasses—1 crossbow bolt. This done, he itched to search the cellar himself: there might be other invaluable morsels of evidence, an ear, or even an earring. The alderman assenting, he caught up a torch and was hurrying thither, when an accident stopped him, and indeed carried him a step or two in the opposite direction.
“Good!” said the clerk. He whispered to his boss, “What a great display the 'pieces of evidence' will make!” With that, he wrote them down, listing them in quick notes as he wrote. Skulls—Bones—A woman's hair—A thief's hands—1 axe—2 carcasses—1 crossbow bolt. Once he finished, he was eager to search the cellar himself; there might be other valuable pieces of evidence, like an ear, or even an earring. The alderman agreed, so he grabbed a torch and hurried toward there, when an accident stopped him and actually pushed him a step or two in the opposite direction.
The constables had gone up the stair in single file.
The officers went up the stairs one by one.
But the head constable no sooner saw the phosphorescent corpse seated by the bedside, than he stood stupefied; and next he began to shake like one in an ague, and, terror gaining on him more and more, he uttered a sort of howl and recoiled swiftly. Forgetting the steps in his recoil, he tumbled over backward on his nearest companion; but he, shaken by the shout of dismay, and catching a glimpse of something horrid, was already staggering back, and in no condition to sustain the head constable, who, like most head constables, was a ponderous man. The two carried away the third, and the three the fourth, and they streamed into the kitchen, and settled on the floor, overlapping each other like a sequence laid out on a card-table. The clerk coming hastily with his torch ran an involuntary tilt against the fourth man, who, sharing the momentum of the mass, knocked him instantly on his back, the ace of that fair quint; and there he lay kicking and waving his torch, apparently in triumph, but really in convulsion, sense and wind being driven out together by the concussion.
But as soon as the head constable saw the glowing corpse sitting by the bedside, he stood frozen in shock; then he started to tremble like someone with a fever, and as fear overwhelmed him more and more, he let out a sort of howl and quickly stepped back. Forgetting the steps in his retreat, he fell backward onto the nearest officer; but he, startled by the shout of panic and catching a glimpse of something horrifying, was already stumbling back and unable to support the head constable, who, like most head constables, was a heavy man. The two of them carried away the third, and the three of them the fourth, and they rushed into the kitchen, collapsing on the floor, piled on top of each other like cards laid out on a table. The clerk hurried in with his flashlight and accidentally bumped into the fourth man, who, caught up in the momentum of the group, knocked him down flat on his back, the ace of that unfortunate five. There he lay kicking and waving his flashlight, seemingly celebrating, but really in shock, his senses and breath knocked out all at once by the impact.
“What is to do now, in Heaven's name?” cried the alderman, starting up with considerable alarm. But Denys explained, and offered to accompany his worship. “So be it,” said the latter. His men picked themselves ruefully up, and the alderman put himself at their head and examined the premises above and below. As for the prisoners, their interrogatory was postponed till they could be confronted with the servant.
“What should we do now, for Heaven's sake?” shouted the alderman, jumping up with a lot of alarm. But Denys explained and offered to go with him. “Fine,” said the alderman. His men picked themselves up with disappointment, and the alderman took the lead to check the place upstairs and downstairs. As for the prisoners, their questioning was delayed until they could be face to face with the servant.
Before dawn, the thieves, alive and dead, and all the relics and evidences of crime and retribution, were swept away into the law's net, and the inn was silent and almost deserted. There remained but one constable, and Denys and Gerard, the latter still sleeping heavily.
Before dawn, the thieves, both living and dead, along with all the evidence of crime and punishment, were caught up in the law's grasp, leaving the inn quiet and nearly empty. Only one constable remained, along with Denys and Gerard, the latter still sleeping soundly.
CHAPTER XXXV
Gerard awoke, and found Denys watching him with some anxiety.
“It is you for sleeping! Why, 'tis high noon.”
“It’s you who’s sleeping! Why, it’s high noon.”
“It was a blessed sleep,” said Gerard; “methinks Heaven sent it me. It hath put as it were a veil between me and that awful night. To think that you and I sit here alive and well. How terrible a dream I seem to have had!”
“It was a wonderful sleep,” said Gerard; “I think Heaven granted it to me. It has created a kind of barrier between me and that terrible night. To think that you and I are sitting here alive and well. What a horrific dream I seem to have had!”
“Ay, lad, that is the wise way to look at these things when once they are past, why, they are dreams, shadows. Break thy fast, and then thou wilt think no more on't. Moreover, I promised to bring thee on to the town by noon, and take thee to his worship.”
“Ay, kid, that's the smart way to view these things once they're over; they're just dreams, shadows. Eat your breakfast, and then you won't think about it again. Besides, I promised to take you to town by noon and introduce you to his worship.”
Gerard then sopped some rye bread in red wine and ate it to break his fast: then went with Denys over the scene of combat, and came back shuddering, and finally took the road with his friend, and kept peering through the hedges, and expecting sudden attacks unreasonably, till they reached the little town. Denys took him to “The White Hart”.
Gerard then soaked some rye bread in red wine and ate it to break his fast. He went with Denys to the battlefield and returned, trembling. Finally, he and his friend started on the road, constantly peering through the hedges and unreasonably expecting sudden attacks until they reached the small town. Denys took him to "The White Hart."
“No fear of cut-throats here,” said he. “I know the landlord this many a year. He is a burgess, and looks to be bailiff. 'Tis here I was making for yestreen. But we lost time, and night o'ertook us—and—
“No need to worry about cutthroats here,” he said. “I've known the landlord for many years. He’s a local councilman and seems to be the bailiff. This is where I was headed last night. But we lost track of time, and night caught up with us—and—
“And you saw a woman at the door, and would be wiser than a Jeanneton; she told us they were nought.”
“And you saw a woman at the door, and you would be smarter than a Jeanneton; she told us they were nothing.”
“Why, what saved our lives if not a woman? Ay, and risked her own to do it.”
“Why, what saved our lives if not a woman? Yeah, and she risked her own to do it.”
“That is true, Denys; and though women are nothing to me, I long to thank this poor girl, and reward her, ay, though I share every doit in my purse with her. Do not you?”
"That's true, Denys; and even though women don't mean much to me, I really want to thank this poor girl and reward her, yes, even if it means sharing every penny I have with her. Don't you?"
“Parbleu.”
“Wow.”
“Where shall we find her?”
"Where can we find her?"
“Mayhap the alderman will tell us. We must go to him first.”
"Maybe the alderman will tell us. We should go to him first."
The alderman received them with a most singular and inexplicable expression of countenance. However, after a moment's reflection, he wore a grim smile, and finally proceeded to put interrogatories to Gerard, and took down the answers. This done, he told them that they must stay in the town till the thieves were tried, and be at hand to give evidence, on peril of fine and imprisonment. They looked very blank at this.
The alderman greeted them with a strange and puzzling look on his face. After a moment of thought, he managed a grim smile and started asking Gerard questions, taking notes on his answers. Once that was finished, he informed them that they had to stay in town until the thieves were on trial and be available to testify, or else face fines and imprisonment. They looked quite shocked at this.
“However,” said he, “'twill not be long, the culprits having been taken red-handed.” He added, “And you know, in any case you could not leave the place this week.”
“However,” he said, “it won’t be long, since the culprits were caught red-handed.” He added, “And you know, either way, you couldn’t leave this place this week.”
Denys stared at this remark, and Gerard smiled at what he thought the simplicity of the old gentleman in dreaming that a provincial town of Burgundy had attraction to detain him from Rome and Margaret.
Denys looked at this comment, and Gerard smiled at what he saw as the naivety of the old man, thinking that a small town in Burgundy could keep him away from Rome and Margaret.
He now went to that which was nearest both their hearts.
He now went to what was closest to both their hearts.
“Your worship,” said he, “we cannot find our benefactress in the town.”
“Your honor,” he said, “we can’t find our benefactress in the town.”
“Nay, but who is your benefactress?”
“Nah, but who is your benefactor?”
“Who? why the good girl that came to you by night and saved our lives at peril of her own. Oh sir, our hearts burn within us to thank and bless her; where is she?”
“Who? Why, the good girl who came to you at night and saved our lives at the risk of her own. Oh, sir, we are filled with gratitude and want to thank and bless her; where is she?”
CHAPTER XXXVI
“In prison, sir; good lack, for what misdeed?”
“Well, she is a witness, and may be a necessary one.”
"Well, she's a witness and might be essential."
“Why, Messire Bailiff,” put in Denys, “you lay not all your witnesses by the heels I trow.”
“Why, Messire Bailiff,” Denys said, “I bet you haven't put all your witnesses in check.”
The alderman, pleased at being called bailiff, became communicative. “In a case of blood we detain all testimony that is like to give us leg bail, and so defeat justice, and that is why we still keep the women folk. For a man at odd times hides a week in one mind, but a woman, if she do her duty to the realm o' Friday, she shall undo it afore Sunday, or try. Could you see yon wench now, you should find her a-blubbering at having betrayed five males to the gallows. Had they been females, we might have trusted to a subpoena. For they despise one another. And there they show some sense. But now I think on't, there were other reasons for laying this one by the heels. Hand me those depositions, young sir.” And he put on his glasses. “Ay! she was implicated; she was one of the band.”
The alderman, happy to be called bailiff, started to talk more freely. “In a case of bloodshed, we hold onto any evidence that might let someone off the hook and undermine justice, which is why we still have the women here. A man might keep silent for a week, but a woman, if she does her duty to the realm on Friday, will try to spill the beans before Sunday. If you could see that girl now, you'd find her crying over betraying five guys to the gallows. If they had been women, we might have relied on a subpoena. They can’t stand each other. And that shows some sense. But now that I think about it, there were other reasons for putting her behind bars. Hand me those statements, young sir.” And he put on his glasses. “Yep! She was involved; she was part of the group.”
A loud disclaimer burst from Denys and Gerard at once.
A loud disclaimer came from Denys and Gerard at the same time.
“No need to deave me,” said the alderman. “Here 'tis in black and white. 'Jean Hardy (that is one of the thieves), being questioned, confessed that—humph? Ay, here 'tis. 'And that the girl Manon was the decoy, and her sweetheart was Georges Vipont, one of the band; and hanged last month: and that she had been deject ever since, and had openly blamed the band for his death, saying if they had not been rank cowards, he had never been taken, and it is his opinion she did but betray them out of very spite, and—
“No need to leave me,” said the alderman. “Here it is in black and white. 'Jean Hardy (he's one of the thieves), when questioned, admitted that—hmm? Yep, here it is. 'And that the girl Manon was the decoy, and her boyfriend was Georges Vipont, one of the gang; who was hanged last month: and that she had been upset ever since, and had openly blamed the gang for his death, saying if they hadn't been such cowards, he would have never been caught, and it is his belief she betrayed them out of pure spite, and—
“His opinion,” cried Gerard indignantly; “what signifies the opinion of a cut-throat, burning to be revenged on her who has delivered him to justice? And an you go to that, what avails his testimony? Is a thief never a liar? Is he not aye a liar? and here a motive to lie? Revenge, why, 'tis the strongest of all the passions. And oh, sir, what madness to question a detected felon and listen to him lying away an honest life—as if he were a true man swearing in open day, with his true hand on the Gospel laid!”
“His opinion,” Gerard shouted angrily; “what does it matter what a cut-throat thinks, desperate to take revenge on the person who turned him in? And if you’re going to rely on that, what’s the point of his testimony? Isn’t a thief always a liar? Isn’t he always lying? And here’s a reason to lie? Revenge—it’s the strongest of all emotions. And oh, sir, how crazy it is to question a caught criminal and listen to him lie about an honest life—as if he were a genuine person swearing in broad daylight, with his true hand on the Bible!”
“Young man,” said the alderman, “restrain thy heat in presence of authority! I find by your tone you are a stranger. Know then that in this land we question all the world. We are not so weak as to hope to get at the truth by shutting either our left ear or our right.”
“Young man,” said the alderman, “calm down when you’re in front of authority! I can tell by the way you speak that you’re a newcomer. Just so you know, in this land, we question everyone. We’re not so naive as to think we can find the truth by closing either our left ear or our right.”
“And so you would listen to Satan belying the saints!”
“And so you would listen to Satan lying about the saints!”
“Ta! ta! The law meddles but with men and women, and these cannot utter a story all lies, let them try ever so. Wherefore we shut not the barn-door (as the saying is) against any man's grain. Only having taken it in, we do winnow and sift it. And who told you I had swallowed the thief's story whole like fair water? Not so. I did but credit so much on't as was borne out by better proof.”
“See ya! The law only gets involved with people, and they can't tell a story that's all lies, no matter how hard they try. That's why we don't totally dismiss anyone's claims. Once we hear them, we do sort through and analyze them. And who said I believed the thief's story completely like it was truth? Not at all. I only believed the parts that had stronger evidence to back them up.”
“Better proof?” and Gerard looked blank. “Why, who but the thieves would breathe a word against her?”
“Better proof?” Gerard asked, looking confused. “Who else but the thieves would say anything bad about her?”
“Marry, herself.”
"Marry, herself."
“Herself, sir? what, did you question her too?”
“Herself, sir? What, did you ask her too?”
“I tell you we question all the world. Here is her deposition; can you read?—Read it yourself, then.”
“I’m telling you, we question everything. Here’s her statement; can you read it?—You read it then.”
Gerard looked at Denys and read him Manon's deposition.
Gerard looked at Denys and read him Manon's statement.
“I am a native of Epinal. I left my native place two years ago because I was unfortunate: I could not like the man they bade me. So my father beat me. I ran away from my father. I went to service. I left service because the mistress was jealous of me. The reason that she gave for turning me off was, because I was saucy. Last year I stood in the marketplace to be hired with other girls. The landlord of 'The Fair Star' hired me. I was eleven months with him. A young man courted me. I loved him. I found out that travellers came and never went away again. I told my lover. He bade me hold my peace. He threatened me. I found my lover was one of a band of thieves. When travellers were to be robbed, the landlord went out and told the band to come. Then I wept and prayed for the travellers' souls. I never told. A month ago my lover died.
“I’m from Epinal. I left my hometown two years ago because I was in a tough spot: I couldn’t stand the guy they wanted me to marry. So my dad hit me. I ran away from him. I got a job as a servant. I quit because the mistress was jealous of me. She said she fired me because I was too sassy. Last year, I stood in the marketplace to find work with other girls. The landlord of 'The Fair Star' hired me. I worked there for eleven months. A young man pursued me, and I fell in love with him. Then I discovered that travelers would come and never leave again. I told my boyfriend. He told me to be quiet and threatened me. I learned that my lover was part of a gang of thieves. When they planned to rob travelers, the landlord would go out and call the gang. Then I cried and prayed for the souls of the travelers. I never spoke a word about it. A month ago, my lover died.”
“The soldier put me in mind of my lover. He was bearded like him I had lost. I cannot tell whether I should have interfered, if he had had no beard. I am sorry I told now.”
“The soldier reminded me of my lover. He had a beard like the one I had lost. I can’t say if I would have gotten involved if he hadn’t had a beard. I regret saying that now.”
The paper almost dropped from Gerard's hands. Now for the first time he saw that Manon's life was in mortal danger. He knew the dogged law, and the dogged men that executed it. He threw himself suddenly on his knees at the alderman's feet. “Oh, sir! think of the difference between those cruel men and this poor weak woman! Could you have the heart to send her to the same death with them; could you have the heart to condemn us to look on and see her slaughtered, who, but that she risked her life for ours, had not now been in jeopardy? Alas, sir! show me and my comrade some pity, if you have none for her, poor soul. Denys and I be true men, and you will rend our hearts if you kill that poor simple girl. What can we do? What is left for us to do then but cut our throats at her gallows' foot?”
The paper almost slipped from Gerard's hands. For the first time, he realized that Manon's life was in serious danger. He understood the relentless law and the determined men who enforced it. He suddenly dropped to his knees at the alderman's feet. “Oh, sir! think about how different those cruel men are from this poor, weak woman! Could you really have the heart to send her to the same fate as them? Could you bear to watch us suffer as we see her slaughtered, who, if she hadn’t put her life on the line for us, wouldn’t be in danger now? Please, sir! have some pity for me and my friend, if you feel none for her, poor soul. Denys and I are honest men, and you will break our hearts if you execute that poor, simple girl. What can we do? What is left for us but to end our own lives at her gallows' foot?”
The alderman was tough, but mortal; the prayers and agitation of Gerard first astounded, then touched him. He showed it in a curious way. He became peevish and fretful. “There, get up, do,” said he. “I doubt whether anybody would say as many words for me. What ho, Daniel! go fetch the town clerk.” And on that functionary entering from an adjoining room, “Here is a foolish lad fretting about yon girl. Can we stretch a point? say we admit her to bear witness, and question her favourably.”
The alderman was tough, but human; Gerard's prayers and agitation first surprised him, then moved him. He showed it in a strange way. He became irritable and restless. “Come on, get up,” he said. “I doubt anyone would say as much for me. Hey, Daniel! Go get the town clerk.” And when that official came in from another room, he said, “Here’s a foolish kid worrying about that girl. Can we bend the rules a bit? Let’s say we allow her to testify and question her nicely.”
The town clerk was one of your “impossibility” men.
The town clerk was one of those "impossible" guys.
“Nay, sir, we cannot do that: she was not concerned in this business. Had she been accessory, we might have offered her a pardon to bear witness.”
“Nah, sir, we can’t do that: she wasn’t involved in this matter. If she had been an accomplice, we might have given her a deal to testify.”
Gerard burst in, “But she did better. Instead of being accessory, she stayed the crime; and she proffered herself as witness by running hither with the tale.”
Gerard burst in, “But she did better. Instead of being an accessory, she stayed the crime; and she offered herself as a witness by rushing over with the story.”
“Tush, young man, 'tis a matter of law.” The alderman and the clerk then had a long discussion, the one maintaining, the other denying, that she stood as fair in law as if she had been accessory to the attempt on our travellers' lives. And this was lucky for Manon: for the alderman, irritated by the clerk reiterating that he could not do this, and could not that, and could not do t'other, said “he would show him he could do anything he chose,” And he had Manon out, and upon the landlord of “The White Hart” being her bondsman, and Denys depositing five gold pieces with him, and the girl promising, not without some coaxing from Denys, to attend as a witness, he liberated her, but eased his conscience by telling her in his own terms his reason for this leniency.
“Tush, young man, it's a legal matter.” The alderman and the clerk then had a lengthy discussion, with one insisting and the other denying that she was just as guilty in the eyes of the law as if she had helped in the attack on our travelers' lives. And this was fortunate for Manon: for the alderman, annoyed by the clerk repeatedly stating that he couldn't do this, couldn't do that, and couldn't do the other, declared “he would prove that he could do anything he wanted.” He had Manon brought out, and with the landlord of “The White Hart” acting as her guarantor, and Denys handing over five gold pieces to him, along with the girl promising, after some persuasion from Denys, to appear as a witness, he set her free, but eased his conscience by explaining to her in his own words why he was being lenient.
“The town had to buy a new rope for everybody hanged, and present it to the bourreau, or compound with him in money: and she was not in his opinion worth this municipal expense, whereas decided characters like her late confederates, were.” And so Denys and Gerard carried her off, Gerard dancing round her for joy, Denys keeping up her heart by assuring her of the demise of a troublesome personage, and she weeping inauspiciously. However, on the road to “The White Hart” the public found her out, and having heard the whole story from the archers, who naturally told it warmly in her favour, followed her hurrahing and encouraging her, till finding herself backed by numbers she plucked up heart. The landlord too saw at a glance that her presence in the inn would draw custom, and received her politely, and assigned her an upper chamber: here she buried herself, and being alone rained tears again.
"The town had to buy a new rope for everyone who was hanged and present it to the executioner, or pay him in cash. In his opinion, she wasn’t worth this municipal expense, while more decisive characters like her former associates were." So, Denys and Gerard took her away, with Gerard celebrating around her, and Denys encouraging her by assuring her that a troublesome person was gone, while she cried sadly. However, on the way to "The White Hart," the public recognized her, and after hearing the full story from the archers—who naturally spoke warmly in her favor—they followed her, cheering and encouraging her until, feeling backed by supporters, she gained some confidence. The landlord quickly realized that having her at the inn would attract customers, so he welcomed her politely and gave her an upper room. There, she isolated herself and, alone, cried once more.
Poor little mind, it was like a ripple, up and down, down and up, up and down. Bidding the landlord be very kind to her, and keep her a prisoner without letting her feel it, the friends went out: and lo! as they stepped into the street they saw two processions coming towards them from opposite sides. One was a large one, attended with noise and howls and those indescribable cries by which rude natures reveal at odd times that relationship to the beasts of the field and forest, which at other times we succeed in hiding. The other, very thinly attended by a few nuns and friars, came slow and silent.
Poor little mind, it was like a ripple, up and down, down and up, up and down. Asking the landlord to be very kind to her and keep her as a prisoner without her realizing it, the friends went out: and look! As they stepped into the street, they saw two processions approaching from opposite sides. One was large, filled with noise and howls and those indescribable cries through which rough natures occasionally reveal their connection to the beasts of the field and forest, which we usually manage to hide. The other, very sparsely attended by a few nuns and friars, moved slowly and silently.
The prisoners going to exposure in the market-place. The gathered bones of the victims coming to the churchyard.
The prisoners being put on display in the marketplace. The collected bones of the victims arriving at the churchyard.
And the two met in the narrow street nearly at the inn door, and could not pass each other for a long time, and the bier, that bore the relics of mortality, got wedged against the cart that carried the men who had made those bones what they were, and in a few hours must die for it themselves. The mob had not the quick intelligence to be at once struck with this stern meeting: but at last a woman cried, “Look at your work, ye dogs!” and the crowd took it like wildfire, and there was a horrible yell, and the culprits groaned and tried to hide their heads upon their bosoms, but could not, their hands being tied. And there they stood, images of pale hollow-eyed despair, and oh how they looked on the bier, and envied those whom they had sent before them on the dark road they were going upon themselves! And the two men who were the cause of both processions stood and looked gravely on, and even Manon, hearing the disturbance, crept to the window, and, hiding her face, peeped trembling through her fingers, as women will.
And the two met in the narrow street right by the inn door and couldn’t get past each other for a long time. The bier carrying the remains of the dead got stuck against the cart that held the men who had turned those bones into what they were, and in just a few hours, would die for it themselves. The crowd didn’t quickly understand the significance of this grim encounter, but eventually, a woman shouted, “Look at what you've done, you beasts!” and the crowd reacted like wildfire, erupting into a horrible yell. The culprits groaned and tried to hide their faces in their chests, but couldn’t since their hands were bound. There they stood, portraits of pale, hollow-eyed despair, staring at the bier and envying those they had sent ahead on the dark path they were now traveling themselves. Meanwhile, the two men responsible for both processions stood quietly, watching with serious expressions, and even Manon, hearing the commotion, crept to the window, and, covering her face, peeked through her fingers, trembling like women do.
This strange meeting parted Denys and Gerard. The former yielded to curiosity and revenge, the latter doffed his bonnet, and piously followed the poor remains of those whose fate had so nearly been his own. For some time he was the one lay mourner: but when they had reached the suburbs, a long way from the greater attraction that was filling the market-place, more than one artisan threw down his tools, and more than one shopman left his shop, and touched with pity or a sense of our common humanity, and perhaps decided somewhat by the example of Gerard, followed the bones bareheaded, and saw them deposited with the prayers of the Church in hallowed ground.
This strange meeting separated Denys and Gerard. Denys was driven by curiosity and a desire for revenge, while Gerard removed his hat and respectfully followed the remains of those whose fate had almost been his own. For a while, he was the only mourner present: but once they reached the suburbs, far from the bustling market-place, several workers put down their tools, and numerous shopkeepers left their shops. Moved by compassion or a sense of shared humanity, and perhaps influenced a bit by Gerard's example, they followed the bareheaded procession and witnessed the remains being laid to rest with the prayers of the Church in consecrated ground.
After the funeral rites Gerard stepped respectfully up to the cure, and offered to buy a mass for their souls.
After the funeral services, Gerard approached the priest respectfully and offered to pay for a mass for their souls.
Gerard, son of Catherine, always looked at two sides of a penny: and he tried to purchase this mass a trifle under the usual terms, on account of the pitiable circumstances. But the good cure gently but adroitly parried his ingenuity, and blandly screwed him up to the market price.
Gerard, son of Catherine, always considered both sides of a penny: and he tried to buy this mass for a bit less than the standard price, due to the unfortunate situation. But the kind priest skillfully deflected his cleverness and calmly pushed him back to the regular price.
In the course of the business they discovered a similarity of sentiments. Piety and worldly prudence are not very rare companions: still it is unusual to carry both so far as these two men did. Their collision in the prayer market led to mutual esteem, as when knight encountered knight worthy of his steel. Moreover the good cure loved a bit of gossip, and finding his customer was one of those who had fought the thieves at Domfront, would have him into his parlour and hear the whole from his own lips. And his heart warmed to Gerard, and he said “God was good to thee. I thank Him for't with all my soul. Thou art a good lad.” He added drily, “Shouldst have told me this tale in the churchyard. I doubt, I had given thee the mass for love. However,” said he (the thermometer suddenly falling), “'tis ill luck to go back upon a bargain. But I'll broach a bottle of my old Medoc for thee: and few be the guests I would do that for.” The cure went to his cupboard, and while he groped for the choice bottle, he muttered to himself, “At their old tricks again!”
During their business dealings, they realized they shared similar views. Piety and practicality often go hand in hand, but it's rare to see both taken to the extremes these two men did. Their encounter in the prayer market led to mutual respect, much like knights meeting one another in battle. Additionally, the good priest enjoyed a bit of gossip and, upon learning that his customer was one of those who had fought off the thieves at Domfront, he invited him into his parlor to hear the whole story directly. His heart warmed to Gerard, and he said, “God was good to you. I thank Him for that with all my soul. You're a good guy.” He added with a dry tone, “You should have told me this story in the churchyard. I doubt I would have charged you for the mass out of goodwill. However,” he continued (his mood suddenly shifting), “it's bad luck to go back on a deal. But I'll open a bottle of my old Medoc for you, and not many guests would get that treatment.” The priest went to his cupboard, and as he rummaged for the special bottle, he muttered to himself, “At it again!”
“Plait-il?” said Gerard.
“What's that?” said Gerard.
“I said nought. Ay, here 'tis.”
“I said nothing. Yeah, here it is.”
“Nay, your reverence. You surely spoke: you said, 'At their old tricks again!'”
“Nah, your honor. You definitely said: you said, 'At their old tricks again!'”
“Said I so in sooth?” and his reverence smiled. He then proceeded to broach the wine, and filled a cup for each. Then he put a log of wood on the fire, for stoves were none in Burgundy. “And so I said 'At their old tricks!' did I? Come, sip the good wine, and, whilst it lasts, story for story, I care not if I tell you a little tale.”
“Did I really say that?” he said with a smile. He then poured some wine and filled a cup for each of them. Next, he added a log to the fire, since there were no stoves in Burgundy. “So I mentioned 'their old tricks,' did I? Come on, enjoy the good wine, and while we have it, I'll share a little story.”
Gerard's eyes sparkled.
Gerard's eyes lit up.
“Thou lovest a story?”
“Do you love a story?”
“As my life.”
“As my life is.”
“Nay, but raise not thine expectations too high, neither. 'Tis but a foolish trifle compared with thine adventures.”
“Nah, but don’t raise your expectations too high either. It’s just a silly little thing compared to your adventures.”
THE CURE'S TALE.
The Cure's Story.
“Once upon a time, then, in the kingdom of France, and in the duchy of Burgundy, and not a day's journey from the town where now we sit a-sipping of old Medoc, there lived a cure. I say he lived; but barely. The parish was small, the parishioners greedy; and never gave their cure a doit more than he could compel. The nearer they brought him to a disembodied spirit by meagre diet, the holier should be his prayers in their behalf. I know not if this was their creed, but their practice gave it colour.
“Once upon a time, in the kingdom of France and the duchy of Burgundy, not far from the town where we now sit enjoying old Medoc, there lived a priest. I say he lived; but just barely. The parish was small, and the parishioners were greedy, giving their priest no more than what he could force them to give. The less they fed him, the holier they believed his prayers for them would be. I'm not sure if this was their belief, but their actions certainly suggested it.”
“At last he pickled a rod for them.
“At last he pickled a rod for them."
“One day the richest farmer in the place had twins to baptize. The cure was had to the christening dinner as usual; but ere he would baptize the children, he demanded, not the christening fees only, but the burial fees. 'Saints defend us, parson, cried the mother; 'talk not of burying! I did never see children liker to live.' 'Nor I,' said the cure, 'the praise be to God. Natheless, they are sure to die, being sons of Adam, as well as of thee, dame. But die when they will, 'twill cost them nothing, the burial fees being paid and entered in this book.' 'For all that 'twill cost them something,' quoth the miller, the greatest wag in the place, and as big a knave as any; for which was the biggest God knoweth, but no mortal man, not even the hangman. 'Miller, I tell thee nay,' quo' the cure. 'Parson, I tell you ay,' quo' the miller. ''Twill cost them their lives.' At which millstone conceit was a great laugh; and in the general mirth the fees were paid and the Christians made.
“One day, the richest farmer in the area had twins to baptize. The priest was invited to the christening dinner as usual; but before he would baptize the children, he asked for not just the christening fees, but the burial fees as well. 'God forbid, parson,' cried the mother; 'don't talk about burying! I've never seen children more likely to live.' 'Nor have I,' said the priest, 'thank God. Still, they are bound to die, being sons of Adam, just like you, ma'am. But whenever they die, it won't cost them anything, as the burial fees are already paid and recorded in this book.' 'Even so, it will cost them something,' said the miller, the biggest jokester in the area and every bit as mischievous as anyone; which one was the biggest, only God knows, not any human, not even the hangman. 'Miller, I tell you no,' replied the priest. 'Parson, I tell you yes,' replied the miller. 'It will cost them their lives.' At which silly remark, everyone broke into laughter; and in the general merriment, the fees were paid and the Christians were made.
“But when the next parishioner's child, and the next after, and all, had to pay each his burial fee, or lose his place in heaven, discontent did secretly rankle in the parish. Well, one fine day they met in secret, and sent a churchwarden with a complaint to the bishop, and a thunderbolt fell on the poor cure. Came to him at dinner-time a summons to the episcopal palace, to bring the parish books and answer certain charges. Then the cure guessed where the shoe pinched. He left his food on the board, for small his appetite now, and took the parish books and went quaking.
“But when the next parishioner's child, and the next after that, and all the others had to pay their burial fees, or risk losing their place in heaven, discontent began to simmer in the parish. One day, they gathered secretly and sent a churchwarden with a complaint to the bishop, and a storm fell on the poor curate. During dinner, he received a summons to the bishop's palace to bring the parish records and respond to some allegations. Then the curate understood the problem. He abandoned his meal, as his appetite was gone, and took the parish books, feeling nervous.”
“The bishop entertained him with a frown, and exposed the plaint. 'Monseigneur,' said the cure right humbly, 'doth the parish allege many things against me, or this one only?' 'In sooth, but this one,' said the bishop, and softened a little. 'First, monseigneur, I acknowledge the fact.' ''Tis well,' quoth the bishop; 'that saves time and trouble. Now to your excuse, if excuse there be.' 'Monseigneur, I have been cure of that parish seven years, and fifty children have I baptized, and buried not five. At first I used to say, “Heaven be praised, the air of this village is main healthy;” but on searching the register book I found 'twas always so, and on probing the matter, it came out that of those born at Domfront, all, but here and there one, did go and get hanged at Aix. But this was to defraud not their cure only, but the entire Church of her dues, since “pendards” pay no funeral fees, being buried in air. Thereupon, knowing by sad experience their greed, and how they grudge the Church every sou, I laid a trap to keep them from hanging; for, greed against greed, there be of them that will die in their beds like true men ere the Church shall gain those funeral fees for nought.' Then the bishop laughed till the tears ran down, and questioned the churchwarden, and he was fain to confess that too many of the parish did come to that unlucky end at Aix. 'Then,' said the bishop, 'I do approve the act, for myself and my successors; and so be it ever, till they mend their manners and die in their beds.' And the next day came the ringleaders crestfallen to the cure, and said, 'Parson, ye were even good to us, barring this untoward matter: prithee let there be no ill blood anent so trivial a thing.' And the cure said, 'My children, I were unworthy to be your pastor could I not forgive a wrong; go in peace, and get me as many children as may be, that by the double fees the cure you love may miss starvation.'
The bishop greeted him with a frown and laid out the complaint. 'Monseigneur,' the priest said humbly, 'does the parish have many issues with me, or just this one?' 'Indeed, just this one,' the bishop replied, easing up a bit. 'First, monseigneur, I admit it.' 'Good,' said the bishop; 'that saves us time and hassle. Now, what's your defense, if there is one?' 'Monseigneur, I’ve been the priest of this parish for seven years, I’ve baptized fifty children, and I’ve buried not five. At first, I would say, “Praise heaven, the air in this village is quite healthy;” but looking through the records, I found that’s always been the case. When I dug deeper, it turned out that nearly all the children born in Domfront ended up getting hanged at Aix. This not only cheated their priest but also the Church of her dues since “hanged men” don’t pay for funerals, being buried in the air. So, knowing all too well their greed and how they begrudge the Church every penny, I set a trap to keep them from hanging themselves; for, pit greed against greed, some would rather die in their beds like decent men than let the Church gain those funeral fees for nothing.' The bishop laughed until tears streamed down his face and asked the churchwarden, who reluctantly admitted that too many parishioners met that unfortunate end at Aix. 'Then,' said the bishop, 'I approve of the action, for myself and my successors; and let it be so until they improve their behavior and die in their beds.' The next day, the ringleaders came to the priest, looking defeated, and said, 'Parson, you’ve been good to us, aside from this unfortunate matter: please let there be no hard feelings over something so trivial.' The priest replied, 'My children, I’d be unworthy to be your pastor if I couldn’t forgive a wrong; go in peace, and bring me as many children as possible, so that with the double fees the priest you love can avoid starvation.'
“And the bishop often told the story, and it kept his memory of the cure alive, and at last he shifted him to a decent parish, where he can offer a glass of old Medoc to such as are worthy of it. Their name it is not legion.”
“And the bishop often shared the story, keeping the memory of the cure alive, and eventually he moved him to a decent parish, where he can offer a glass of old Medoc to those who deserve it. Their name is not legion.”
A light broke in upon Gerard, his countenance showed it.
A light came on for Gerard, and you could see it on his face.
“Ay!” said his host, “I am that cure: so now thou canst guess why I said 'At their old tricks.' My life on't they have wheedled my successor into remitting those funeral fees. You are well out of that parish. And so am I.”
“Hey!” said his host, “I’m the cure: so now you can see why I said 'At their old tricks.' I bet they’ve managed to convince my successor to drop those funeral fees. You’re lucky to be out of that parish. So am I.”
The cure's little niece burst in, “Uncle, the weighing—la! a stranger!” And burst out.
The cure’s little niece burst in, “Uncle, the weighing—wow! A stranger!” And then she ran out.
The cure rose directly, but would not part with Gerard.
The cure rose directly but wouldn’t let go of Gerard.
“Wet thy beard once more, and come with me.”
“Wet your beard one more time and come with me.”
In the church porch they found the sexton with a huge pair of scales, and weights of all sizes. Several humble persons were standing by, and soon a woman stepped forward with a sickly child and said, “Be it heavy be it light, I vow, in rye meal of the best, whate'er this child shall weigh, and the same will duly pay to Holy Church, an if he shall cast his trouble. Pray, good people, for this child, and for me his mother hither come in dole and care!”
In the church porch, they found the sexton with a huge pair of scales and weights of all sizes. Several humble people were standing nearby, and soon a woman stepped forward with a sickly child and said, “Whether it’s heavy or light, I promise, in the best rye flour, whatever this child weighs, I will pay the same amount to Holy Church if he gets better. Please, good people, pray for this child and for me, his mother, who comes here in sorrow and worry!”
The child was weighed, and yelled as if the scale had been the font.
The child was weighed and screamed like the scale was a fountain.
“Courage! dame,” cried Gerard. “This is a good sign. There is plenty of life here to battle its trouble.”
“Hang in there, lady,” shouted Gerard. “This is a good sign. There’s a lot of life here ready to face its challenges.”
“Now, blest be the tongue that tells me so,” said the poor woman. She hushed her ponderling against her bosom, and stood aloof watching, whilst another woman brought her child to scale.
“Now, blessed be the person who tells me that,” said the poor woman. She held her baby close to her chest and stood aside watching as another woman brought her child to be weighed.
But presently a loud, dictatorial voice was heard, “Way there, make way for the seigneur!”
But soon a loud, commanding voice was heard, “Clear the way, make way for the lord!”
The small folk parted on both sides like waves ploughed by a lordly galley, and in marched in gorgeous attire, his cap adorned by a feather with a topaz at its root, his jerkin richly furred, satin doublet, red hose, shoes like skates, diamond-hilted sword in velvet scabbard, and hawk on his wrist, “the lord of the manor.” He flung himself into the scales as if he was lord of the zodiac as well as the manor: whereat the hawk balanced and flapped; but stuck: then winked.
The crowd parted on both sides like waves pushed apart by a grand ship, and in walked a man in stunning clothes, his hat decorated with a feather and a topaz at its base, wearing a richly furred jacket, a satin doublet, red tights, shoes that resembled skates, a diamond-hilted sword in a velvet sheath, and a hawk perched on his wrist—the “lord of the manor.” He threw himself onto the scales as if he ruled the stars as well as the estate: the hawk balanced and flapped its wings; then it paused and blinked.
While the sexton heaved in the great weights, the cure told Gerard, “My lord had been sick unto death, and vowed his weight in bread and cheese to the poor, the Church taking her tenth.”
While the sexton struggled with the heavy weights, the priest told Gerard, “My lord had been gravely ill and promised his weight in bread and cheese to the poor, with the Church receiving her share.”
“Permit me, my lord; if your lordship continues to press your lordship's staff on the other scale, you will disturb the balance.”
“Please, my lord; if you keep pushing your staff on the other side, you will upset the balance.”
His lordship grinned and removed his staff, and leaned on it. The cure politely but firmly objected to that too.
His lordship grinned and took away his staff, leaning on it instead. The doctor politely but firmly disagreed with that as well.
“Mille diables! what am I to do with it, then?” cried the other.
“Mille diables! What am I supposed to do with it, then?” cried the other.
“Deign to hold it out so, my lord, wide of both scales.”
“Please hold it out like that, my lord, away from both scales.”
When my lord did this, and so fell into the trap he had laid for Holy Church, the good cure whispered to Gerard. “Cretensis incidit in Cretensem!” which I take to mean, “Diamond cut diamond.” He then said with an obsequious air, “If that your lordship grudges Heaven full weight, you might set the hawk on your lacquey, and so save a pound.”
When my lord did this, he fell into the trap he had set for Holy Church, and the good priest whispered to Gerard. “Cretensis incidit in Cretensem!” which I interpret as, “Diamond cut diamond.” He then said with a sycophantic attitude, “If your lordship resents giving Heaven its due, you could unleash the hawk on your servant and save a pound.”
“Gramercy for thy rede, cure,” cried the great man, reproachfully. “Shall I for one sorry pound grudge my poor fowl the benefit of Holy Church? I'd as lieve the devil should have me and all my house as her, any day i' the year.”
“Thanks for your advice, cure,” shouted the great man, bitterly. “Should I really begrudge my poor bird the blessings of the Church over one measly pound? I’d rather the devil take me and my whole family than that happen, any day of the year.”
“Sweet is affection,” whispered the cure.
“Affection is sweet,” whispered the priest.
“Between a bird and a brute,” whispered Gerard.
“Between a bird and a beast,” whispered Gerard.
“Tush!” and the cure looked terrified.
“Tush!” and the cure looked scared.
The seigneur's weight was booked, and Heaven I trust and believe did not weigh his gratitude in the balance of the sanctuary. For my unlearned reader is not to suppose there was anything the least eccentric in the man, or his gratitude to the Giver of health and all good gifts. Men look forward to death, and back upon past sickness with different eyes. Item, when men drive a bargain, they strive to get the sunny side of it; it matters not one straw whether it is with man or Heaven they are bargaining. In this respect we are the same now, at bottom, as we were four hundred years ago: only in those days we did it a grain or two more naively, and that naivete shone out more palpably, because, in that rude age, body prevailing over mind, all sentiments took material forms. Man repented with scourges, prayed by bead, bribed the saints with wax tapers, put fish into the body to sanctify the soul, sojourned in cold water for empire over the emotions, and thanked God for returning health in 1 cwt. 2 stone 7 lb 3 oz. 1 dwt. of bread and cheese.
The lord's weight was recorded, and I trust that Heaven didn’t weigh his gratitude on the scales of the sanctuary. My uneducated reader shouldn’t think there was anything strange about the man or his thankfulness to the Giver of health and all good things. People look forward to death and look back on past illnesses with different perspectives. Also, when people make a deal, they try to get the best part of it; it doesn’t matter whether they’re negotiating with a person or with Heaven. In this way, we are essentially the same now as we were four hundred years ago; the only difference is that back then, we did it a little more openly, and that openness was more obvious because, in that rough period, physical needs dominated the mind, and all feelings took tangible forms. People repented with whips, prayed with rosaries, bribed saints with wax candles, put fish in their bodies to purify the soul, spent time in cold water to gain control over their feelings, and thanked God for restored health with 1 cwt. 2 stone 7 lb 3 oz. 1 dwt. of bread and cheese.
Whilst I have been preaching, who preach so rarely and so ill, the good cure has been soliciting the lord of the manor to step into the church, and give order what shall be done with his great-great-grandfather.
While I've been preaching, which I do so rarely and so poorly, the good cure has been asking the lord of the manor to come into the church and decide what should be done about his great-great-grandfather.
“Ods bodikins! what, have you dug him up?”
“Ods bodikins! What, have you dug him up?”
“Nay, my lord, he never was buried.”
“Nah, my lord, he was never buried.”
“What, the old dict was true after all?”
"What, the old saying was actually true?"
“So true that the workmen this very day found a skeleton erect in the pillar they are repairing. I had sent to my lord at once, but I knew he would be here.”
“So true that the workers today found a skeleton standing upright in the pillar they are fixing. I sent word to my lord right away, but I knew he would be here.”
“It is he! 'Tis he!” said his descendant, quickening his pace. “Let us go see the old boy. This youth is a stranger, I think.”
“It’s him! It’s really him!” said his descendant, picking up the pace. “Let’s go see the old man. I think this young guy is a stranger.”
Gerard bowed.
Gerard bowed.
“Know then that my great-great-grandfather held his head high and being on the point of death, revolted against lying under the aisle with his forbears for mean folk to pass over. So, as the tradition goes, he swore his son (my great-grandfather), to bury him erect in one of the pillars of the church” (here they entered the porch). “'For,' quoth he, 'NO BASE MAN SHALL PASS OVER MY STOMACH.' Peste!” and even while speaking, his lordship parried adroitly with his stick a skull that came hopping at him, bowled by a boy in the middle of the aisle, who took to his heels yelling with fear the moment he saw what he had done. His lordship hurled the skull furiously after him as he ran, at which the cure gave a shout of dismay and put forth his arm to hinder him, but was too late.
“Know then that my great-great-grandfather held his head high and, on the verge of death, refused to be buried under the aisle with his ancestors for ordinary people to walk over. So, as the story goes, he made his son (my great-grandfather) promise to bury him standing in one of the church's pillars” (here they entered the porch). “‘For,’ he said, ‘NO LOWLY PERSON SHALL STEP OVER MY BODY.’ Peste!” Even as he spoke, his lordship skillfully deflected a skull that came rolling toward him, knocked by a boy in the middle of the aisle, who took off running in fear the moment he realized what he had done. His lordship angrily threw the skull after him as he ran, at which the priest shouted in alarm and tried to stop him, but was too late.
The cure groaned aloud. And as if this had evoked spirits of mischief, up started a whole pack of children from some ambuscade, and unseen, but heard loud enough, clattered out of the church like a covey rising in a thick wood.
The crowd let out a loud groan. And as if that had stirred up a bunch of troublemakers, a whole group of kids jumped out from their hiding spot, and although they were out of sight, they were loud enough to be heard as they rushed out of the church like a flock of birds taking flight from a dense forest.
“Oh! these pernicious brats,” cried the cure. “The workmen cannot go to their nonemete but the church is rife with them. Pray Heaven they have not found his late lordship; nay, I mind, I hid his lordship under a workmen's jerkin, and—saints defend us! the jerkin has been moved.”
“Oh! these terrible kids,” shouted the priest. “The workers can't go to their break without those little monsters filling up the church. I hope to God they haven't found his late lordship; wait, I remember, I hid his lordship under a worker's jacket, and—oh my gosh! the jacket has been moved.”
The poor cure's worst misgivings were realized: the rising generation of the plebians had played the mischief with the haughty old noble. “The little ones had jockeyed for the bones oh,” and pocketed such of them as seemed adapted for certain primitive games then in vogue amongst them.
The poor cure's worst fears came true: the younger crowd of commoners had caused trouble for the arrogant old noble. “The kids had scrambled for the scraps,” and took whatever they thought would work for the simple games that were popular among them at the time.
“I'll excommunicate them,” roared the curate, “and all their race.”
“I'll excommunicate them,” shouted the curate, “and everyone in their family.”
“Never heed,” said the scapegrace lord: and stroked his hawk; “there is enough of him to swear by. Put him back! put him back!”
“Don’t worry,” said the reckless lord, stroking his hawk. “There’s enough of him to swear by. Put him back! Put him back!”
“Surely, my lord, 'tis your will his bones be laid in hallowed earth, and masses said for his poor prideful soul?”
“Surely, my lord, it’s your wish for his bones to be buried in sacred ground, and for masses to be said for his sad, prideful soul?”
The noble stroked his hawk.
The noble caressed his hawk.
“Are ye there, Master Cure?” said he. “Nay, the business is too old: he is out of purgatory by this time, up or down. I shall not draw my purse-strings for him. Every dog his day. Adieu, Messires, adieu, ancestor;” and he sauntered off whistling to his hawk and caressing it.
“Are you there, Master Cure?” he said. “No, that situation is too far gone: he’s either in heaven or hell by now. I won’t spend any money on him. Every dog has its day. Goodbye, sirs, goodbye, ancestor;” and he walked away whistling to his hawk and petting it.
His reverence looked ruefully after him.
His reverence watched him go with a sad expression.
“Cretensis incidit in Cretensem,” said he sorrowfully. “I thought I had him safe for a dozen masses. Yet I blame him not, but that young ne'er-do-weel which did trundle his ancestor's skull at us: for who could venerate his great-great-grandsire and play football with his head? Well it behoves us to be better Christians than he is.” So they gathered the bones reverently, and the cure locked them up, and forbade the workmen, who now entered the church, to close up the pillar, till he should recover by threats of the Church's wrath every atom of my lord. And he showed Gerard a famous shrine in the church. Before it were the usual gifts of tapers, etc. There was also a wax image of a falcon, most curiously moulded and coloured to the life, eyes and all. Gerard's eye fell at once on this, and he expressed the liveliest admiration. The cure assented. Then Gerard asked, “Could the saint have loved hawking?”
“Cretensis is in Cretensem,” he said sadly. “I thought I had him safe for a dozen masses. But I don't blame him; I blame that young troublemaker who kicked his ancestor's skull at us. Who could honor his great-great-grandfather while using his head to play football? Well, we should strive to be better Christians than he is.” So they carefully gathered the bones, and the priest locked them away, telling the workers who entered the church not to seal up the pillar until he could retrieve every piece of my lord by threatening them with the Church's anger. He then showed Gerard a famous shrine in the church. In front of it were the usual offerings of candles and such. There was also a wax statue of a falcon, intricately molded and realistically painted, eyes and all. Gerard instantly noticed it and expressed his admiration. The priest agreed. Then Gerard asked, “Could the saint have liked falconry?”
The cure laughed at his simplicity. “Nay, 'tis but a statuary hawk. When they have a bird of gentle breed they cannot train, they make his image, and send it to this shrine with a present, and pray the saint to work upon the stubborn mind of the original, and make it ductile as wax: that is the notion, and methinks a reasonable one, too.”
The healer chuckled at his naivety. “No, it’s just a statue of a hawk. When they have a bird of a gentle breed that they can’t train, they create its likeness, send it to this shrine with a gift, and ask the saint to influence the stubborn original and make it as pliable as wax: that’s the idea, and I think it’s a reasonable one, too.”
Gerard assented. “But alack, reverend sir, were I a saint, methinks I should side with the innocent dove, rather than with the cruel hawk that rends her.”
Gerard agreed. “But unfortunately, respected sir, if I were a saint, I think I would side with the innocent dove, rather than with the cruel hawk that tears her apart.”
“By St. Denys you are right,” said the cure. “But, que voulez-vous? the saints are debonair, and have been flesh themselves, and know man's frailty and absurdity. 'Tis the Bishop of Avignon sent this one.”
“By St. Denys, you’re right,” said the priest. “But what do you want? The saints are friendly, have been human themselves, and understand man’s weaknesses and foolishness. It’s the Bishop of Avignon who sent this one.”
“What! do bishops hawk in this country?”
“What! Do bishops sell themselves in this country?”
“One and all. Every noble person hawks, and lives with hawk on wrist. Why, my lord abbot hard by, and his lordship that has just parted from us, had a two years' feud as to where they should put their hawks down on that very altar there. Each claimed the right hand of the altar for his bird.”
"Everyone. Every noble person shows off their hawks and walks around with one on their wrist. Well, my lord abbot nearby and his lordship who just left had a two-year feud over where they should put their hawks on that very altar there. Each of them claimed the right side of the altar for their bird."
“What desecration!”
"What a disgrace!"
“Nay! nay! thou knowest we make them doff both glove and hawk to take the blessed eucharist. Their jewelled gloves will they give to a servant or simple Christian to hold: but their beloved hawks they will put down on no place less than the altar.”
“Nah! Nah! you know we make them take off both their gloves and their hawks to receive the blessed Eucharist. They’ll hand their jeweled gloves to a servant or a simple Christian to hold, but they won't put their beloved hawks down anywhere less than the altar.”
Gerard inquired how the battle of the hawks ended.
Gerard asked how the battle of the hawks turned out.
“Why, the abbot he yielded, as the Church yields to laymen. He searched ancient books, and found that the left hand was the more honourable, being in truth the right hand, since the altar is east, but looks westward. So he gave my lord the soi-disant right hand, and contented himself with the real right hand, and even so may the Church still outwit the lay nobles and their arrogance, saving your presence.”
“Why, the abbot gave in, just like the Church does to regular people. He looked through old books and discovered that the left hand was actually the more honorable, since it truly represents the right hand, because the altar faces east but looks west. So, he gave my lord what he pretended was the right hand, while he took the actual right hand for himself. Even now, the Church can still outsmart the noblemen and their arrogance, pardon my saying.”
“Nay, sir, I honour the Church. I am convent bred, and owe all I have and am to Holy Church.”
“Nah, sir, I respect the Church. I grew up in a convent and owe everything I have and am to the Holy Church.”
“Ah, that accounts for my sudden liking to thee. Art a gracious youth. Come and see me whenever thou wilt.”
“Ah, that explains why I've suddenly taken a liking to you. You are a kind young man. Come and see me whenever you want.”
Gerard took this as a hint that he might go now. It jumped with his own wish, for he was curious to hear what Denys had seen and done all this time. He made his reverence and walked out of the church; but was no sooner clear of it than he set off to run with all his might: and tearing round a corner, ran into a large stomach, whose owner clutched him, to keep himself steady under the shock; but did not release his hold on regaining his equilibrium.
Gerard took this as a sign that he could leave now. It aligned with his own desire, as he was eager to find out what Denys had experienced and accomplished all this time. He bowed and walked out of the church; but as soon as he was outside, he took off running as fast as he could. Rounding a corner, he crashed into a large person, whose sturdy build helped absorb the impact; however, he didn’t let go as he steadied himself.
“Let go, man,” said Gerard.
“Let it go, man,” said Gerard.
“Not so. You are my prisoner.”
“Not at all. You’re my prisoner.”
“Prisoner?”
"Is this a prisoner?"
“Ay.”
"Yeah."
“What for, in Heaven's name?”
“What for, in God's name?”
“What for? Why, sorcery.”
"Why? It's magic."
“SORCERY?”
“Magic?”
“Sorcery.”
“Magic.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
The culprits were condemned to stand pinioned in the marketplace for two hours, that should any persons recognize them or any of them as guilty of other crimes, they might depose to that effect at the trial.
The offenders were sentenced to stand restrained in the marketplace for two hours, so that if anyone recognized them or any of them as guilty of other crimes, they could testify about it during the trial.
They stood, however, the whole period, and no one advanced anything fresh against them. This was the less remarkable that they were night birds, vampires who preyed in the dark on weary travellers, mostly strangers.
They stood there the whole time, and no one brought up anything new against them. It was less surprising since they were night owls, vampires who hunted in the dark, preying on tired travelers, mostly strangers.
But just as they were being taken down, a fearful scream was heard in the crowd, and a woman pointed at one of them, with eyes almost starting from their sockets: but ere she could speak she fainted away.
But just as they were being taken down, a terrified scream pierced the crowd, and a woman pointed at one of them, her eyes wide with fear: but before she could say anything, she fainted.
Then men and women crowded round her, partly to aid her, partly from curiosity. When she began to recover they fell to conjectures.
Then men and women gathered around her, partly to help her, partly out of curiosity. As she started to recover, they began to speculate.
“'Twas at him she pointed.”
"She pointed at him."
“Nay, 'twas at this one.”
"No, it was at this one."
“Nay, nay,” said another, “'twas at yon hangdog with the hair hung round his neck.”
“Nah, nah,” said another, “it was that guy over there with the hair hanging around his neck.”
All further conjectures were cut short. The poor creature no sooner recovered her senses than she flew at the landlord like a lioness. “My child! Man! man! Give me back my child.” And she seized the glossy golden hair that the officers had hung round his neck, and tore it from his neck, and covered it with kisses; then, her poor confused mind clearing, she saw even by this token that her lost girl was dead, and sank suddenly down shrieking and sobbing so over the poor hair, that the crowd rushed on the assassin with one savage growl. His life had ended then and speedily, for in those days all carried death at their girdles. But Denys drew his sword directly, and shouting “A moi, camarades!” kept the mob at bay. “Who lays a finger on him dies.” Other archers backed him, and with some difficulty they kept him uninjured, while Denys appealed to those who shouted for his blood.
All further guesses were cut short. The poor woman barely regained her senses before she lunged at the landlord like a lioness. “My child! Man! Man! Give me back my child!” She grabbed the shiny golden hair that the officers had draped around his neck, ripped it off, and covered it with kisses. Then, as her confused mind cleared, she realized from this sign that her lost girl was dead and suddenly collapsed, shrieking and sobbing over the poor hair, causing the crowd to surge toward the assassin with a fierce growl. His life would end quickly then, for in those days, everyone carried death at their sides. But Denys drew his sword immediately, shouting “To me, comrades!” and held the mob back. “Anyone who touches him dies.” Other archers supported him, and with some effort, they kept him safe while Denys pleaded with those who were calling for his blood.
“What sort of vengeance is this? would you be so mad as rob the wheel, and give the vermin an easy death?”
“What kind of revenge is this? Would you be so crazy as to steal the wheel and give the pests an easy death?”
The mob was kept passive by the archers' steel rather than by Denys's words, and growled at intervals with flashing eyes. The municipal officers, seeing this, collected round, and with the archers made a guard, and prudently carried the accused back to gaol.
The crowd was kept in check by the archers' steel rather than by Denys's words, and they grumbled occasionally with angry eyes. The municipal officers, noticing this, gathered around and formed a guard with the archers, wisely taking the accused back to jail.
The mob hooted them and the prisoners indiscriminately. Denys saw the latter safely lodged, then made for “The White Hart,” where he expected to find Gerard.
The crowd jeered at them and the prisoners without distinction. Denys saw the latter securely placed, then headed for “The White Hart,” where he hoped to find Gerard.
On the way he saw two girls working at a first-floor window. He saluted them. They smiled. He entered into conversation. Their manners were easy, their complexion high.
On his way, he saw two girls working at a first-floor window. He waved at them. They smiled back. He started a conversation with them. They were friendly, and their cheeks were flushed.
He invited them to a repast at “The White Hart.” They objected. He acquiesced in their refusal. They consented. And in this charming society he forgot all about poor Gerard, who meantime was carried off to gaol; but on the way suddenly stopped, having now somewhat recovered his presence of mind, and demanded to know by whose authority he was arrested.
He invited them to a meal at “The White Hart.” They declined. He went along with their refusal. They agreed. And in this lovely company, he completely forgot about poor Gerard, who, in the meantime, was taken off to jail; but on the way, he suddenly stopped, having regained his composure, and asked who had the authority to arrest him.
“By the vice-baillie's,” said the constable.
“By the vice-baillie's,” said the constable.
“The vice-baillie? Alas! what have I, a stranger, done to offend a vice-baillie? For this charge of sorcery must be a blind. No sorcerer am I; but a poor true lad far from his home.”
“The vice-baillie? Oh no! What have I, a stranger, done to upset a vice-baillie? This accusation of witchcraft must be a cover. I’m not a sorcerer; I’m just a poor, honest guy far from home.”
This vague shift disgusted the officer. “Show him the capias, Jacques,” said he.
This vague shift disgusted the officer. “Show him the capias, Jacques,” he said.
Jacques held out the writ in both hands about a yard and a half from Gerard's eye; and at the same moment the large constable suddenly pinned him; both officers were on tenterhooks lest the prisoner should grab the document, to which they attached a superstitious importance.
Jacques held out the writ in both hands about a yard and a half from Gerard's eye; and at the same moment, the large constable suddenly grabbed him; both officers were on edge, worried that the prisoner might snatch the document, which they viewed with a superstitious importance.
But the poor prisoner had no such thought. Query whether he would have touched it with the tongs. He just craned out his neck and read it, and to his infinite surprise found the vice-bailiff who had signed the writ was the friendly alderman. He took courage and assured his captor there was some error. But finding he made no impression, demanded to be taken before the alderman.
But the poor prisoner didn’t think that way at all. You have to wonder if he would’ve even touched it with the tongs. He just leaned out and read it, and to his immense surprise, he discovered that the vice-bailiff who had signed the writ was actually the friendly alderman. He gathered his courage and told his captor there was some mistake. But seeing that it didn’t have any effect, he insisted on being taken before the alderman.
“What say you to that, Jacques?”
“What do you think about that, Jacques?”
“Impossible. We have no orders to take him before his worship. Read the writ!”
“Not happening. We don’t have any orders to bring him before his honor. Read the writ!”
“Nay, but good kind fellows, what harm can it be? I will give you each an ecu.”
“Nah, but good friends, what harm can it be? I'll give you each an ecu.”
“Jacques, what say you to that?”
“Jacques, what do you think about that?”
“Humph! I say we have no orders not to take him to his worship. Read the writ!”
“Humph! I say we have no orders against taking him to his worship. Read the writ!”
“Then say we take him to prison round by his worship.”
“Then let’s take him to jail by his honor.”
It was agreed. They got the money; and bade Gerard observe they were doing him a favour. He saw they wanted a little gratitude as well as much silver. He tried to satisfy this cupidity, but it stuck in his throat. Feigning was not his forte.
It was agreed. They got the money and told Gerard that they were doing him a favor. He realized they wanted some gratitude along with a lot of cash. He tried to meet this demand, but it felt hard to swallow. Pretending wasn't his strong suit.
He entered the alderman's presence with his heart in his mouth, and begged with faltering voice to know what he had done to offend since he left that very room with Manon and Denys.
He walked into the alderman's presence with his heart racing and nervously asked what he had done to upset anyone since he left that same room with Manon and Denys.
“Nought that I know of,” said the alderman.
“Nobody that I know of,” said the alderman.
On the writ being shown him, he told Gerard he had signed it at daybreak. “I get old, and my memory faileth me: a discussing of the girl I quite forgot your own offence: but I remember now. All is well. You are he I committed for sorcery. Stay! ere you go to gaol, you shall hear what your accuser says: run and fetch him, you.”
On the writ being shown to him, he told Gerard he had signed it at dawn. “I’m getting old, and my memory is fading: while talking about the girl, I completely forgot your own offense: but I remember now. Everything’s fine. You are the one I jailed for witchcraft. Wait! Before you go to prison, you’ll hear what your accuser has to say: go and get him, you.”
The man could not find the accuser all at once. So the alderman, getting impatient, told Gerard the main charge was that he had set a dead body a burning with diabolical fire, that flamed, but did not consume. “And if 'tis true, young man, I'm sorry for thee, for thou wilt assuredly burn with fire of good pine logs in the market-place of Neufchasteau.”
The man couldn't find the accuser right away. So the alderman, growing impatient, told Gerard that the main accusation was that he had burned a dead body with a supernatural fire that flared up but didn’t actually consume. “And if that’s true, young man, I feel sorry for you, because you’ll definitely be burned with real pine logs in the marketplace of Neufchasteau.”
“Oh, sir, for pity's sake let me have speech with his reverence the cure.”
“Oh, sir, please let me speak with the priest.”
The alderman advised Gerard against it. “The Church was harder upon sorcerers than was the corporation.”
The councilman warned Gerard not to go through with it. “The Church was tougher on sorcerers than the city was.”
“But, sir, I am innocent,” said Gerard, between snarling and whining.
“But, sir, I’m innocent,” Gerard said, mixing a snarl with a whine.
“Oh, if you think you are innocent—officer, go with him to the cure; but see he 'scape you not. Innocent, quotha?”
“Oh, if you think you’re innocent—officer, go with him to the treatment; but make sure he doesn’t escape you. Innocent, right?”
They found the cure in his doublet repairing a wheelbarrow. Gerard told him all, and appealed piteously to him. “Just for using a little phosphorus in self-defence against cut-throats they are going to hang.”
They found the cure in his jacket while fixing a wheelbarrow. Gerard told him everything and pleaded with him. “Just for using a little phosphorus to defend himself against thugs, they’re going to hang him.”
It was lucky for our magician that he had already told his tale in full to the cure, for thus that shrewd personage had hold of the stick at the right end. The corporation held it by the ferule. His reverence looked exceedingly grave and said, “I must question you privately on this untoward business.” He took him into a private room and bade the officer stand outside and guard the door, and be ready to come if called. The big constable stood outside the door, quaking, and expecting to see the room fly away and leave a stink of brimstone. Instantly they were alone the cure unlocked his countenance and was himself again.
It was fortunate for our magician that he had already shared his entire story with the priest, as this clever individual had the situation under control. The officials were clueless. The priest looked very serious and said, “I need to ask you some private questions about this unfortunate situation.” He led him into a private room and instructed the officer to stand outside and watch the door, ready to come in if needed. The big constable stood outside, trembling and expecting the room to vanish in a puff of sulfur. As soon as they were alone, the priest relaxed and returned to his usual self.
“Show me the trick on't,” said he, all curiosity.
“Show me how it’s done,” he said, filled with curiosity.
“I cannot, sir, unless the room be darkened.”
“I can't, sir, unless the room is dark.”
The cure speedily closed out the light with a wooden shutter. “Now, then.”
The caretaker quickly shut the light with a wooden shutter. “Alright, then.”
“But on what shall I put it?” said Gerard. “Here is no dead face. 'Twas that made it look so dire.” The cure groped about the room. “Good; here is an image: 'tis my patron saint.”
“But what should I put it on?” said Gerard. “There’s no dead face here. That’s what made it look so bad.” The priest searched around the room. “Good; here’s an image: it’s my patron saint.”
“Heaven forbid! That were profanation.”
"God forbid! That would be sacrilege."
“Pshaw! 'twill rub off, will't not?”
“Come on! It'll wear off, right?”
“Ay, but it goes against me to take such liberty with a saint,” objected the sorcerer.
“Ay, but it feels wrong to take such liberty with a saint,” protested the sorcerer.
“Fiddlestick!” said the divine.
“Fiddlestick!” said the deity.
“To be sure by putting it on his holiness will show your reverence it is no Satanic art.”
“To be sure, wearing it will show your respect; it's not some sort of evil magic.”
“Mayhap 'twas for that I did propose it.” said the cure subtly.
“Maybe it was for that reason that I suggested it,” said the priest subtly.
Thus encouraged, Gerard fired the eyes and nostrils of the image and made the cure jump. Then lighted up the hair in patches; and set the whole face shining like a glow-worm's.
Thus encouraged, Gerard lit up the eyes and nostrils of the image and made the cure jump. Then he brightened the hair in patches and made the whole face shine like a glow-worm's.
“By'r Lady,” shouted the cure, “'tis strange, and small my wonder that they took you for a magician, seeing a dead face thus fired. Now come thy ways with me!”
“By my Lady,” shouted the priest, “it’s strange, and it’s no surprise that they thought you were a magician, seeing a dead face like this. Now come with me!”
He put on his grey gown and great hat, and in a few minutes they found themselves in presence of the alderman. By his side, poisoning his mind, stood the accuser, a singular figure in red hose and red shoes, a black gown with blue bands, and a cocked hat.
He put on his gray gown and tall hat, and in a few minutes they found themselves in front of the alderman. Next to him, influencing his thoughts, stood the accuser, an unusual figure in red tights and red shoes, a black gown with blue trim, and a cocked hat.
After saluting the alderman, the cure turned to this personage and said good-humouredly, “So, Mangis, at thy work again, babbling away honest men's lives! Come, your worship, this is the old tale! two of a trade can ne'er agree. Here is Mangis, who professes sorcery, and would sell himself to Satan to-night, but that Satan is not so weak as buy what he can have gratis, this Mangis, who would be a sorcerer, but is only a quacksalver, accuses of magic a true lad, who did but use in self-defence a secret of chemistry well-known to me and all churchmen.”
After greeting the alderman, the priest turned to this person and said cheerfully, “So, Mangis, back at it again, messing with honest people's lives! Come on, your honor, this is the same old story! Two people in the same game can never get along. Here’s Mangis, who claims to be a sorcerer and would sell his soul to the devil tonight, but the devil isn't foolish enough to buy what he can get for free. This Mangis, who wants to be a sorcerer but is really just a fraud, accuses a good guy of using magic when he only used a chemistry trick that I and all the other churchmen know well.”
“But he is no churchman, to dabble in such mysteries,” objected the alderman.
“But he’s not a church person to mess around in such mysteries,” the alderman protested.
“He is more churchman than layman, being convent bred, and in the lesser orders,” said the ready cure. “Therefore, sorcerer, withdraw thy plaint without more words!”
“He is more of a churchman than a layman, having been raised in a convent and being in the lesser orders,” said the willing priest. “So, sorcerer, withdraw your complaint without further discussion!”
“That I will not, your reverence,” replied Mangis stoutly. “A sorcerer I am, but a white one, not a black one. I make no pact with Satan, but on the contrary still battle him with lawful and necessary arts, I ne'er profane the sacraments, as do the black sorcerers, nor turn myself into a cat and go sucking infants' blood, nor e'en their breath, nor set dead men o' fire. I but tell the peasants when their cattle and their hens are possessed, and at what time of the moon to plant rye, and what days in each month are lucky for wooing of women and selling of bullocks and so forth: above all, it is my art and my trade to detect the black magicians, as I did that whole tribe of them who were burnt at Dol but last year.”
"Not a chance, your honor,” Mangis replied firmly. “I'm a sorcerer, but a good one, not an evil one. I don't make deals with Satan; instead, I fight against him using lawful and necessary methods. I never disrespect the sacraments like those dark sorcerers do, nor do I turn into a cat to suck the blood of infants, or even take their breath, or set dead bodies on fire. I simply tell the farmers when their cattle and chickens are possessed, when the moon is right for planting rye, and which days are best for courting women and selling cattle, and so on. Most importantly, it's my job to expose the dark magicians, just like I did with that whole group of them who were burned at Dol last year."
“Ay, Mangis. And what is the upshot of that famous fire thy tongue did kindle?”
“Ay, Mangis. So, what’s the outcome of that famous fire your tongue sparked?”
“Why, their ashes were cast to the wind.”
“Why, their ashes were scattered in the wind.”
“Ay. But the true end of thy comedy is this. The parliament of Dijon hath since sifted the matter, and found they were no sorcerers, but good and peaceful citizens; and but last week did order masses to be said for their souls, and expiatory farces and mysteries to be played for them in seven towns of Burgundy; all which will not of those cinders make men and women again. Now 'tis our custom in this land, when we have slain the innocent by hearkening false knaves like thee, not to blame our credulous ears, but the false tongue that gulled them. Therefore bethink thee that, at a word from me to my lord bishop, thou wilt smell burning pine nearer than e'er knave smelt it and lived, and wilt travel on a smoky cloud to him whose heart thou bearest (for the word devil in the Latin it meaneth 'false accuser'), and whose livery thou wearest.”
"Yeah. But the real conclusion of your joke is this. The parliament of Dijon has since reviewed the situation and found that they were not sorcerers, but good and peaceful citizens; just last week, they ordered masses to be said for their souls, and commemorative plays and performances to be held for them in seven towns of Burgundy; none of which will bring those ashes back to life. Now, it’s our custom in this land, when we have killed the innocent by listening to deceitful scoundrels like you, not to blame our gullible ears, but the lying tongue that deceived them. So think carefully that with just a word from me to my lord bishop, you will smell burning pine closer than any scoundrel ever has and will travel on a smoky cloud to the one whose heart you betray (for the word devil in Latin means 'false accuser'), and whose uniform you wear."
And the cure pointed at Mangis with his staff.
And the healer pointed at Mangis with his staff.
“That is true i'fegs,” said the alderman, “for red and black be the foul fiendys colours.”
“That’s true, I believe,” said the alderman, “because red and black are the devil's colors.”
By this time the white sorcerer's cheek was as colourless as his dress was fiery. Indeed the contrast amounted to pictorial. He stammered out, “I respect Holy Church and her will; he shall fire the churchyard, and all in it, for me: I do withdraw the plaint.”
By this time, the white sorcerer's cheek was as pale as his outfit was bright. The contrast was almost artistic. He stammered, “I respect the Holy Church and its wishes; he can burn the churchyard and everything in it for me: I am retracting the complaint.”
“Then withdraw thyself,” said the vice-bailiff.
“Then step back,” said the vice-bailiff.
The moment he was gone the cure took the conversational tone, and told the alderman courteously that the accused had received the chemical substance from Holy Church, and had restored it her, by giving it all to him.
The moment he left, the cure took on a friendly tone and politely told the alderman that the accused had received the chemical substance from Holy Church and had returned it to her by handing it all over to him.
“Then 'tis in good hands,” was the reply; “young man, you are free. Let me have your reverence's prayers.”
“Then it’s in good hands,” was the reply; “young man, you are free. Please keep me in your thoughts.”
“Doubt it not! Humph! Vice-baillie, the town owes me four silver franks, this three months and more.”
“Don’t doubt it! Hmph! Vice-bailiff, the town owes me four silver francs, and it’s been three months or more.”
“They shall be paid, cure, ay, ere the week be out.”
“They will be paid, for sure, before the week is over.”
On this good understanding Church and State parted. As soon as he was in the street Gerard caught the priest's hand, and kissed it.
On this mutual agreement, Church and State separated. Once he was outside, Gerard took the priest's hand and kissed it.
“Oh, sir! Oh, your reverence. You have saved me from the fiery stake. What can I say, what do? what?”
“Oh, sir! Oh, your honor. You’ve rescued me from the burning stake. What can I say, what should I do, what?”
“Nought, foolish lad. Bounty rewards itself. Natheless—Humph?—I wish I had done't without leasing. It ill becomes my function to utter falsehoods.”
“Nothing, foolish boy. Rewards come from generosity. Still—Hmph?—I wish I had done it without lying. It's not right for me to tell lies.”
“Falsehood, sir?” Gerard was mystified.
"Falsehood, sir?" Gerard was confused.
“Didst not hear me say thou hadst given me that same phosphorus? 'Twill cost me a fortnight's penance, that light word.” The cure sighed, and his eye twinkled cunningly.
“Didn’t you hear me say you gave me that same phosphorus? It’ll cost me two weeks of penance for that light word.” The cure sighed, and his eye twinkled cleverly.
“Nay, nay,” cried Gerard eagerly. “Now Heaven forbid! That was no falsehood, father: well you knew the phosphorus was yours, is yours.” And he thrust the bottle into the cure's hand. “But alas, 'tis too poor a gift: will you not take from my purse somewhat for Holy Church?” and now he held out his purse with glistening eyes.
“Nah, nah,” Gerard exclaimed eagerly. “Heaven forbid! That wasn’t a lie, father: you know the phosphorus is yours, it belongs to you.” And he shoved the bottle into the priest's hand. “But sadly, it’s too small a gift: will you not take something from my purse for the Church?” and now he held out his purse with shining eyes.
“Nay,” said the other brusquely, and put his hands quickly behind him; “not a doit. Fie! fie! art pauper et exul. Come thou rather each day at noon and take thy diet with me; for my heart warms to thee;” and he went off very abruptly with his hands behind him.
“Nah,” the other said sharply, quickly putting his hands behind his back; “not a cent. Come on! You’re a beggar and an exile. Instead, come every day at noon and share a meal with me; I feel a connection to you.” Then he left abruptly, hands still behind him.
They itched.
They had an itch.
But they itched in vain.
But they scratched in vain.
Where there's a heart there's a Rubicon.
Where there's a heart, there's a boundary you have to cross.
Gerard went hastily to the inn to relieve Denys of the anxiety so long and mysterious an absence must have caused him. He found him seated at his ease, playing dice with two young ladies whose manners were unreserved, and complexion high.
Gerard quickly went to the inn to ease Denys's worries about his long and mysterious absence. He found Denys sitting comfortably, playing dice with two young ladies who were very open and had rosy cheeks.
Gerard was hurt. “N'oubliez point la Jeanneton!” said he, colouring up.
Gerard was hurt. “Don't forget Jeanneton!” he said, blushing.
“What of her?” said Denys, gaily rattling the dice.
“What about her?” said Denys, cheerfully shaking the dice.
“She said, 'Le peu que sont les femmes.'”
“She said, 'The little that women are.'”
“Oh, did she? And what say you to that, mesdemoiselles?”
“Oh, did she? And what do you think about that, ladies?”
“We say that none run women down, but such as are too old, or too ill-favoured, or too witless to please them.”
“We say that no one criticizes women, except those who are too old, too unattractive, or too dull to attract them.”
“Witless, quotha? Wise men have not folly enough to please them, nor madness enough to desire to please them,” said Gerard loftily; “but 'tis to my comrade I speak, not to you, you brazen toads, that make so free with a man at first sight.”
“Clueless, huh? Wise people don’t have enough foolishness to satisfy them, nor enough madness to want to please them,” said Gerard confidently; “but I’m talking to my friend, not to you, you shameless creeps, who are so quick to judge a man at first glance.”
“Preach away, comrade. Fling a byword or two at our heads. Know, girls, that he is a very Solomon for bywords. Methinks he was brought up by hand on 'em.”
“Go ahead, buddy. Throw a saying or two our way. Just so you know, girls, he’s a real expert when it comes to sayings. I think he was raised on them.”
“Be thy friendship a byword!” retorted Gerard. “The friendship that melts to nought at sight of a farthingale.”
“May your friendship be a joke!” Gerard shot back. “The kind of friendship that disappears at the sight of a fancy skirt.”
“Malheureux!” cried Denys, “I speak but pellets, and thou answerest daggers.”
“Unfortunate!” cried Denys, “I only speak words, and you respond with knives.”
“Would I could,” was the reply. “Adieu.”
“Of course I would,” was the reply. “Goodbye.”
“What a little savage!” said one of the girls.
“What a little wild thing!” said one of the girls.
Gerard opened the door and put in his head. “I have thought of a byword,” said he spitefully—
Gerard opened the door and poked his head in. “I’ve come up with a phrase,” he said bitterly—
“Qui hante femmes et dez
Il mourra en pauvretez.
“Who haunts women and dice
Will die in poverty.“There.” And having delivered this thunderbolt of antique wisdom, he slammed the door viciously ere any of them could retort.
“There.” And after dropping this bomb of old-school wisdom, he slammed the door hard before any of them could respond.
And now, being somewhat exhausted by his anxieties, he went to the bar for a morsel of bread and a cup of wine. The landlord would sell nothing less than a pint bottle. Well then he would have a bottle; but when he came to compare the contents of the bottle with its size, great was the discrepancy: on this he examined the bottle keenly, and found that the glass was thin where the bottle tapered, but towards the bottom unnaturally thick. He pointed this out at once.
And now, feeling a bit drained from his worries, he went to the bar for a piece of bread and a glass of wine. The bartender wouldn’t sell anything less than a pint bottle. Fine, he’d get a bottle; but when he looked closely at the contents compared to its size, there was a huge difference. He examined the bottle carefully and noticed that the glass was thin where it tapered, but unnaturally thick towards the bottom. He pointed this out right away.
The landlord answered superciliously that he did not make bottles: and was nowise accountable for their shape.
The landlord replied with arrogance that he didn’t make bottles and was in no way responsible for their shape.
“That we will see presently,” said Gerard. “I will take this thy pint to the vice-bailiff.”
“That we will see soon,” said Gerard. “I will take this pint to the vice-bailiff.”
“Nay, nay, for Heaven's sake,” cried the landlord, changing his tone at once. “I love to content my customers. If by chance this pint be short, we will charge it and its fellow three sous insteads of two sous each.”
“Not at all, for Heaven's sake,” the landlord exclaimed, instantly changing his tone. “I love to keep my customers happy. If this pint happens to be short, we’ll charge it and its mate three sous instead of two sous each.”
“So be it. But much I admire that you, the host of so fair an inn, should practise thus. The wine, too, smacketh strongly of spring water.”
“So be it. But I really admire that you, the host of such a nice inn, would do this. The wine also tastes strongly of spring water.”
“Young sir,” said the landlord, “we cut no travellers' throats at this inn, as they do at most. However, you know all about that, 'The White Hart' is no lion, nor bear. Whatever masterful robbery is done here, is done upon the poor host. How then could he live at all if he dealt not a little crooked with the few who pay?”
“Young man,” said the landlord, “we don’t cut travelers' throats at this inn, like most places do. But you already know that; 'The White Hart' is neither a lion nor a bear. Any masterful robbery that happens here is directed at the poor host. How else could he survive if he didn't bend the rules a bit with the few who do pay?”
Gerard objected to this system root and branch. Honest trade was small profits, quick returns; and neither to cheat nor be cheated.
Gerard completely opposed this system. Honest trade meant small profits and quick returns, with no cheating on either side.
The landlord sighed at this picture. “So might one keep an inn in heaven, but not in Burgundy. When foot soldiers going to the wars are quartered on me, how can I but lose by their custom? Two sous per day is their pay, and they eat two sous' worth, and drink into the bargain. The pardoners are my good friends, but palmers and pilgrims, what think you I gain by them? marry, a loss. Minstrels and jongleurs draw custom and so claim to pay no score, except for liquor. By the secular monks I neither gain nor lose, but the black and grey friars have made vow of poverty, but not of famine; eat like wolves and give the poor host nought but their prayers; and mayhap not them: how can he tell? In my father's day we had the weddings; but now the great gentry let their houses and their plates, their mugs and their spoons to any honest couple that want to wed, and thither the very mechanics go with their brides and bridal train. They come not to us: indeed we could not find seats and vessels for such a crowd as eat and drink and dance the week out at the homeliest wedding now. In my father's day the great gentry sold wine by the barrel only; but now they have leave to cry it, and sell it by the galopin, in the very market-place. How can we vie with them? They grow it. We buy it of the grower. The coroner's quests we have still, and these would bring goodly profit, but the meat is aye gone ere the mouths be full.”
The landlord sighed at this scene. “Sure, you could run an inn in heaven, but not in Burgundy. When foot soldiers heading off to war stay with me, how can I possibly profit from their business? They get paid two sous a day and eat two sous' worth of food, plus drinks on top of that. The pardoners are my good friends, but what do you think I gain from palmers and pilgrims? Honestly, it's a loss. Minstrels and jugglers bring in customers and think they don’t have to pay anything except for drinks. With the secular monks, I neither gain nor lose, but the black and grey friars have taken a vow of poverty, not of starvation; they eat like wolves and give the poor nothing but their prayers, and maybe not even those: who can tell? In my father's time, we hosted the weddings; now the wealthy lend out their houses and their dishes, mugs, and spoons to any honest couple wanting to marry, and even the workers go there with their brides and bridal processions. They don’t come to us: we wouldn’t even have enough seats and dishes for the crowd that eats, drinks, and dances at the simplest wedding today. In my father’s time, the wealthy sold wine by the barrel; now they can shout about it and sell it by the glass in the marketplace. How can we compete with them? They grow it. We buy it from the growers. We still have the coroner’s inquests, which could bring in good profit, but the food is always gone before everyone has had enough.”
“You should make better provision,” suggested his hearer.
“You should plan better,” suggested his listener.
“The law will not let us. We are forbidden to go into the market for the first hour. So, when we arrive, the burghers have bought all but the refuse. Besides, the law forbids us to buy more than three bushels of meal at a time: yet market day comes but once a week. As for the butchers, they will not kill for us unless we bribe them.”
“The law won’t allow it. We're not allowed to go to the market for the first hour. So, by the time we get there, the townspeople have bought everything except for the scraps. Plus, the law limits us to buying no more than three bushels of grain at once, and market day is only once a week. As for the butchers, they won’t slaughter for us unless we pay them off.”
“Courage!” said Gerard kindly, “the shoe pinches every trader somewhere.”
“Courage!” Gerard said kindly, “every trader feels the pressure somewhere.”
“Ay: but not as it pinches us. Our shoe is trode all o' one side as well as pinches us lame. A savoir, if we pay not the merchants we buy meal, meat, and wine of, they can cast us into prison and keep us there till we pay or die. But we cannot cast into prison those who buy those very victuals of us. A traveller's horse we may keep for his debt; but where, in Heaven's name? In our own stable, eating his head off at our cost. Nay, we may keep the traveller himself; but where? In gaol? Nay, in our own good house, and there must we lodge and feed him gratis. And so fling good silver after bad? Merci; no: let him go with a wanion. Our honestest customers are the thieves. Would to Heaven there were more of them. They look not too close into the shape of the canakin, nor into the host's reckoning: with them and with their purses 'tis lightly come, and lightly go. Also they spend freely, not knowing but each carouse may be their last. But the thief-takers, instead of profiting by this fair example, are for ever robbing the poor host. When noble or honest travellers descend at our door, come the Provost's men pretending to suspect them, and demanding to search them and their papers. To save which offence the host must bleed wine and meat. Then come the excise to examine all your weights and measures. You must stop their mouths with meat and wine. Town excise. Royal excise. Parliament excise. A swarm of them, and all with a wolf in their stomachs and a sponge in their gullets. Monks, friars, pilgrims, palmers, soldiers, excisemen, provost-marshals and men, and mere bad debtors, how can 'The White Hart' butt against all these? Cutting no throats in self-defence as do your 'Swans' and 'Roses' and 'Boar's Heads' and 'Red Lions' and 'Eagles,' your 'Moons,' 'Stars,' and 'Moors,' how can 'The White Hart' give a pint of wine for a pint? And everything risen so. Why, lad, not a pound of bread I sell but cost me three good copper deniers, twelve to the sou; and each pint of wine, bought by the tun, costs me four deniers; every sack of charcoal two sous, and gone in a day. A pair of partridges five sous. What think you of that? Heard one ever the like? five sous for two little beasts all bone and feather? A pair of pigeons, thirty deniers. 'Tis ruination!!! For we may not raise our pricen with the market. Oh, no, I tell thee the shoe is trode all o' one side as well as pinches the water into our eyn. We may charge nought for mustard, pepper, salt, or firewood. Think you we get them for nought? Candle it is a sou the pound. Salt five sous the stone, pepper four sous the pound, mustard twenty deniers the pint; and raw meat, dwindleth it on the spit with no cost to me but loss of weight? Why, what think you I pay my cook? But you shall never guess. A HUNDRED SOUS A YEAR AS I AM A LIVING SINNER.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t affect us the same way. Our shoe is worn out on one side as well as pinches us lame. You see, if we don’t pay the merchants we buy bread, meat, and wine from, they can throw us in jail and keep us there until we pay or die. But we can’t throw in jail those who buy food from us. We can keep a traveler’s horse for his debt; but where? In our own stable, eating its head off at our expense. No, we could keep the traveler himself; but where? In jail? No, in our own house, and we have to lodge and feed him for free. And throw good money after bad? No way; let him go with a curse. Our best customers are the thieves. If only there were more of them. They don’t examine the shape of the pitcher too closely or the host’s bill: with them, money comes and goes easily. They spend freely, not knowing if each round might be their last. But the catchers of thieves, instead of learning from this example, are always robbing the poor innkeeper. When noble or honest travelers arrive at our door, the city guards come pretending to suspect them, demanding to search them and their papers. To avoid that offense, the innkeeper must part with wine and meat. Then the tax collectors arrive to check all your weights and measures. You have to fill their mouths with food and drink. City taxes. Royal taxes. Parliamentary taxes. A swarm of them, all with a wolf in their stomachs and a sponge in their throats. Monks, friars, pilgrims, palmers, soldiers, tax men, city guards, and just plain bad debtors—how can ‘The White Hart’ stand up against all this? Without cutting any throats for self-defense like your ‘Swans’ and ‘Roses’ and ‘Boar’s Heads’ and ‘Red Lions’ and ‘Eagles,’ your ‘Moons,’ ‘Stars,’ and ‘Moors,’ how can ‘The White Hart’ give a pint of wine for a pint? And everything has gone up in price. Well, buddy, not a pound of bread I sell costs me less than three good copper coins, twelve to the sou; and each pint of wine, bought in barrels, costs me four coins; every sack of charcoal two sous, and it's gone in a day. A pair of partridges costs five sous. What do you think of that? Has anyone ever heard of such a thing? Five sous for two little birds that are all bone and feathers? A pair of pigeons costs thirty coins. It’s ruin!!! Because we can’t raise our prices to match the market. Oh no, I tell you, the shoe is worn out on one side as well as pinches the water into our eyes. We can’t charge anything for mustard, pepper, salt, or firewood. Do you think we get them for free? Candles cost a sou a pound. Salt is five sous a stone, pepper four sous a pound, mustard twenty coins a pint; and raw meat, does it shrink on the spit with no cost to me but the loss of weight? Well, what do you think I pay my cook? But you’d never guess. A HUNDRED SOUS A YEAR, I SWEAR AS I AM A LIVING SINNER.”
“And my waiter thirty sous, besides his perquisites. He is a hantle richer than I am. And then to be insulted as well as pillaged. Last Sunday I went to church. It is a place I trouble not often. Didn't the cure lash the hotel-keepers? I grant you he hit all the trades, except the one that is a byword for looseness, and pride, and sloth, to wit, the clergy. But, mind you, he stripeit the other lay estates with a feather, but us hotel-keepers with a neat's pizzle: godless for this, godless for that, and most godless of all for opening our doors during mass. Why, the law forces us to open at all hours to travellers from another town, stopping, halting, or passing: those be the words. They can fine us before the bailiff if we refuse them, mass or no mass; and say a townsman should creep in with the true travellers, are we to blame? They all vow they are tired wayfarers; and can I ken every face in a great town like this? So if we respect the law our poor souls are to suffer, and if we respect it not, our poor lank purses must bleed at two holes, fine and loss of custom.”
“And my waiter thirty sous, plus his tips. He’s way richer than I am. And then to be insulted as well as robbed. Last Sunday I went to church. It’s a place I don’t visit often. Didn’t the priest go off on the hotel owners? I’ll admit he criticized all the trades except for the one that’s known for being loose, proud, and lazy, which is the clergy. But, you know, he scolded the other lay professions lightly, while he really condemned us hotel-keepers harshly: godless for this, godless for that, and most godless of all for opening our doors during mass. The law requires us to open at all hours for travelers from another town, whether they’re stopping, resting, or just passing through: those are the exact terms. They can fine us in front of the bailiff if we refuse them, mass or no mass; and if a local tries to sneak in with the genuine travelers, are we to blame? They all claim to be tired wayfarers; and can I recognize every face in a big town like this? So if we follow the law, our poor souls have to suffer, and if we don’t follow it, our poor thin wallets will bleed from two wounds: fines and loss of business.”
A man speaking of himself in general, is “a babbling brook;” of his wrongs, “a shining river.”
A man talking about himself in general is “a babbling brook;” about his wrongs, “a shining river.”
“Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum.”
“Things slip away and will continue to slip away throughout every age.”
So luckily for my readers, though not for all concerned, this injured orator was arrested in mid career. Another man burst in upon his wrongs with all the advantage of a recent wrong; a wrong red hot. It was Denys cursing and swearing and crying that he was robbed.
So fortunately for my readers, though not for everyone involved, this injured speaker was arrested in the middle of his career. Another man jumped in with his grievances, fresh from his own recent trouble—a situation he was really fired up about. It was Denys, cursing, swearing, and shouting that he had been robbed.
“Did those hussies pass this way? who are they? where do they bide? They have ta'en my purse and fifteen golden pieces: raise the hue and cry! ah! traitresses! vipers! These inns are all guet-apens.”
“Did those girls come through here? Who are they? Where are they staying? They took my wallet and fifteen gold coins: alert the authorities! Ah! Traitors! Vipers! These inns are all traps.”
“There now,” cried the landlord to Gerard.
“There you go,” shouted the landlord to Gerard.
Gerard implored him to be calm, and say how it had befallen.
Gerard urged him to stay calm and explain what had happened.
“First one went out on some pretence: then after a while the other went to fetch her back, and neither returning, I clapped hand to purse and found it empty: the ungrateful creatures, I was letting them win it in a gallop: but loaded dice were not quick enough; they must claw it all in a lump.”
“First one left under some excuse: then after a bit, the other went to bring her back, and with neither of them coming back, I checked my purse and realized it was empty: those ungrateful people, I was letting them take it easily: but even rigged odds weren’t fast enough; they had to take it all at once.”
Gerard was for going at once to the alderman and setting the officers to find them.
Gerard was all for going straight to the alderman and getting the officers to track them down.
“Not I,” said Denys. “I hate the law. No: as it came so let it go.”
“Not me,” Denys said. “I hate the law. No: it came like this, so let it leave like this.”
Gerard would not give it up so.
Gerard wouldn't let it go that easily.
At a hint from the landlord he forced Denys along with him to the provost-marshal. That dignitary shook his head. “We have no clue to occasional thieves, that work honestly at their needles, till some gull comes and tempts them with an easy booty, and then they pluck him.
At a suggestion from the landlord, he dragged Denys with him to the provost-marshal. That official shook his head. “We don’t have any leads on the occasional thieves, who work honestly with their needles, until some fool comes along and tempts them with easy money, and then they take advantage of him.
“Come away,” cried Denys furiously. “I knew what use a bourgeois would be to me at a pinch:” and he marched off in a rage.
“Get away,” Denys shouted angrily. “I knew how useful a middle-class person would be to me in a tough spot:” and he stormed off in a rage.
“They are clear of the town ere this,” said Gerard.
“They are out of town by now,” said Gerard.
“Speak no more on't if you prize my friendship. I have five pieces with the bailiff, and ten I left with Manon, luckily; or these traitresses had feathered their nest with my last plume. What dost gape for so? Nay, I do ill to vent my choler on thee: I'll tell thee all. Art wiser than I. What saidst thou at the door? No matter. Well, then, I did offer marriage to that Manon.”
“Don’t say anything more about it if you value my friendship. I have five pieces with the bailiff, and luckily, I left ten with Manon; otherwise, those traitors would have taken my last feather. Why are you staring like that? I shouldn’t take my anger out on you: I’ll tell you everything. You’re smarter than me. What did you say at the door? Doesn’t matter. Well, I did propose marriage to that Manon.”
Gerard was dumfounded.
Gerard was shocked.
“What? You offered her what?”
"What? You offered her that?"
“Marriage. Is that such a mighty strange thing to offer a wench?”
“Marriage. Is that really such a strange thing to offer a girl?”
“'Tis a strange thing to offer to a strange girl in passing.”
"It's a weird thing to give to a strange girl just like that."
“Nay, I am not such a sot as you opine. I saw the corn in all that chaff. I knew I could not get her by fair means, so I was fain to try foul. 'Mademoiselle,' said I, 'marriage is not one of my habits, but struck by your qualities I make an exception; deign to bestow this hand on me.'”
“Nah, I’m not as foolish as you think. I saw the valuable parts amidst all that nonsense. I knew I couldn’t win her over through honest means, so I had to resort to trickery. 'Miss,' I said, 'marriage isn’t usually my thing, but because of your amazing qualities, I’m making an exception; please, allow me to take your hand.'”
“And she bestowed it on thine ear.'”
“And she gave it to your ear.”
“Not so. On the contrary she—Art a disrespectful young monkey. Know that here, not being Holland or any other barbarous state, courtesy begets courtesy. Says she, a colouring like a rose, 'Soldier, you are too late. He is not a patch on you for looks; but then—he has loved me a long time.'
“Not at all. Actually, she—Art a disrespectful young brat. Just so you know, here, unlike Holland or any other uncivilized place, respect leads to respect. She says, her face turning as red as a rose, 'Soldier, you’re too late. He doesn't compare to you in looks; but still—he has loved me for a long time.'”
“'He? who?'
"‘Who? Him?’"
“'T'other.'
“'The other.'
“'What other?'
"Which other?"
“Why, he that was not too late.' Oh, that is the way they all speak, the loves; the she-wolves. Their little minds go in leaps. Think you they marshal their words in order of battle? Their tongues are in too great a hurry. Says she, 'I love him not; not to say love him; but he does me, and dearly; and for that reason I'd sooner die than cause him grief, I would.'”
“Why, he who was not too late.' Oh, that's how they all talk, the loves; the she-wolves. Their little minds jump around. Do you think they organize their words like a battle plan? Their tongues are too eager. She says, 'I don't love him; not to say I love him; but he loves me, and deeply; and for that reason, I’d rather die than bring him pain, I would.'”
“Now I believe she did love him.”
“Now I think she really loved him.”
“Who doubts that? Why she said so, round about, as they always say these things, and with 'nay' for 'ay.'
“Who doubts that? She said it like they always do, indirectly, and with 'no' instead of 'yes.'”
“Well one thing led to another, and at last, as she could not give me her hand, she gave me a piece of advice, and that was to leave part of my money with the young mistress. Then, when bad company had cleaned me out, I should have some to travel back with, said she. I said I would better her advice, and leave it with her. Her face got red. Says she, 'Think what you do. Chambermaids have an ill name for honesty.' 'Oh, the devil is not so black as he is painted,' said I. 'I'll risk it;' and I left fifteen gold pieces with her.”
"Well, one thing led to another, and finally, since she couldn’t give me her hand, she offered me some advice: to leave part of my money with the young mistress. She said that when bad company had cleaned me out, I’d still have some left to travel back with. I told her I would take her advice a step further and leave it with her instead. Her face turned red. She said, 'Think carefully about what you're doing. Chambermaids have a bad reputation for honesty.' I replied, 'Oh, the devil isn’t as bad as people say.' I said I’d take the risk, and I left fifteen gold pieces with her."
Gerard sighed. “I wish you may ever see them again. It is wondrous in what esteem you do hold this sex, to trust so to the first comer. For my part I know little about them; I never saw but one I could love as well as I love thee. But the ancients must surely know; and they held women cheap. 'Levius quid femina,' said they, which is but la Jeanneton's tune in Latin, 'Le peu que sont les femmes.' Also do but see how the greybeards of our own day speak of them, being no longer blinded by desire: this alderman, to wit.”
Gerard sighed. “I hope you get to see them again someday. It's amazing how highly you regard this gender, to trust so easily the first person that comes along. As for me, I know very little about them; I've only met one that I could love as much as I love you. But the ancients must have had some insight; they considered women to be of little value. 'Levius quid femina,' they would say, which is just la Jeanneton's tune in Latin, 'Le peu que sont les femmes.' Also, just look at how the old men of our time talk about them, no longer blinded by desire: like this alderman, for example.”
“Oh, novice of novices,” cried Denys, “not to have seen why that old fool rails so on the poor things! One day, out of the millions of women he blackens, one did prefer some other man to him: for which solitary piece of bad taste, and ten to one 'twas good taste, he doth bespatter creation's fairer half, thereby proving what? le peu que sont les hommes.”
“Oh, beginner of beginners,” shouted Denys, “can't you see why that old fool goes on and on about those poor women? One day, out of the millions of women he criticizes, one actually preferred another man over him; for that one act of questionable judgment—probably a good decision, to be honest—he tears down all of womanhood, proving what? how little men really are.”
“I see women have a shrewd champion in thee,” said Gerard, with a smile. But the next moment inquired gravely why he had not told him all this before.
“I see women have a clever champion in you,” said Gerard, with a smile. But the next moment he seriously asked why he hadn’t shared all this before.
Denys grinned. “Had the girl said 'Ay,' why then I had told thee straight. But 'tis a rule with us soldiers never to publish our defeats: 'tis much if after each check we claim not a victory.”
Denys grinned. “If the girl had said 'Yes,' then I would have told you right away. But it’s a rule for us soldiers never to admit our losses: it’s a miracle if we don't declare a victory after every setback.”
“Now that is true,” said Gerard. “Young as I am, I have seen this; that after every great battle the generals on both sides go to the nearest church, and sing each a Te Deum for the victory; methinks a Te Martem, or Te Bellonam, or Te Mercurium, Mercury being the god of lies, were more fitting.”
“That's true,” said Gerard. “Even though I'm young, I’ve noticed that after every big battle, the generals from both sides go to the closest church and sing a Te Deum to celebrate their victory; it seems to me a Te Martem, or Te Bellonam, or Te Mercurium—since Mercury is the god of lies—would be more appropriate.”
“Pas si bete,” said Denys approvingly. “Hast a good eye: canst see a steeple by daylight. So now tell me how thou hast fared in this town all day.”
“Not so dumb,” Denys said with approval. “You have a good eye: you can see a steeple in the daylight. So now tell me how you've been doing in this town all day.”
“Come,” said Gerard, “'tis well thou hast asked me: for else I had never told thee.” He then related in full how he had been arrested, and by what a providential circumstance he had escaped long imprisonment or speedy conflagration.
“Come,” said Gerard, “it’s good you asked me: otherwise, I would never have told you.” He then explained in detail how he had been arrested and how a fortunate series of events had allowed him to escape long imprisonment or a quick death by fire.
His narrative produced an effect he little expected or desired.
His story had an impact he didn't expect or want.
“I am a traitor,” cried Denys. “I left thee in a strange place to fight thine own battles, while I shook the dice with those jades. Now take thou this sword and pass it through my body forthwith.”
“I am a traitor,” shouted Denys. “I left you in a strange place to fight your own battles while I rolled dice with those women. Now take this sword and run it through my body right now.”
“What for in Heaven's name?” inquired Gerard.
“What in Heaven's name?” Gerard asked.
“For an example,” roared Denys. “For a warning to all false loons that profess friendship, and disgrace it.”
“For example,” shouted Denys. “As a warning to all fake friends who claim to be loyal but betray that trust.”
“Oh, very well,” said Gerard. “Yes. Not a bad notion. Where will you have it?”
“Oh, fine,” said Gerard. “Yeah. Not a bad idea. Where do you want it?”
“Here, through my heart; that is, where other men have a heart, but I none, or a Satanic false one.”
“Here, through my heart; that is, where other people have a heart, but I have none, or a fake one that's full of evil.”
Gerard made a motion to run him through, and flung his arms round his neck instead. “I know no way to thy heart but this, thou great silly thing.”
Gerard pretended to attack him but then wrapped his arms around his neck instead. “I have no other way to reach your heart than this, you big silly thing.”
Denys uttered an exclamation, then hugged him warmly—and, quite overcome by this sudden turn of youthful affection and native grace, gulped out in a broken voice, “Railest on women—and art—like them—with thy pretty ways. Thy mother's milk is in thee still. Satan would love thee, or—le bon Dieu would kick him out of hell for shaming it. Give me thy hand! Give me thy hand! May” (a tremendous oath) “if I let thee out of my sight till Italy.”
Denys let out a shout, then hugged him tightly—and, completely taken aback by this unexpected burst of youthful affection and natural charm, he stammered in a shaky voice, “You criticize women—and art—just like them—with your charming tricks. Your mother’s influence is still in you. The devil would adore you, or—God would toss him out of hell for disrespecting you. Give me your hand! Give me your hand! I swear” (a huge promise) “if I let you out of my sight until we reach Italy.”
And so the staunch friends were more than reconciled after their short tiff.
And so the loyal friends were more than okay again after their brief argument.
The next day the thieves were tried. The pieces de conviction were reduced in number, to the great chagrin of the little clerk, by the interment of the bones. But there was still a pretty show. A thief's hand struck off flagrante delicto; a murdered woman's hair; the Abbot's axe, and other tools of crime. The skulls, etc., were sworn to by the constables who had found them. Evidence was lax in that age and place. They all confessed but the landlord. And Manon was called to bring the crime home to him. Her evidence was conclusive. He made a vain attempt to shake her credibility by drawing from her that her own sweetheart had been one of the gang, and that she had held her tongue so long as he was alive. The public prosecutor came to the aid of his witness, and elicited that a knife had been held to her throat, and her own sweetheart sworn with solemn oaths to kill her should she betray them, and that this terrible threat, and not the mere fear of death, had glued her lips.
The next day, the thieves were put on trial. The evidence was reduced in number, much to the dismay of the little clerk, due to the burial of the bones. But there was still quite a display. A thief's hand cut off in the act; a murdered woman's hair; the Abbot's axe, and various other crime tools. The skulls and other items were verified by the constables who discovered them. Evidence was pretty weak in that time and place. Everyone confessed except for the landlord. Manon was called in to connect him to the crime. Her testimony was solid. He made a futile attempt to discredit her by pointing out that her own boyfriend had been part of the gang and that she had kept quiet as long as he was alive. The public prosecutor supported her, revealing that a knife had been held to her throat, and her boyfriend had sworn, with serious oaths, to kill her if she betrayed them, and it was this terrifying threat, not just the fear of death, that had kept her quiet.
The other thieves were condemned to be hanged, and the landlord to be broken on the wheel. He uttered a piercing cry when his sentence was pronounced.
The other thieves were sentenced to hang, and the landlord was to be broken on the wheel. He let out a chilling scream when his sentence was given.
As for poor Manon, she became the subject of universal criticism. Nor did opinion any longer run dead in her favour; it divided into two broad currents. And strange to relate, the majority of her own sex took her part, and the males were but equally divided; which hardly happens once in a hundred years. Perhaps some lady will explain the phenomenon. As for me, I am a little shy of explaining things I don't understand. It has become so common. Meantime, had she been a lover of notoriety, she would have been happy, for the town talked of nothing but her. The poor girl, however, had but one wish to escape the crowd that followed her, and hide her head somewhere where she could cry over her “pendard,” whom all these proceedings brought vividly back to her affectionate remembrance. Before he was hanged he had threatened her life; but she was not one of your fastidious girls, who love their male divinities any the less for beating them, kicking them, or killing them, but rather the better, provided these attentions are interspersed with occasional caresses; so it would have been odd indeed had she taken offence at a mere threat of that sort. He had never threatened her with a rival. She sobbed single-mindedly.
As for poor Manon, she became the target of widespread criticism. Public opinion was no longer entirely in her favor; it split into two main groups. Interestingly, the majority of women supported her, while men were more evenly divided, which is a rare occurrence. Perhaps some woman will explain this situation. As for me, I hesitate to clarify things I don't understand. It's become so common. In the meantime, if she had sought attention, she would have been happy because the town couldn't stop talking about her. However, the poor girl had only one desire: to escape the crowd that followed her and find a place to hide so she could cry over her “pendard,” whom all these events brought back to her fond memories. Before he was hanged, he had threatened her life; but she wasn't one of those delicate girls who love their male figures less for treating them badly, but rather more, as long as those actions were mixed with some affection. So it would have been unusual for her to be upset by a simple threat like that. He had never threatened her with a rival. She cried with unwavering focus.
Meantime the inn was filled with thirsters for a sight of her, who feasted and drank, to pass away the time till she should deign to appear. When she had been sobbing some time, there was a tap at her door, and the landlord entered with a proposal. “Nay, weep not, good lass, your fortune it is made an you like. Say the word, and you are chambermaid of 'The White Hart.'”
Meanwhile, the inn was packed with people eager to catch a glimpse of her, who feasted and drank to pass the time until she would finally show up. After she had been crying for a while, there was a knock at her door, and the landlord came in with an offer. “Don’t cry, good girl, your fate is sealed if you want it. Just say the word, and you’ll be the chambermaid at 'The White Hart.'”
“Nay, nay,” said Manon with a fresh burst of grief. “Never more will I be a servant in an inn. I'll go to my mother.”
“Nah, nah,” said Manon, filled with a new wave of sadness. “I will never be a servant in an inn again. I'm going to my mom.”
The landlord consoled and coaxed her: and she became calmer, but none the less determined against his proposal.
The landlord comforted and persuaded her, and she grew calmer, but she was still just as determined against his proposal.
The landlord left her. But ere long he returned and made her another proposal. Would she be his wife, and landlady of “The White Hart”?
The landlord left her. But soon after, he came back and made her another offer. Would she be his wife and the landlady of “The White Hart”?
“You do ill to mock me,” said she sorrowfully.
“You're wrong to make fun of me,” she said sadly.
“Nay, sweetheart. I mock thee not. I am too old for sorry jests. Say you the word, and you are my partner for better for worse.”
“Nah, sweetheart. I'm not teasing you. I'm too old for silly jokes. Just say the word, and you'll be my partner for better or worse.”
She looked at him, and saw he was in earnest: on this she suddenly rained hard to the memory of “le pendard”: the tears came in a torrent, being the last; and she gave her hand to the landlord of “The White Hart,” and broke a gold crown with him in sign of plighted troth.
She looked at him and saw he was serious: at that moment, she was suddenly overwhelmed with memories of “le pendard,” and tears streamed down her face, these being the last. She then extended her hand to the landlord of “The White Hart” and broke a gold crown with him as a sign of their promise to each other.
“We will keep it dark till the house is quiet,” said the landlord.
“We’ll keep it dark until the house is quiet,” said the landlord.
“Ay,” said she; “but meantime prithee give me linen to hem, or work to do; for the time hangs on me like lead.”
“Ay,” she said; “but in the meantime, please give me some linen to hem or something to do; for the time drags on for me like lead.”
Her betrothed's eye brightened at this housewifely request, and he brought her up two dozen flagons of various sizes to clean and polish.
Her fiancé's eyes lit up at this domestic request, and he brought her two dozen jugs of different sizes to clean and polish.
She gathered complacency as she reflected that by a strange turn of fortune all this bright pewter was to be hers.
She felt a sense of satisfaction as she thought about how by a strange twist of fate, all this shiny pewter would belong to her.
Meantime the landlord went downstairs, and falling in with our friends drew them aside into the bar.
Meanwhile, the landlord went downstairs and, running into our friends, took them aside into the bar.
He then addressed Denys with considerable solemnity. “We are old acquaintances, and you want not for sagacity: now advise me in a strait. My custom is somewhat declining: this girl Manon is the talk of the town; see how full the inn is to-night. She doth refuse to be my chambermaid. I have half a mind to marry her. What think you? shall I say the word?”
He then spoke to Denys with a serious tone. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and you’re quite wise: now help me in a tough situation. My business is slowing down a bit; this girl Manon is the talk of the town; look how packed the inn is tonight. She refuses to be my maid. I’m seriously considering marrying her. What do you think? Should I go ahead and say something?”
Denys in reply merely open his eyes wide with amazement.
Denys just widened his eyes in surprise.
The landlord turned to Gerard with a half-inquiring look,
The landlord turned to Gerard with a questioning glance,
“Nay, sir,” said Gerard; “I am too young to advise my seniors and betters.”
“Nah, sir,” said Gerard; “I’m too young to give advice to my elders and superiors.”
“No matter. Let us hear your thought.”
"No worries. Let's hear what you have in mind."
“Well, sir, it was said of a good wife by the ancients, 'bene quae latuit, bene vixit,' that is, she is the best wife that is least talked of: but here 'male quae patuit' were as near the mark. Therefore, an you bear the lass good-will, why not club purses with Denys and me and convey her safe home with a dowry? Then mayhap some rustical person in her own place may be brought to wife her.”
“Well, sir, the ancients said about a good wife, 'the one who is least talked about has lived well,' but here 'the one who is poorly known' would be more accurate. So, if you have good feelings for the girl, why not pool resources with Denys and me to make sure she gets home safely with a dowry? Then maybe some simple guy from her hometown might marry her.”
“Why so many words?” said Denys. “This old fox is not the ass he affects to be.”
“Why all the chatter?” Denys asked. “This old fox isn’t the fool he pretends to be.”
“Oh! that is your advice, is it?” said the landlord testily. “Well then we shall soon know who is the fool, you or me, for I have spoken to her as it happens; and what is more, she has said Ay, and she is polishing the flagons at this moment.”
“Oh! so that’s your advice, is it?” the landlord said irritably. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough who the fool is, you or me, because I’ve already talked to her; and what’s more, she said yes, and she’s polishing the flagons right now.”
“Oho!” said Denys drily, “'twas an ambuscade. Well, in that case, my advice is, run for the notary, tie the noose, and let us three drink the bride's health, till we see six sots a-tippling.”
“Oho!” said Denys dryly, “it was an ambush. Well, in that case, my advice is, go get the notary, tie the noose, and let’s the three of us drink to the bride’s health until we see six drunks tipping back drinks.”
“And shall. Ay, now you utter sense.”
“And shall. Yes, now you're making sense.”
In ten minutes a civil marriage was effected upstairs before a notary and his clerk and our two friends.
In ten minutes, a civil marriage was conducted upstairs in front of a notary, his clerk, and our two friends.
In ten minutes more the white hind, dead sick of seclusion, had taken her place within the bar, and was serving out liquids, and bustling, and her colour rising a little.
In another ten minutes, the white hind, tired of being alone, had taken her position at the bar, serving drinks and moving around, with a bit of color returning to her cheeks.
In six little minutes more she soundly rated a careless servant-girl for carrying a nipperkin of wine awry and spilling good liquor.
In just six more minutes, she angrily scolded a careless servant girl for spilling a small amount of wine.
During the evening she received across the bar eight offers of marriage, some of them from respectable burghers. Now the landlord and our two friends had in perfect innocence ensconced themselves behind a screen, to drink at their ease the new couple's health. The above comedy was thrown in for their entertainment by bounteous fate. They heard the proposals made one after another, and uninventive Manon's invariable answer—“Serviteur; you are a day after the fair.” The landlord chuckled and looked good-natured superiority at both his late advisers, with their traditional notions that men shun a woman “quae patuit,” i.e. who has become the town talk.
During the evening, she received eight marriage proposals at the bar, some of them from respectable townsmen. Meanwhile, the landlord and our two friends had innocently settled behind a screen to comfortably raise a toast to the new couple. This amusing scene was provided for their entertainment by fortunate fate. They listened to the offers one after another, along with Manon's usual response—“Serviteur; you’re a day late to the party.” The landlord chuckled and looked at his former advisors with a friendly sense of superiority, challenging their old-fashioned belief that men avoid a woman who has become the talk of the town.
But Denys scarce noticed the spouse's triumph over him, he was so occupied with his own over Gerard. At each municipal tender of undying affection, he turned almost purple with the effort it cost him not to roar with glee; and driving his elbow into the deep-meditating and much-puzzled pupil of antiquity, whispered, “Le peu que sont les hommes.”
But Denys hardly noticed his wife's victory over him; he was so focused on his own triumph over Gerard. With every public display of everlasting love, he nearly turned purple from the effort it took not to burst out laughing; and jabbing his elbow into the deep-thinking and utterly confused ancient student, he whispered, “How little men really are.”
The next morning Gerard was eager to start, but Denys was under a vow to see the murderers of the golden-haired girl executed.
The next morning, Gerard was excited to get going, but Denys was committed to ensuring that the murderers of the golden-haired girl were punished.
Gerard respected his vow, but avoided his example.
Gerard kept his promise, but did not follow his example.
He went to bid the cure farewell instead, and sought and received his blessing. About noon the travellers got clear of the town. Just outside the south gate they passed the gallows; it had eight tenants: the skeleton of Manon's late wept, and now being fast forgotten, lover, and the bodies of those who had so nearly taken our travellers' lives. A hand was nailed to the beam. And hard by on a huge wheel was clawed the dead landlord, with every bone in his body broken to pieces.
He went to say goodbye to the priest instead and asked for his blessing, which he received. Around noon, the travelers left the town. Just outside the south gate, they passed the gallows, which had eight people hanging: the skeleton of Manon's late lover, who was once mourned and is now forgotten, and the bodies of those who had almost killed our travelers. A hand was nailed to the beam. Nearby, on a large wheel, was the dead landlord, with every bone in his body shattered.
Gerard averted his head and hurried by. Denys lingered, and crowed over his dead foes. “Times are changed, my lads, since we two sat shaking in the cold awaiting you seven to come and cut our throats.”
Gerard turned away and quickly walked past. Denys stayed behind, gloating over his fallen enemies. “Things have really changed, guys, since we both sat there shivering in the cold, waiting for you seven to come and slit our throats.”
“Fie, Denys! Death squares all reckonings. Prithee pass on without another word, if you prize my respect a groat.”
“Come on, Denys! Death evens everything out. Please move on without saying another word if you value my respect even a little.”
To this earnest remonstrance Denys yielded. He even said thoughtfully, “You have been better brought up than I.”
To this sincere protest, Denys gave in. He even said thoughtfully, “You’ve had a better upbringing than I.”
About three in the afternoon they reached a little town with the people buzzing in knots. The wolves, starved by the cold, had entered, and eaten two grown-up persons overnight, in the main street: so some were blaming the eaten—“None but fools or knaves are about after nightfall;” others the law for not protecting the town, and others the corporation for not enforcing what laws there were.
About three in the afternoon, they arrived in a small town buzzing with groups of people. The wolves, starving from the cold, had come in and eaten two adults overnight in the main street. Some people were blaming the victims—“Only fools or crooks are out after dark;” others were blaming the law for not protecting the town, and some were blaming the local government for not enforcing the laws that did exist.
“Bah! this is nothing to us,” said Denys, and was for resuming their march.
“Bah! this is nothing to us,” Denys said, and he was ready to continue their march.
“Ay, but 'tis,” remonstrated Gerard.
"Yes, but it is," argued Gerard.
“What, are we the pair they ate?”
“What, are we the couple they devoured?”
“No, but we may be the next pair.”
“No, but we might be the next couple.”
“Ay, neighbour,” said an ancient man, “'tis the town's fault for not obeying the ducal ordinance, which bids every shopkeeper light a lamp o'er his door at sunset, and burn it till sunrise.”
"Aye, neighbor," said an old man, "it's the town's fault for not following the duke's order, which says every shopkeeper should light a lamp over his door at sunset and keep it burning until sunrise."
On this Denys asked him somewhat derisively, “What made him fancy rush dips would scare away empty wolves? Why, mutton fat is all their joy.”
On this, Denys asked him with a bit of sarcasm, “What made him think that quick dips would scare away hungry wolves? Come on, mutton fat is all they care about.”
“'Tis not the fat, vain man, but the light. All ill things hate light; especially wolves and the imps that lurk, I ween, under their fur. Example; Paris city stands in a wood like, and the wolves do howl around it all night: yet of late years wolves come but little in the streets. For why, in that burgh the watchmen do thunder at each door that is dark, and make the weary wight rise and light. 'Tis my son tells me. He is a great voyager, my son Nicholas.”
"It’s not the fat, vain man, but the light. All bad things hate the light; especially wolves and the creatures that hide, I believe, under their fur. For example, the city of Paris is like a forest, and the wolves howl around it all night. However, in recent years, wolves rarely come into the streets. Why? Because in that town, the watchmen bang on every dark door and make the tired person get up and light a lamp. My son tells me this. He’s a great traveler, my son Nicholas."
In further explanation he assured them that previously to that ordinance no city had been worse infested with wolves than Paris; a troop had boldly assaulted the town in 1420, and in 1438 they had eaten fourteen persons in a single month between Montmartre and the gate St. Antoine, and that not a winter month even, but September: and as for the dead, which nightly lay in the streets slain in midnight brawls, or assassinated, the wolves had used to devour them, and to grub up the fresh graves in the churchyards and tear out the bodies.
In further explanation, he assured them that before that ordinance, no city had been worse plagued by wolves than Paris. A pack had boldly attacked the town in 1420, and in 1438 they had killed fourteen people in just one month between Montmartre and the St. Antoine gate, and this wasn’t even during winter, but in September. As for the dead, who lay in the streets at night after midnight fights or murders, the wolves would eat them and dig up fresh graves in the churchyards to pull out the bodies.
Here a thoughtful citizen suggested that probably the wolves had been bridled of late in Paris, not by candle-lights, but owing to the English having been driven out of the kingdom of France. “For those English be very wolves themselves for fierceness and greediness. What marvel then that under their rule our neighbours of France should be wolf-eaten?” This logic was too suited to the time and place not to be received with acclamation. But the old man stood his ground. “I grant ye those islanders are wolves; but two-legged ones, and little apt to favour their four-footed cousins. One greedy thing loveth it another? I trow not. By the same token, and this too I have from my boy Nicole, Sir Wolf dare not show his nose in London city; though 'tis smaller than Paris, and thick woods hard by the north wall, and therein great store of deer, and wild boars as rife as flies at midsummer.”
Here, a thoughtful citizen suggested that the wolves had probably been restrained lately in Paris, not by candlelight, but because the English had been driven out of the kingdom of France. “Those English are very much like wolves themselves in their fierceness and greed. So it's no surprise that under their rule, our neighbors in France should be overrun by wolves.” This line of reasoning was too appropriate for the time and place not to be met with applause. But the old man held firm. “I agree those islanders are like wolves; but they're two-legged and not likely to favor their four-legged relatives. Does one greedy being love another? I think not. Similarly, and I have this from my son Nicole, Sir Wolf wouldn’t dare to show his face in London; even though it's smaller than Paris, there are thick woods near the north wall, full of deer and wild boars as common as flies in midsummer.”
“Sir,” said Gerard, “you seem conversant with wild beasts, prithee advise my comrade here and me: we would not waste time on the road, an if we may go forward to the next town with reasonable safety.'
“Sir,” said Gerard, “you seem knowledgeable about wild animals, please advise my friend and me: we don’t want to waste time on the road, and if we can head to the next town with some safety.”
“Young man, I trow 'twere an idle risk. It lacks but an hour of dusk, and you must pass nigh a wood where lurk some thousands of these half-starved vermin, rank cowards single; but in great bands bold as lions. Wherefore I rede you sojourn here the night; and journey on betimes. By the dawn the vermin will be tired out with roaring and rampaging; and mayhap will have filled their lank bellies with flesh of my good neighbours here, the unteachable fools.”
“Young man, I think it would be a silly risk. It’s less than an hour until dark, and you’ll have to pass near a forest where thousands of these half-starved pests hide, bold in groups but cowards alone. So, I advise you to stay here for the night and leave early in the morning. By dawn, the pests will be worn out from their noise and might have stuffed themselves with the flesh of my foolish neighbors here.”
Gerard hoped not; and asked could he recommend them to a good inn.
Gerard hoped not and asked if he could recommend them a good inn.
“Humph! there is the 'Tete d'Or.' My grandaughter keeps it. She is a mijauree, but not so knavish as most hotel-keepers, and her house indifferent clean.”
“Humph! there is the 'Tete d'Or.' My granddaughter runs it. She's a bit of a character, but not as sneaky as most hotel owners, and her place is fairly clean.”
“Hey, for the 'Tete d'Or,'” struck in Denys, decided by his ineradicable foible.
“Hey, for the 'Tete d'Or,'” said Denys, driven by his unchangeable weakness.
On the way to it, Gerard inquired of his companion what a “mijauree” was?
On the way there, Gerard asked his companion what a “mijauree” was.
Denys laughed at his ignorance. “Not know what a mijauree is? why all the world knows that. It is neither more nor less than a mijauree.”
Denys laughed at his lack of knowledge. “You don’t know what a mijauree is? Everyone in the world knows that. It’s nothing more or less than a mijauree.”
As they entered the “Tete d'Or,” they met a young lady richly dressed with a velvet chaperon on her head, which was confined by law to the nobility. They unbonneted and louted low, and she curtsied, but fixed her eye on vacancy the while, which had a curious rather than a genial effect. However, nobility was not so unassuming in those days as it is now. So they were little surprised. But the next minute supper was served, and lo! in came this princess and carved the goose.
As they walked into the "Tete d'Or," they encountered a young woman dressed in fine clothes, wearing a velvet hood that was reserved for the nobility. They removed their hats and bowed low, and she curtsied but seemed to stare off into space, which was more intriguing than welcoming. Still, nobility wasn't as humble back then as it is today, so they weren't too shocked. But the next moment, dinner was served, and suddenly, this princess came in and started carving the goose.
“Holy St. Bavon,” cried Gerard. “'Twas the landlady all the while.”
“Holy St. Bavon,” exclaimed Gerard. “It was the landlady all along.”
A young woman, cursed with nice white teeth and lovely hands: for these beauties being misallied to homely features, had turned her head. She was a feeble carver, carving not for the sake of others but herself, i.e. to display her hands. When not carving she was eternally either taking a pin out of her head or her body, or else putting a pin into her head or her body. To display her teeth, she laughed indifferently at gay or grave and from ear to ear. And she “sat at ease” with her mouth ajar.
A young woman, blessed with nice white teeth and beautiful hands—though these pretty features were mismatched with her plain looks—had caught attention. She was a weak sculptor, carving not for others but for herself, meaning to showcase her hands. When she wasn't carving, she was constantly either taking a pin out of her hair or her body, or putting a pin into her hair or her body. To show off her teeth, she laughed casually at both cheerful and serious situations, grinning widely. And she “sat at ease” with her mouth slightly open.
Now there is an animal in creation of no great general merit; but it has the eye of a hawk for affectation. It is called “a boy.” And Gerard was but a boy still in some things; swift to see, and to loath, affectation. So Denys sat casting sheep's eyes, and Gerard daggers, at one comedian.
Now there’s an animal in existence that isn’t particularly impressive overall; but it has the hawk's eye for pretentiousness. It’s called "a boy." And Gerard was still just a boy in some ways; quick to notice and reject pretentiousness. So Denys sat giving flirtatious looks, while Gerard shot daggers at one performer.
Presently, in the midst of her minauderies, she gave a loud shriek and bounded out of her chair like hare from form, and ran backwards out of the room uttering little screams, and holding her farthingale tight down to her ankles with both hands. And as she scuttled out of the door a mouse scuttled back to the wainscot in a state of equal, and perhaps more reasonable terror. The guests, who had risen in anxiety at the principal yell, now stood irresolute awhile, then sat down laughing. The tender Denys, to whom a woman's cowardice, being a sexual trait, seemed to be a lovely and pleasant thing, said he would go comfort her and bring her back.
Right in the middle of her dramatic antics, she let out a loud scream, jumped out of her chair like a hare escaping from its form, and ran backward out of the room while letting out tiny screams and clutching her farthingale down to her ankles with both hands. As she hurried out the door, a mouse quickly darted back into the woodwork in a state of equal, if not more reasonable, panic. The guests, who had stood up in concern at the initial scream, now hesitated for a moment before sitting back down and laughing. The sensitive Denys, who found a woman’s fear—a feminine trait—charming and delightful, said he would go comfort her and bring her back.
“Nay! nay! nay! for pity's sake let her bide,” cried Gerard earnestly. “Oh, blessed mouse! sure some saint sent thee to our aid.”
“Please! please! please! for the love of everything, let her stay,” Gerard cried earnestly. “Oh, blessed mouse! surely some saint sent you to help us.”
Now at his right hand sat a sturdy middle-aged burgher, whose conduct up to date had been cynical. He had never budged nor even rested his knife at all this fracas. He now turned on Gerard and inquired haughtily whether he really thought that “grimaciere” was afraid of a mouse.
Now at his right sat a sturdy middle-aged businessman, whose behavior so far had been cynical. He hadn’t moved or even paused with his knife during all this chaos. He now turned to Gerard and asked arrogantly if he really thought that “grimaciere” was scared of a mouse.
“Ay. She screamed hearty.”
"Yeah. She screamed loudly."
“Where is the coquette that cannot scream to the life? These she tavern-keepers do still ape the nobles. Some princess or duchess hath lain here a night, that was honestly afeard of a mouse, having been brought up to it. And this ape hath seen her, and said, 'I will start at a mouse, and make a coil,' She has no more right to start at a mouse than to wear that fur on her bosom, and that velvet on her monkey's head. I am of the town, young man, and have known the mijauree all her life, and I mind when she was no more afeard of a mouse than she is of a man.” He added that she was fast emptying the inn with these “singeries.” “All the world is so sick of her hands, that her very kinsfolk will not venture themselves anigh them.” He concluded with something like a sigh, “The 'Tete d'Or' was a thriving hostelry under my old chum her good father; but she is digging its grave tooth and nail.'
“Where is the flirt who can't scream for her life? These tavern-keepers still imitate the nobles. Some princess or duchess has spent a night here, honestly scared of a mouse, having been raised to be like that. And this imitation has seen her and thought, 'I will jump at a mouse and make a fuss.' She has no more right to be scared of a mouse than to wear that fur on her chest and that velvet on her monkey's head. I’m from this town, young man, and I’ve known the flirty girl all her life, and I remember when she was no more afraid of a mouse than she is of a man.” He added that she was quickly emptying the inn with these “foolish antics.” “Everyone is so tired of her nonsense that even her own family won’t go near her.” He finished with something like a sigh, “The 'Tete d'Or' was a bustling inn under my old friend her good father; but she is digging its grave with both hands.”
“Tooth and nail? good! a right merry conceit and a true,” said Gerard. But the right merry conceit was an inadvertence as pure as snow, and the stout burgher went to his grave and never knew what he had done: for just then attention was attracted by Denys returning pompously. He inspected the apartment minutely, and with a high official air: he also looked solemnly under the table; and during the whole inquisition a white hand was placed conspicuously on the edge of the open door, and a tremulous voice inquired behind it whether the horrid thing was quite gone.
“Tooth and nail? Great! A really funny idea and totally true,” said Gerard. But the really funny idea was a total mistake, as innocent as can be, and the tough burgher went to his grave never knowing what he had done. Just then, Denys returned with great pomp, drawing everyone's attention. He inspected the room carefully, acting all official, and even looked seriously under the table. Meanwhile, a white hand was placed clearly on the edge of the open door, and a shaky voice asked from behind it whether the terrible thing was completely gone.
“The enemy has retreated, bag and baggage,” said Denys: and handed in the trembling fair, who, sitting down, apologized to her guests for her foolish fears, with so much earnestness, grace, and seeming self-contempt, that, but for a sour grin on his neighbour's face, Gerard would have been taken in as all the other strangers were. Dinner ended, the young landlady begged an Augustine friar at her right hand to say grace. He delivered a longish one. The moment he began, she clapped her white hands piously together, and held them up joined for mortals to admire; 'tis an excellent pose for taper white fingers: and cast her eyes upward towards heaven, and felt as thankful to it as a magpie does while cutting off with your thimble.
“The enemy has retreated, bag and baggage,” Denys said, handing over the trembling woman, who sat down and apologized to her guests for her silly fears with so much sincerity, grace, and a hint of self-disdain that, if it weren't for the sour grin on his neighbor's face, Gerard would have been fooled like all the other strangers. After dinner, the young landlady asked an Augustine friar sitting next to her to say grace. He delivered a lengthy prayer. As soon as he started, she clapped her white hands together piously and held them up for everyone to see; it's a great pose for her delicate fingers. She then looked upward toward heaven, feeling as grateful as a magpie does when snatching something small from your sewing kit.
After supper the two friends went to the street-door and eyed the market-place. The mistress joined them, and pointed out the town-hall, the borough gaol, St. Catherine's church, etc. This was courteous, to say the least. But the true cause soon revealed itself; the fair hand was poked right under their eyes every time an object was indicated; and Gerard eyed it like a basilisk, and longed for a bunch of nettles. The sun set, and the travellers, few in number, drew round the great roaring fire, and omitting to go on the spit, were frozen behind though roasted in front. For if the German stoves were oppressively hot, the French salles manger were bitterly cold, and above all stormy. In Germany men sat bareheaded round the stove, and took off their upper clothes, but in Burgundy they kept on their hats, and put on their warmest furs to sit round the great open chimney places, at which the external air rushed furiously from door and ill-fitting window. However, it seems their mediaeval backs were broad enough to bear it: for they made themselves not only comfortable but merry, and broke harmless jests over each other in turn. For instance, Denys's new shoes, though not in direct communication, had this day exploded with twin-like sympathy and unanimity. “Where do you buy your shoon, soldier?” asked one.
After dinner, the two friends went to the front door and looked out at the marketplace. The hostess joined them and pointed out the town hall, the local jail, St. Catherine's church, and more. This was polite, to say the least. However, the real reason soon became obvious; her delicate hand was waved right in front of their faces every time she pointed something out, and Gerard stared at it with intense focus, wishing for a bunch of nettles. As the sun set, the few travelers gathered around the large, roaring fire, and while they weren't on the spit, they felt frozen behind despite being roasted in front. The German stoves were oppressively hot, while the French dining rooms were bitterly cold and especially drafty. In Germany, people sat bareheaded near the stove and removed their outer clothing, but in Burgundy, they kept their hats on and wore their warmest furs while sitting around the big open fireplaces, where the chilly air rushed in through the doors and poorly fitting windows. Nevertheless, it seems their medieval backs were broad enough to handle it: they made themselves not only comfortable but also cheerful, joking harmlessly with one another. For example, Denys's new shoes, despite not being in direct contact, had this day burst apart in perfect synchronicity. “Where do you buy your shoes, soldier?” one person asked.
Denys looked askant at Gerard, and not liking the theme, shook it off. “I gather 'em off the trees by the roadside,” said he surlily.
Denys glanced suspiciously at Gerard, and not liking the topic, dismissed it. “I collect them from the trees by the side of the road,” he said grumpily.
“Then you gathered these too ripe,” said the hostess, who was only a fool externally.
“Then you collected these overripe ones,” said the hostess, who was only a fool on the outside.
“Ay, rotten ripe,” observed another, inspecting them.
“Yeah, totally overripe,” commented another person, looking them over.
Gerard said nothing, but pointed the circular satire by pantomime. He slily put out both his feet, one after another, under Denys's eye, with their German shoes, on which a hundred leagues of travel had produced no effect. They seemed hewn out of a rock.
Gerard didn't say anything, but he indicated the circular satire through gestures. He cleverly stretched out both his feet, one after the other, in front of Denys, showing off his German shoes, which looked like they hadn’t been affected by a hundred leagues of travel. They appeared to be carved from rock.
At this, “I'll twist the smooth varlet's neck that sold me mine,” shouted Denys, in huge wrath, and confirmed the threat with singular oaths peculiar to the mediaeval military. The landlady put her fingers in her ears, thereby exhibiting the hand in a fresh attitude. “Tell me when he has done his orisons, somebody,” said she mincingly. And after that they fell to telling stories.
At this, “I’ll snap the neck of that smooth guy who sold me mine,” shouted Denys, extremely angry, and backed up his threat with unique curses typical of the medieval military. The landlady covered her ears, showing off her hand in a dramatic way. “Let me know when he’s finished with his prayers, someone,” she said pretentiously. After that, they started sharing stories.
Gerard, when his turn came, told the adventure of Denys and Gerard at the inn in Domfront, and so well, that the hearers were rapt into sweet oblivion of the very existence of mijauree and hands. But this made her very uneasy, and she had recourse to her grand coup. This misdirected genius had for a twelvemonth past practised yawning, and could do it now at any moment so naturally as to set all creation gaping, could all creation have seen her. By this means she got in all her charms. For first she showed her teeth, then, out of good breeding, you know, closed her mouth with three taper fingers. So the moment Gerard's story got too interesting and absorbing, she turned to and made yawns, and “croix sur la bouche.”
Gerard, when it was his turn, recounted the adventure of Denys and Gerard at the inn in Domfront so well that his audience became completely lost in the story, forgetting all about mijauree and hands. But this made her very uncomfortable, so she decided to pull her big move. This misdirected genius had been practicing yawning for the past year and could do it so naturally at any moment that it would make anyone nearby want to yawn too, if anyone could have seen her. This tactic allowed her to show off all her charms. First, she flashed a smile, then, out of politeness, she covered her mouth with three slender fingers. So, whenever Gerard's story became too interesting and captivating, she would turn away and yawn dramatically, along with a “croix sur la bouche.”
This was all very fine: but Gerard was an artist, and artists are chilled by gaping auditors. He bore up against the yawns a long time; but finding they came from a bottomless reservoir, lost both heart and temper, and suddenly rising in mid narrative, said, “But I weary our hostess, and I am tired myself: so good night!” whipped a candle off the dresser, whispered Denys, “I cannot stand her,” and marched to bed in a moment.
This was all very nice, but Gerard was an artist, and artists get uncomfortable when there are bored listeners. He put up with the yawns for a while, but realizing they were endless, he lost both his motivation and his patience. Suddenly, in the middle of his story, he said, “I’m boring our hostess, and I’m tired myself: so good night!” He grabbed a candle from the dresser, whispered to Denys, “I can’t take it anymore,” and quickly went to bed.
The mijauree coloured and bit her lips. She had not intended her byplay for Gerard's eye: and she saw in a moment she had been rude, and silly, and publicly rebuked. She sat with cheek on fire, and a little natural water in her eyes, and looked ten times comelier and more womanly and interesting than she had done all day. The desertion of the best narrator broke up the party, and the unassuming Denys approached the meditative mijauree, and invited her in the most flattering terms to gamble with him. She started from her reverie, looked him down into the earth's centre with chilling dignity, and consented, for she remembered all in a moment what a show of hands gambling admitted.
The mijauree colored and bit her lips. She hadn’t meant for her actions to catch Gerard's attention, and she realized immediately that she had been rude and silly, and had embarrassed herself in public. She sat there with her cheeks on fire and a little natural tear in her eyes, looking ten times more beautiful, womanly, and interesting than she had all day. The departure of the best storyteller broke up the gathering, and the unassuming Denys approached the thoughtful mijauree, inviting her to gamble with him in the most flattering way. She snapped out of her daydream, gave him an icy stare that felt like it could reach the center of the Earth, and agreed, remembering all at once how much excitement gambling could bring.
The soldier and the mijauree rattled the dice. In which sport she was so taken up with her hands, that she forgot to cheat, and Denys won an “ecu au soleil” of her. She fumbled slowly with her purse, partly because her sex do not burn to pay debts of honour, partly to admire the play of her little knuckles peeping between their soft white cushions. Denys proposed a compromise.
The soldier and the mijauree rolled the dice. So engrossed in the game, she forgot to cheat, and Denys won a “ecu au soleil” from her. She slowly fumbled with her purse, partly because women aren’t eager to settle debts of honor, and partly to admire the way her small knuckles peeked out between their soft white cushions. Denys suggested a compromise.
“Three silver franks I win of you, fair hostess. Give me now three kisses of this white hand, and we'll e'en cry quits.”
“Three silver francs I win from you, kind hostess. Give me now three kisses from this lovely hand, and we'll call it even.”
“You are malapert,” said the lady, with a toss of her head; “besides, they are so dirty. See! they are like ink!” and to convince him she put them out to him and turned them up and down. They were no dirtier than cream fresh from the cob and she knew it: she was eternally washing and scenting them.
“You're cheeky,” the lady said, tossing her head. “Plus, they’re so dirty. Look! They’re like ink!” To prove her point, she held them out to him and showed him from different angles. They were no dirtier than cream straight from the cob, and she knew it; she was constantly washing and scenting them.
Denys read the objection like the observant warrior he was, seized them and mumbled them.
Denys read the objection like the sharp-eyed warrior he was, took them in, and mumbled them.
Finding him so appreciative of her charm, she said timidly, “Will you do me a kindness, good soldier?”
Finding him so appreciative of her charm, she said shyly, “Will you do me a favor, good soldier?”
“A thousand, fair hostess, an you will.”
“A thousand, kind host, if you will.”
“Nay, I ask but one. 'Tis to tell thy comrade I was right sorry to lose his most thrilling story, and I hope he will tell me the rest to-morrow morning. Meantime I shall not sleep for thinking on't. Wilt tell him that—to pleasure me?”
“Nah, I only ask for one thing. It's to let your friend know that I was really sorry to miss his most exciting story, and I hope he will share the rest with me tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I won’t be able to sleep for thinking about it. Will you tell him that—to make me happy?”
“Ay, I'll tell the young savage. But he is not worthy of your condescension, sweet hostess. He would rather be aside a man than a woman any day.”
“Ay, I'll tell the young savage. But he isn't worthy of your kindness, dear hostess. He would rather be next to a man than a woman any day.”
“So would—ahem. He is right: the young women of the day are not worthy of him, 'un tas des mijaurees' He has a good, honest, and right comely face. Any way, I would not guest of mine should think me unmannerly, not for all the world. Wilt keep faith with me and tell him?”
“So would—ahem. He’s right: the young women today aren’t good enough for him, 'a bunch of flirts.' He has a nice, honest, and really attractive face. Anyway, I wouldn’t want my guest to think I’m rude, not for anything. Will you promise me to let him know?”
“On this fair hand I swear it; and thus I seal the pledge.”
“On this beautiful hand I swear it; and this is how I seal the promise.”
“There; no need to melt the wax, though. Now go to bed. And tell him ere you sleep.”
“There’s no need to melt the wax, though. Now go to bed. And tell him before you sleep.”
The perverse toad (I thank thee, Manon, for teaching me that word) was inclined to bestow her slight affections upon Gerard. Not that she was inflammable: far less so than many that passed for prudes in the town. But Gerard possessed a triple attraction that has ensnared coquettes in all ages. 1. He was very handsome. 2. He did not admire her the least. 3. He had given her a good slap in the face.
The twisted toad (thanks, Manon, for teaching me that word) was prone to show her slight affections towards Gerard. Not that she was easily swayed: much less so than many who were considered prudes in the town. But Gerard had a triple allure that has captivated flirtatious people throughout history. 1. He was very attractive. 2. He didn't admire her at all. 3. He had slapped her hard in the face.
Denys woke Gerard and gave the message. Gerard was not enchanted “Dost wake a tired man to tell him that? Am I to be pestered with 'mijaurees' by night as well as day?”
Denys woke Gerard and delivered the message. Gerard was not pleased. “Do you wake a tired man to tell him that? Am I going to be bothered with 'mijaurees' at night as well as during the day?”
“But I tell thee, novice, thou hast conquered her: trust to my experience: her voice sank to melodious whispers; and the cunning jade did in a manner bribe me to carry thee her challenge to Love's lists! for so I read her message.”
“But I’m telling you, newcomer, you’ve won her over: trust my experience: her voice lowered to sweet whispers; and the sly one did, in a way, persuade me to deliver her challenge to the arena of love! That’s how I interpreted her message.”
Denys then, assuming the senior and the man of the world, told Gerard the time was come to show him how a soldier understood friendship and camaraderie. Italy was now out of the question. Fate had provided better; and the blind jade Fortune had smiled on merit for once. “The Head of Gold” had been a prosperous inn, would be again with a man at its head. A good general laid far-sighted plans; but was always ready to abandon them, should some brilliant advantage offer, and to reap the full harvest of the unforeseen: 'twas chiefly by this trait great leaders defeated little ones; for these latter could do nothing not cut and dried beforehand.
Denys, taking on the role of a seasoned and worldly man, told Gerard that it was time to show him how a soldier understood friendship and camaraderie. Italy was no longer an option. Fate had something better in store; and for once, blind Fortune had favored merit. “The Head of Gold” had been a successful inn and would be again with the right person in charge. A good general makes long-term plans but is always ready to change them if a great opportunity arises, fully taking advantage of the unexpected. This is how great leaders often defeat lesser ones—the latter can only stick to things that have been planned in advance.
“Sorry friendship, that would marry me to a mijauree,” interposed Gerard, yawning.
“Sorry, friendship, that would tie me to a mijauree,” interjected Gerard, yawning.
“Comrade, be reasonable; 'tis not the friskiest sheep that falls down the cliff. All creatures must have their fling soon, or late; and why not a woman? What more frivolous than a kitten? what graver than a cat?”
“Comrade, be reasonable; it’s not the liveliest sheep that tumbles down the cliff. Every creature needs to have its fun sometime, right? And why not a woman? What’s more playful than a kitten? What’s more serious than a cat?”
“Hast a good eye for nature, Denys,” said Gerard, “that I proclaim.
“Hast a good eye for nature, Denys,” said Gerard, “that I proclaim.
“A better for thine interest, boy. Trust then to me; these little doves they are my study day and night; happy the man whose wife taketh her fling before wedlock, and who trippeth up the altar-steps instead of down 'em. Marriage it always changeth them for better or else for worse. Why, Gerard, she is honest when all is done; and he is no man, nor half a man, that cannot mould any honest lass like a bit of warm wax, and she aye aside him at bed and board. I tell thee in one month thou wilt make of this coquette the matron the most sober in the town, and of all its wives the one most docile and submissive. Why, she is half tamed already. Nine in ten meek and mild ones had gently hated thee like poison all their lives, for wounding of their hidden pride. But she for an affront proffers affection. By Joshua his bugle a generous lass, and void of petty malice. When thou wast gone she sat a-thinking and spoke not. A sure sign of love in one of her sex: for of all things else they speak ere they think. Also her voice did sink exceeding low in discoursing of thee, and murmured sweetly; another infallible sign. The bolt hath struck and rankles in her; oh, be joyful! Art silent? I see; 'tis settled. I shall go alone to Remiremont, alone and sad. But, pillage and poleaxes! what care I for that, since my dear comrade will stay here, landlord of the 'Tete d'Or,' and safe from all the storms of life? Wilt think of me, Gerard, now and then by thy warm fire, of me camped on some windy heath, or lying in wet trenches, or wounded on the field and far from comfort? Nay!” and this he said in a manner truly noble, “not comfortless or cold, or wet, or bleeding, 'twill still warm my heart to lie on my back and think that I have placed my dear friend and comrade true in the 'Tete d'Or,' far from a soldier's ills.”
“A better choice for your interests, boy. Trust me; these little doves are my focus day and night. Lucky is the man whose wife has her fun before marriage, and who walks up the altar steps instead of down them. Marriage always changes them for better or worse. Look, Gerard, she is honest when it comes down to it; and any man, or even half a man, can shape any honest girl like a piece of warm wax, especially with her right next to him in life. I tell you, in one month you’ll turn this flirt into the most sober matron in town, and of all its wives, the most obedient and submissive. She’s already half-tamed. Nine out of ten meek ones would have quietly hated you like poison their whole lives, just for hurting their hidden pride. But she offers affection for an insult. By Joshua's bugle, she’s a generous girl, free of petty malice. When you were gone, she sat there thinking and didn’t say a word. That’s a sure sign of love in a woman: they always talk before they think about anything else. Plus, her voice dropped to a sweet low tone when she talked about you; that’s another foolproof sign. The spark has hit her and lingers; oh, be joyful! Are you silent? I see; it’s settled then. I’ll go to Remiremont alone and sad. But, loot and battleaxes! Why should I worry about that, since my dear friend will stay here, landlord of the 'Tete d'Or,' safe from all the storms of life? Will you think of me, Gerard, now and then by your warm fire, of me camping on some windy heath, or lying in wet trenches, or wounded on the battlefield and far from comfort? No!” And he said this in a truly noble way, “even if I’m not warm, or dry, or unhurt, it will still warm my heart to lie on my back and think that I’ve placed my dear friend and true comrade in the 'Tete d'Or,' far from a soldier's troubles.”
“I let you run on, dear Denys,” said Gerard softly, “because at each word you show me the treasure of a good heart. But now bethink thee, my troth is plighted there where my heart it clingeth. You so leal, would you make me disloyal?”
“I let you talk on, dear Denys,” said Gerard softly, “because with every word you reveal the treasure of a good heart. But now consider, my loyalty is given to where my heart truly belongs. You, so faithful, would you lead me to be disloyal?”
“Perdition seize me, but I forgot that,” said Denys.
“Damn it, I forgot that,” said Denys.
“No more then, but hie thee to bed, good Denys. Next to Margaret I love thee best on earth, and value thy 'coeur d'or' far more than a dozen of these 'Tetes d'Or.' So prithee call me at the first blush of rosy-fingered morn, and let's away ere the woman with the hands be stirring.”
“No more then, but hurry to bed, good Denys. Next to Margaret, I love you the most in the world, and I value your 'heart of gold' much more than a dozen of these 'Gold Heads.' So please wake me at the first light of dawn, and let's go before the woman with the hands starts moving.”
They rose with the dawn, and broke their fast by the kitchen fire.
They got up with the sunrise and had breakfast by the kitchen fire.
Denys inquired of the girl whether the mistress was about.
Denys asked the girl if the mistress was around.
“Nay; but she hath risen from her bed: by the same token I am carrying her this to clean her withal;” and she filled a jug with boiling water, and took it upstairs.
“Nah; but she’s gotten out of bed: that’s why I’m bringing this to clean her up;” and she filled a jug with boiling water and took it upstairs.
“Behold,” said Gerard, “the very elements must be warmed to suit her skin; what had the saints said, which still chose the coldest pool? Away, ere she come down and catch us.”
“Look,” said Gerard, “even the elements need to be warmed to match her skin; what did the saints say, who still chose the coldest pool? Let's get away before she comes down and catches us.”
They paid the score, and left the “Tete d'Or,” while its mistress was washing her hands.
They settled the bill and left the “Tete d'Or” while the owner was washing her hands.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Outside the town they found the snow fresh trampled by innumerable wolves every foot of the road.
Outside the town, they discovered the snow freshly trampled by countless wolves, every inch of the road.
“We did well to take the old man's advice, Denys.”
“We made a good choice by following the old man's advice, Denys.”
“Ay did we. For now I think on't, I did hear them last night scurrying under our window, and howling and whining for man's flesh in yon market-place. But no fat burgher did pity the poor vagabones, and drop out o' window.”
“Yeah, we did. Now that I think about it, I heard them last night scurrying under our window, howling and whining for human flesh in that marketplace over there. But no fat merchant felt sorry for the poor wanderers and threw anything out of the window.”
Gerard smiled, but with an air of abstraction. And they plodded on in silence.
Gerard smiled, but it seemed distant. They continued walking in silence.
“What dost meditate so profoundly?”
“What are you thinking so deeply?”
“Thy goodness.”
"Your goodness."
Denys was anything but pleased at this answer. Amongst his oddities you may have observed that he could stand a great deal of real impertinence; he was so good-humoured. But would fire up now and then where not even the shadow of a ground for anger existed.
Denys was far from happy with this response. If you've noticed his quirks, he could tolerate a lot of genuine rudeness; he was just that good-natured. But occasionally, he would get upset over things that didn't even have the slightest reason for anger.
“A civil question merits a civil reply,” said he very drily.
“A civil question deserves a civil answer,” he said dryly.
“Alas, I meant no other,” said Gerard.
“Honestly, I didn't mean anything else,” said Gerard.
“Then why pretend you were thinking of my goodness, when you know I have no goodness under my skin?”
“Then why act like you were considering my goodness when you know I have no goodness in me?”
“Had another said this, I had answered, 'Thou liest.' But to thee I say, 'Hast no eye for men's qualities, but only for women's.' And once more I do defy thy unreasonable choler, and say I was thinking on thy goodness of overnight. Wouldst have wedded me to the 'Tete d'Or' or rather to the 'tete de veau doree,' and left thyself solitary.”
“Had someone else said this, I would have replied, 'You're lying.' But to you, I say, 'You only see the qualities in women, not in men.' Once again, I challenge your unreasonable anger and say I was thinking about your goodness from last night. Would you have married me to the 'Tete d'Or' or rather to the 'tete de veau doree,' and left yourself alone?”
“Oh, are ye there, lad?” said Denys, recovering his good humour in a moment. “Well, but to speak sooth, I meant that not for goodness; but for friendship and true fellowship, no more. And let me tell you, my young master, my conscience it pricketh me even now for letting you turn your back thus on fortune and peaceful days. A truer friend than I had ta'en and somewhat hamstrung thee. Then hadst thou been fain to lie smarting at the 'Tete d'Or' a month or so; yon skittish lass had nursed thee tenderly, and all had been well. Blade I had in hand to do't, but remembering how thou hatest pain, though it be but a scratch, my craven heart it failed me at the pinch.” And Denys wore a look of humble apology for his lack of virtuous resolution when the path of duty lay so clear.
“Oh, are you there, kid?” Denys asked, getting his good mood back in an instant. “But to be honest, I didn’t mean that out of kindness; it was just friendship and true companionship, nothing more. And let me tell you, my young master, my conscience is troubling me right now for letting you turn your back on fortune and peaceful days. A truer friend than I would have done something to hold you back. Then you would have been stuck recovering at the 'Tete d'Or' for a month or so; that playful girl would have taken care of you, and everything would have been fine. I had the means to do it, but remembering how much you hate pain, even if it’s just a scratch, my cowardly heart failed me when it mattered.” And Denys looked genuinely sorry for not having the moral strength when the right thing was so obvious.
Gerard raised his eyebrows with astonishment at this monstrous but thoroughly characteristic revelation; however, this new and delicate point of friendship was never discussed; viz., whether one ought in all love to cut the tendon Achilles of one's friend. For an incident interposed.
Gerard raised his eyebrows in astonishment at this shocking yet completely typical revelation; however, this new and sensitive aspect of friendship was never talked about; namely, whether one should, out of love, sabotage a friend's strengths. For an unexpected event intervened.
“Here cometh one in our rear a-riding on his neighbour's mule,” shouted Denys.
“Here comes someone behind us riding on his neighbor's mule,” shouted Denys.
Gerard turned round. “And how know ye 'tis not his own, pray?”
Gerard turned around. “And how do you know it's not his own, please?”
“Oh, blind! Because he rides it with no discretion.”
“Oh, how foolish! Because he uses it without any thought.”
And in truth the man came galloping like a fury. But what astonished the friends most was that on reaching them the rustic rider's eyes opened saucer-like, and he drew the rein so suddenly and powerfully, that the mule stuck out her fore-legs, and went sliding between the pedestrians like a four-legged table on castors.
And honestly, the guy came charging in like a whirlwind. But what surprised the friends the most was that when he reached them, the country rider's eyes widened dramatically, and he yanked on the reins so abruptly and forcefully that the mule dug in her front legs and slid between the pedestrians like a four-legged table on wheels.
“I trow ye are from the 'Tete d'Or?'” They assented. “Which of ye is the younger?”
“I guess you are from the 'Tete d'Or?'” They agreed. “Which one of you is the younger?”
“He that was born the later,” said Denys, winking at his companion.
“He who was born later,” said Denys, winking at his friend.
“Gramercy for the news.”
"Thanks for the news."
“Come, divine then!”
“Come on, divine then!”
“And shall. Thy beard is ripe, thy fellow's is green; he shall be the younger; here, youngster.” And he held him out a paper packet. “Ye left this at the 'Tete d'Or,' and our mistress sends it ye.”
“And will. Your beard is full, your friend's is young; he’ll be the youngest; here, kid.” And he offered him a paper packet. “You left this at the 'Tete d'Or,' and our lady wants you to have it.”
“Nay, good fellow, methinks I left nought.” And Gerard felt his pouch. etc.
“Nah, good buddy, I don’t think I left anything.” And Gerard checked his pocket. etc.
“Would ye make our burgess a liar,” said the rustic reproachfully; “and shall I have no pourboire?” (still more reproachfully); “and came ventre a terre.”
“Are you trying to call our townsperson a liar?” said the countryman resentfully; “and am I not getting a tip?” (even more resentfully); “and came rushing in.”
“Nay, thou shalt have pourboire,” and he gave him a small coin.
“Nah, you’ll get a tip,” and he gave him a small coin.
“A la bonne heure,” cried the clown, and his features beamed with disproportionate joy. “The Virgin go with ye; come up, Jenny!” and back he went “stomach to earth,” as his nation is pleased to call it.
“A good time,” shouted the clown, his face lit up with excessive joy. “May the Virgin be with you; come up, Jenny!” and he fell back down “stomach to earth,” as his people like to say.
Gerard undid the packet; it was about six inches square, and inside it he found another packet, which contained a packet, and so on. At the fourth he hurled the whole thing into the snow. Denys took it out and rebuked his petulance. He excused himself on the ground of hating affectation.
Gerard unwrapped the package; it was about six inches square, and inside he found another package, which contained yet another package, and so on. At the fourth one, he threw the whole thing into the snow. Denys retrieved it and scolded him for his childishness. Gerard defended himself by saying he couldn't stand pretentiousness.
Denys attested, “'The great toe of the little daughter of Herodias' there was no affectation here, but only woman's good wit. Doubtless the wraps contained something which out of delicacy, or her sex's lovely cunning, she would not her hind should see her bestow on a young man; thy garter, to wit.”
Denys confirmed, “'The big toe of Herodias' little daughter' wasn’t pretentious, just a clever woman. There’s no doubt the wraps held something she wouldn’t want her maid to see her give to a young man; your garter, to be precise.”
“I wear none.”
"I don't wear any."
“Her own then; or a lock of her hair. What is this? A piece of raw silk fresh from the worm. Well, of all the love tokens!”
“Her own then; or a lock of her hair. What is this? A piece of raw silk fresh from the worm. Wow, what a love token!”
“Now who but thee ever dreamed that she is so naught as send me love tokens? I saw no harm in her—barring her hands.”
“Now who but you ever dreamed that she would send me love tokens? I saw no harm in her—except for her hands.”
“Stay, here is something hard lurking in this soft nest. Come forth, I say, little nestling! Saints and pikestaves! look at this!”
“Wait, there’s something tough hiding in this soft nest. Come out, I say, little chick! Goodness gracious! Look at this!”
It was a gold ring with a great amethyst glowing and sparkling, full coloured, but pure as crystal.
It was a gold ring with a large amethyst that glowed and sparkled, vibrant in color but as clear as crystal.
“How lovely!” said Gerard innocently.
“Absolutely lovely!” said Gerard innocently.
“And here is something writ; read it thou! I read not so glib as some, when I know not the matter beforehand.”
“And here’s something written; read it! I don’t read as smoothly as others do when I don’t know the content in advance.”
Gerard took the paper. “'Tis a posy, and fairly enough writ.” He read the lines, blushing like a girl. They were very naive, and may be thus Englished:—
Gerard took the paper. “It's a poem, and well-written enough.” He read the lines, blushing like a girl. They were very naive, and can be translated like this:—
'Youth, with thee my heart is fledde,
Come back to the 'golden Hedde!'
Wilt not? yet this token keepe
Of hir who doeth thy goeing weepe.
Gyf the world prove harsh and cold,
Come back to 'the Hedde of gold.'”
'Youth, with you my heart has gone,
Come back to the 'golden Head!'
Won't you? Yet keep this token
From her who weeps for your leaving.
If the world turns harsh and cold,
Come back to 'the Head of gold.'”“The little dove!” purred Denys.
"The little dove!" purred Denys.
“The great owl! To go and risk her good name thus. However, thank Heaven she has played this prank with an honest lad that will ne'er expose her folly. But oh, the perverseness! Could she not bestow her nauseousness on thee?” Denys sighed and shrugged. “On thee that art as ripe for folly as herself?”
“The great owl! To go and risk her reputation like this. But thank goodness she pulled this stunt with a good guy who won’t ever reveal her foolishness. But oh, the stubbornness! Couldn’t she share her ridiculousness with you?” Denys sighed and shrugged. “With you, who’s just as ready for foolishness as she is?”
Denys confessed that his young friend had harped his very thought. 'Twas passing strange to him that a damsel with eyes in her head should pass by a man, and bestow her affections on a boy. Still he could not but recognize in this the bounty of Nature. Boys were human beings after all, and but for this occasional caprice of women, their lot would be too terrible; they would be out of the sun altogether, blighted, and never come to anything; since only the fair could make a man out of such unpromising materials as a boy. Gerard interrupted this flattering discourse to beg the warrior-philosopher's acceptance of the lady's ring. He refused it flatly, and insisted on Gerard going back to the “Tete d'Or” at once, ring and all, like a man, and not letting a poor girl hold out her arms to him in vain.
Denys admitted that his young friend had expressed exactly what he was thinking. It was really strange to him that a girl with her senses intact would overlook a man and choose to love a boy. Still, he had to acknowledge that this was part of nature's gifts. After all, boys are human beings too, and without this occasional whim of women, their lives would be too harsh; they would be completely left out, wither away, and never amount to anything, since only the fair could turn a boy into a man from such unpromising beginnings. Gerard cut off this flattering talk to ask the warrior-philosopher to accept the lady's ring. He flatly refused it and insisted that Gerard return to the "Tete d'Or" immediately, ring and all, like a man, and not leave a poor girl reaching out to him for nothing.
“Her hands, you mean.”
“Her hands, right?”
“Her hand, with the 'Tete d'Or' in it.”
“Her hand, holding the 'Tete d'Or.'”
Failing in this, he was for putting the ring on his friend's finger. Gerard declined. “I wear a ring already.”
Failing at this, he decided to put the ring on his friend's finger. Gerard declined. “I already wear a ring.”
“What, that sorry gimcrack? why, 'tis pewter, or tin at best: and this virgin gold, forbye the jewel.”
“What, that sad trinket? It’s either pewter or at best tin: and this supposed gold, besides the jewel.”
“Ay, but 'twas Margaret gave me this one; and I value it above rubies. I'll neither part with it nor give it a rival,” and he kissed the base metal, and bade it fear nought.
“Ay, but it was Margaret who gave me this one; and I value it more than rubies. I won’t part with it or let anything come close to it,” and he kissed the base metal and told it not to fear anything.
“I see the owl hath sent her ring to a goose,” said Denys sorrowfully. However, he prevailed on Gerard to fasten it inside his bonnet. To this, indeed, the lad consented very readily. For sovereign qualities were universally ascribed to certain jewels; and the amethyst ranked high among these precious talismans.
“I see the owl has sent her ring to a goose,” said Denys sadly. However, he convinced Gerard to tuck it inside his hat. The boy agreed easily to this. Certain jewels were widely believed to have special powers, and the amethyst was highly regarded among these precious talismans.
When this was disposed of, Gerard earnestly requested his friend to let the matter drop, since speaking of the other sex to him made him pine so for Margaret, and almost unmanned him with the thought that each step was taking him farther from her. “I am no general lover, Denys. There is room in my heart for one sweetheart, and for one friend. I am far from my dear mistress; and my friend, a few leagues more, and I must lose him too. Oh, let me drink thy friendship pure while I may, and not dilute with any of these stupid females.”
When this was settled, Gerard earnestly asked his friend to drop the subject, since talking about women made him miss Margaret so much, it almost took away his strength just thinking that each step was taking him further from her. “I’m not some kind of general lover, Denys. There’s space in my heart for just one sweetheart and one friend. I’m far from my dear mistress, and with my friend just a few more leagues away, I’ll lose him too. Oh, let me enjoy your friendship as it is while I can, and not mix it with any of these silly women.”
“And shalt, honey-pot, and shalt,” said Denys kindly'. “But as to my leaving thee at Remiremont, reckon thou not on that! For” (three consecutive oaths) “if I do. Nay, I shall propose to thee to stay forty-eight hours there, while I kiss my mother and sisters, and the females generally, and on go you and I together to the sea.”
“And you will, honey-pot, and you will,” said Denys kindly. “But don’t think for a second that I’m leaving you at Remiremont! Because” (three consecutive oaths) “if I do. No, I’m going to suggest that you stay there for forty-eight hours while I go and see my mother and sisters, and the ladies in general, and then you and I will head to the sea together.”
“Denys! Denys!”
"Denys! Denys!"
“Denys nor me! 'Tis settled. Gainsay me not! or I'll go with thee to Rome. Why not? his Holiness the Pope hath ever some little merry pleasant war toward, and a Burgundian soldier is still welcome in his ranks.”
“Not Denys or me! It’s decided. Don’t argue with me! or I’ll go with you to Rome. Why not? The Pope always has some little fun war going on, and a Burgundian soldier is always welcome in his ranks.”
On this Gerard opened his heart. “Denys, ere I fell in with thee, I used often to halt on the road, unable to go farther: my puny heart so pulled me back: and then, after a short prayer to the saints for aid, would I rise and drag my most unwilling body onward. But since I joined company with thee, great is my courage. I have found the saying of the ancients true, that better is a bright comrade on the weary road than a horse-litter; and, dear brother, when I do think of what we have done and suffered together! Savedst my life from the bear, and from yet more savage thieves; and even poor I did make shift to draw thee out of Rhine, and somehow loved thee double from that hour. How many ties tender and strong between us! Had I my will, I'd never, never, never, never part with my Denys on this side the grave. Well-a-day! God His will be done.
On this, Gerard opened up. “Denys, before I met you, I often found myself stopping on the road, unable to move forward: my weak heart held me back. Then, after a quick prayer to the saints for help, I would get up and drag my unwilling body along. But since I started traveling with you, my courage has grown. I’ve found the old saying to be true: having a good friend on a tough journey is better than a horse-drawn carriage; and, dear brother, when I think about everything we’ve done and suffered together! You saved my life from the bear and from even more brutal thieves; and somehow, even I managed to pull you out of the Rhine, and I've loved you even more since that moment. There are so many tender and strong bonds between us! If I had my way, I would never, ever part with my Denys until death. Alas! May God’s will be done."
“No, my will shall be done this time,” shouted Denys. “Le bon Dieu has bigger fish to fry than you or me. I'll go with thee to Rome. There is my hand on it.”
“No, my will is going to be done this time,” shouted Denys. “God has bigger things to deal with than you or me. I’ll go with you to Rome. There’s my hand on it.”
“Think what, you say! 'Tis impossible. 'Tis too selfish of me.”
“Think what, you say! That’s impossible. It’s too selfish of me.”
“I tell thee, 'tis settled. No power can change me. At Remiremont I borrow ten pieces of my uncle, and on we go; 'tis fixed.”
“I’m telling you, it’s settled. Nothing can change my mind. I’ll borrow ten coins from my uncle in Remiremont, and we’re moving forward; it’s decided.”
They shook hands over it. Then Gerard said nothing, for his heart was too full; but he ran twice round his companion as he walked, then danced backwards in front of him, and finally took his hand, and so on they went hand in hand like sweethearts, till a company of mounted soldiers, about fifty in number, rose to sight on the brow of a hill.
They shook hands over it. Then Gerard didn’t say anything because he was feeling too much; instead, he ran around his friend a couple of times as he walked, then danced backward in front of him, and finally took his hand. They went on hand in hand like a couple of sweethearts until a group of mounted soldiers, around fifty of them, appeared at the top of a hill.
“See the banner of Burgundy,” said Denys joyfully; “I shall look out for a comrade among these.”
“Look at the Burgundy banner,” Denys said happily; “I’ll see if I can find a friend among these.”
“How gorgeous is the standard in the sun,” said Gerard “and how brave are the leaders with velvet and feathers, and steel breastplates like glassy mirrors!”
“How beautiful the standard looks in the sun,” said Gerard, “and how bold the leaders are with their velvet and feathers, and steel breastplates that shine like glass mirrors!”
When they came near enough to distinguish faces, Denys uttered an exclamation: “Why, 'tis the Bastard of Burgundy, as I live. Nay, then; there is fighting a-foot since he is out; a gallant leader, Gerard, rates his life no higher than a private soldier's, and a soldier's no higher than a tomtit's; and that is the captain for me.”
When they got close enough to see faces, Denys exclaimed, “Wow, it’s the Bastard of Burgundy, I swear. Well then; there’s going to be a fight now that he’s out; a brave leader, Gerard, values his life no more than a regular soldier's, and a soldier's life no more than that of a tiny bird; and that’s the kind of captain I want.”
“And see, Denys, the very mules with their great brass frontlets and trappings seem proud to carry them; no wonder men itch to be soldiers;” and in the midst of this innocent admiration the troop came up with them.
“And look, Denys, even the mules with their big brass frontlets and gear seem proud to carry them; it’s no surprise men are eager to be soldiers;” and right in the middle of this innocent admiration, the troop caught up with them.
“Halt!” cried a stentorian voice. The troop halted. The Bastard of Burgundy bent his brow gloomily on Denys: “How now, arbalestrier, how comes it thy face is turned southward, when every good hand and heart is hurrying northward?”
“Halt!” shouted a booming voice. The group stopped. The Bastard of Burgundy frowned at Denys: “What’s going on, crossbowman? Why is your face turned south when every loyal hand and heart is rushing north?”
Denys replied respectfully that he was going on leave, after some years of service, to see his kindred at Remiremont.
Denys respectfully replied that he was taking leave, after several years of service, to visit his family in Remiremont.
“Good. But this is not the time for't; the duchy is disturbed. Ho! bring that dead soldier's mule to the front; and thou mount her and forward with us to Flanders.”
“Good. But this isn't the time for that; the duchy is in turmoil. Hey! Bring that dead soldier's mule to the front; you'll ride it and come with us to Flanders.”
“So please your highness,” said Denys firmly, “that may not be. My home is close at hand. I have not seen it these three years; and above all, I have this poor youth in charge, whom I may not, cannot leave, till I see him shipped for Rome.
“So, please your highness,” Denys said firmly, “that can't happen. My home is nearby. I haven't seen it in three years; and above all, I have this poor young man to take care of, whom I cannot, must not leave until I see him on a ship to Rome.”
“Dost bandy words with me?” said the chief, with amazement, turning fast to wrath. “Art weary o' thy life? Let go the youth's hand, and into the saddle without more idle words.”
“Do you dare to argue with me?” said the chief, astonished, quickly turning to anger. “Are you tired of your life? Let go of the boy’s hand and get in the saddle without any more nonsense.”
Denys made no reply; but he held Gerard's hand the tighter, and looked defiance.
Denys didn’t say anything; instead, he squeezed Gerard’s hand tighter and shot him a defiant look.
At this the bastard roared, “Jarnac, dismount six of thy archers, and shoot me this white-livered cur dead where he stands—for an example.”
At this, the bastard shouted, “Jarnac, get six of your archers off their horses, and shoot this coward right where he stands—for a lesson.”
The young Count de Jarnac, second in command, gave the order, and the men dismounted to execute it.
The young Count de Jarnac, second in command, gave the order, and the men got off their horses to carry it out.
“Strip him naked,” said the bastard, in the cold tone of military business, “and put his arms and accoutrements on the spare mule We'll maybe find some clown worthier to wear them.”
“Strip him naked,” said the jerk, in the indifferent tone of military duty, “and put his arms and gear on the extra mule. We might find some fool better suited to wear them.”
Denys groaned aloud, “Am I to be shamed as well as slain?”
Denys groaned loudly, “Am I going to be humiliated and killed?”
“Oh, nay! nay! nay!” cried Gerard, awaking from the stupor into which this thunderbolt of tyranny had thrown him. “He shall go with you on the instant. I'd liever part with him for ever than see a hair of his dear head harmed Oh, sir, oh, my lord, give a poor boy but a minute to bid his only friend farewell! he will go with you. I swear he shall go with you.”
“Oh, no! no! no!” cried Gerard, waking up from the daze that this shocking act of tyranny had put him in. “He'll go with you right away. I’d rather lose him forever than see a single hair on his dear head harmed. Oh, sir, oh, my lord, just give a poor boy a minute to say goodbye to his only friend! He will go with you. I swear he’ll go with you.”
The stern leader nodded a cold contemptuous assent. “Thou, Jarnac, stay with them, and bring him on alive or dead. Forward!” And he resumed his march, followed by all the band but the young count and six archers, one of whom held the spare mule.
The stern leader nodded with cold disdain. “You, Jarnac, stay with them and bring him back alive or dead. Move out!” And he continued on his march, followed by the whole group except for the young count and six archers, one of whom held the spare mule.
Denys and Gerard gazed at one another haggardly. Oh, what a look!
Denys and Gerard looked at each other wearily. Oh, what a look!
And after this mute interchange of anguish, they spoke hurriedly, for the moments were flying by.
And after this silent exchange of pain, they spoke quickly, as time was running out.
“Thou goest to Holland: thou knowest where she bides. Tell her all. She will be kind to thee for my sake.”
“You're going to Holland: you know where she stays. Tell her everything. She'll be nice to you for my sake.”
“Oh, sorry tale that I shall carry her! For God's sake, go back to the 'Tete d'Or.' I am mad!”
“Oh, what a sorry story I’ll have to bear! For heaven's sake, go back to the 'Tete d'Or.' I’m losing my mind!”
“Hush! Let me think: have I nought to say to thee, Denys? my head! my head!”
“Hush! Let me think: do I have nothing to say to you, Denys? My head! My head!”
“Ah! I have it. Make for the Rhine, Gerard! Strasbourg. 'Tis but a step. And down the current to Rotterdam. Margaret is there: I go thither. I'll tell her thou art coming. We shall all be together.”
“Ah! I’ve got it. Head towards the Rhine, Gerard! Strasbourg. It’s just a quick trip. And then down the river to Rotterdam. Margaret is there: I’m going there. I’ll let her know you’re coming. We’ll all be together.”
“My lads, haste ye, or you will get us into trouble,” said the count firmly, but not harshly now.
“My guys, hurry up, or you’re going to get us into trouble,” said the count firmly, but not harshly now.
“Oh, sir, one moment! one little moment!” panted Gerard.
“Oh, sir, just a moment! Just a quick moment!” panted Gerard.
“Cursed be the land I 'was born in! cursed be the race of man! and he that made them what they are!” screamed Denys.
“Cursed be the land I was born in! Cursed be the human race! And the one who made them what they are!” screamed Denys.
“Hush, Denys, hush! blaspheme not! Oh, God forgive him, he wots not what he says. Be patient, Denys, be patient: though we meet no more on earth, let us meet in a better world, where no blasphemer may enter. To my heart, lost friend; for what are words now?” He held out his arms, and they locked one another in a close embrace. They kissed one another again and again, speechless, and the tears rained down their cheeks And the Count Jarnac looked on amazed, but the rougher soldiers, to whom comrade was a sacred name, looked on with some pity in their hard faces. Then at a signal from Jarnac, with kind force and words of rude consolation, they almost lifted Denys on to the mule; and putting him in the middle of them, spurred after their leader. And Gerard ran wildly after (for the lane turned), to see the very last of him; and the last glimpse he caught, Denys was rocking to and fro on his mule, and tearing his hair out. But at this sight something rose in Gerard's throat so high, so high, he could run no more nor breathe, but gasped, and leaned against the snow-clad hedge, seizing it, and choking piteously.
“Hush, Denys, hush! Don't curse! Oh, God forgive him, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Be patient, Denys, be patient: even if we never meet again on earth, let’s meet in a better world, where no blasphemer can enter. To my heart, lost friend; because what do words matter now?” He opened his arms, and they embraced tightly. They kissed each other again and again, speechless, while tears streamed down their cheeks. Count Jarnac watched in amazement, but the tougher soldiers, for whom the term "comrade" held deep meaning, gazed on with a bit of sympathy on their hardened faces. Then, at a signal from Jarnac, with gentle force and words of clumsy comfort, they nearly lifted Denys onto the mule; and placing him in the center of them, they spurred forward after their leader. Gerard ran after them in a panic (as the path curved) to catch one last glimpse of him; and the final sight he caught was of Denys swaying on his mule, tearing his hair out. But at this, something rose in Gerard's throat so high, so high, that he could run no more or breathe, but gasped and leaned against the snow-covered hedge, clutching it and choking in despair.
The thorns ran into his hand.
The thorns pricked his hand.
After a bitter struggle he got his breath again; and now began to see his own misfortune. Yet not all at once to realize it, so sudden and numbing was the stroke. He staggered on, but scarce feeling or caring whither he was going; and every now and then he stopped, and his arms fell and his head sank on his chest, and he stood motionless: then he said to himself, “Can this thing be? this must be a dream. 'Tis scarce five minutes since we were so happy, walking handed, faring to Rome together, and we admired them and their gay banners and helmets oh hearts of hell!”
After a tough struggle, he caught his breath again and started to realize his own misfortune. But it didn’t hit him all at once; the shock was so sudden and overwhelming. He kept stumbling forward, hardly feeling or caring about where he was headed. Every now and then, he would stop, his arms would drop, and his head would hang low on his chest as he stood there frozen. Then he thought to himself, “Is this real? This has to be a dream. It was barely five minutes ago that we were so happy, walking hand in hand to Rome, admiring the people and their bright banners and helmets—oh, the hearts of hell!”
All nature seemed to stare now as lonely as himself. Not a creature in sight. No colour but white. He, the ghost of his former self, wandered alone among the ghosts of trees, and fields, and hedges. Desolate! desolate! desolate! All was desolate.
All of nature seemed to look on, just as lonely as he was. There wasn’t a single creature in sight. Everything was white. He, the shadow of his former self, wandered alone among the shadows of trees, fields, and hedges. Bleak! bleak! bleak! Everything was bleak.
He knelt and gathered a little snow. “Nay, I dream not; for this is snow: cold as the world's heart. It is bloody, too: what may that mean? Fool! 'tis from thy hand. I mind not the wound Ay, I see: thorns. Welcome! kindly foes: I felt ye not, ye ran not into my heart. Ye are not cruel like men.”
He knelt down and scooped up some snow. “No, I’m not dreaming; this is snow: cold as the heart of the world. It’s bloody too: what could that mean? Fool! It’s from your hand. I don’t care about the wound. Ah, I see: thorns. Welcome! Kind foes: I didn’t feel you, you didn’t pierce my heart. You’re not cruel like humans.”
He had risen, and was dragging his leaden limbs along, when he heard horses' feet and gay voices behind him. He turned with a joyful but wild hope that the soldiers had relented and were bringing Denys back. But no, it was a gay cavalcade. A gentleman of rank and his favourites in velvet and furs and feathers; and four or five armed retainers in buff jerkins.
He had gotten up and was dragging his heavy limbs along when he heard the sound of horses' hooves and cheerful voices behind him. He turned with a hopeful yet wild desire that the soldiers had changed their minds and were bringing Denys back. But no, it was a lively procession. A man of high status and his favorites in velvet, fur, and feathers; along with four or five armed attendants in beige jackets.
They swept gaily by.
They joyfully passed by.
Gerard never looked at them after they were gone by: certain gay shadows had come and passed; that was all. He was like one in a dream. But he was rudely wakened; suddenly a voice in front of him cried harshly, “Stand and deliver!” and there were three of the gentleman's servants in front of him. They had ridden back to rob him.
Gerard didn't look at them after they left: a few fleeting shadows had come and gone; that was it. He felt like he was in a dream. But then he was jolted awake; suddenly a voice in front of him shouted harshly, “Stand and deliver!” and there were three of the gentleman's servants standing in front of him. They had come back to rob him.
“How, ye false knaves,” said he, quite calmly; “would ye shame your noble master? He will hang ye to the nearest tree;” and with these words he drew his sword doggedly, and set his back to the hedge.
“How, you false knaves,” he said calmly, “are you trying to shame your noble master? He’ll hang you from the nearest tree;” and with those words, he stubbornly drew his sword and positioned himself against the hedge.
One of the men instantly levelled his petronel at him.
One of the men quickly aimed his firearm at him.
But another, less sanguinary, interposed. “Be not so hasty! And be not thou so mad! Look yonder!”
But another, less bloodthirsty, intervened. “Don’t be so quick! And don’t be so crazy! Look over there!”
Gerard looked, and scarce a hundred yards off the nobleman and his friends had halted, and sat on their horses, looking at the lawless act, too proud to do their own dirty work, but not too proud to reap the fruit, and watch lest their agents should rob them of another man's money.
Gerard looked, and barely a hundred yards away, the nobleman and his friends had stopped and were sitting on their horses, watching the unlawful act. They were too proud to do their own dirty work but not too proud to enjoy the benefits and ensure that their agents didn’t steal money that belonged to someone else.
The milder servant then, a good-natured fellow, showed Gerard resistance was vain; reminded him common thieves often took the life as well as the purse, and assured him it cost a mint to be a gentleman; his master had lost money at play overnight, and was going to visit his leman, and so must take money where he saw it.
The gentler servant, a friendly guy, told Gerard that resisting was pointless; he pointed out that common thieves often took both life and valuables, and assured him it was expensive to live like a gentleman. His master had lost money gambling the night before and was heading to see his mistress, so he had to take money whenever he found it.
“Therefore, good youth, consider that we rob not for ourselves, and deliver us that fat purse at thy girdle without more ado, nor put us to the pain of slitting thy throat and taking it all the same.”
“Therefore, good young man, keep in mind that we’re not stealing for ourselves, so hand over that fat purse at your waist without any delay, or we’ll have to resort to the unpleasantness of slitting your throat and taking it anyway.”
“This knave is right,” said Gerard calmly aloud but to himself. “I ought not to fling away my life; Margaret would be so sorry. Take then the poor man's purse to the rich man's pouch; and with it this; tell him, I pray the Holy Trinity each coin in it may burn his hand, and freeze his heart, and blast his soul for ever. Begone and leave me to my sorrow!” He flung them the purse.
“This jerk is right,” said Gerard quietly to himself. “I shouldn’t waste my life; Margaret would be so upset. So take the poor man’s purse to the rich man; and along with it, this: tell him, I pray that the Holy Trinity makes every coin in it burn his hand, chill his heart, and ruin his soul forever. Now get out of here and leave me to my grief!” He threw them the purse.
They rode away muttering; for his words pricked them a little; a very little: and he staggered on, penniless now as well as friendless, till he came to the edge of a wood. Then, though his heart could hardly feel this second blow, his judgment did; and he began to ask himself what was the use going further? He sat down on the hard road, and ran his nails into his hair, and tried to think for the best; a task all the more difficult that a strange drowsiness was stealing over him. Rome he could never reach without money. Denys had said, “Go to Strasbourg, and down the Rhine home.” He would obey Denys. But how to get to Strasbourg without money?
They rode away mumbling; his words had stung them a bit, just a bit. He continued on, now both broke and alone, until he reached the edge of a forest. Although his heart could barely feel this added blow, his mind did; he started to wonder what the point of going further was. He sat down on the hard road, dug his nails into his hair, and tried to think of a solution, which was even harder because a strange drowsiness was overpowering him. He realized he could never reach Rome without money. Denys had said, “Go to Strasbourg, then head down the Rhine home.” He would follow Denys's advice. But how could he get to Strasbourg without any cash?
Then suddenly seemed to ring in his ears—
Then suddenly it seemed to ring in his ears—
“Gyf the world prove harsh and cold,
Come back to the hedde of gold.”
“if the world turns out to be harsh and cold, come back to the head of gold.”
“And if I do I must go as her servant; I who am Margaret's. I am a-weary, a-weary. I will sleep, and dream all is as it was. Ah me, how happy were we an hour agone, we little knew how happy. There is a house: the owner well-to-do. What if I told him my wrong, and prayed his aid to retrieve my purse, and so to Rhine? Fool! is he not a man, like the rest? He would scorn me and trample me lower. Denys cursed the race of men. That will I never; but oh, I begin to loathe and dread them. Nay, here will I lie till sunset: then darkling creep into this rich man's barn, and take by stealth a draught of milk or a handful o' grain, to keep body and soul together. God, who hath seen the rich rob me, will peradventure forgive me. They say 'tis ill sleeping on the snow. Death steals on such sleepers with muffled feet and honey breath. But what can I? I am a-weary, a-weary. Shall this be the wood where lie the wolves yon old man spoke of? I must e'en trust them: they are not men; and I am so a-weary.”
“And if I do, I have to go as her servant; I, who belong to Margaret. I am so tired, so tired. I will sleep and dream that everything is as it was. Oh, how happy we were just an hour ago, when we had no idea how happy we were. There’s a house: the owner is well-off. What if I told him my troubles and asked for his help to get my money back so I can go to the Rhine? Fool! Isn’t he just a man like the others? He would look down on me and push me even lower. Denys cursed all men. I’ll never do that; but oh, I’m starting to hate and fear them. No, I will stay here until sunset; then, when it’s dark, I’ll sneak into this rich man’s barn and quietly take a drink of milk or a handful of grain to survive. God, who has seen the rich rob me, might forgive me. They say sleeping in the snow is dangerous. Death sneaks up on such sleepers silently and sweetly. But what can I do? I am so tired, so tired. Is this the woods where those wolves the old man talked about lie? I guess I must trust them: they’re not men; and I am so tired.”
He crawled to the roadside, and stretched out his limbs on the snow, with a deep sigh.
He crawled to the edge of the road and stretched out his limbs in the snow, letting out a deep sigh.
“Ah, tear not thine hair so! teareth my heart to see thee.”
“Ah, don’t pull your hair like that! It breaks my heart to see you.”
“Margaret. Never see me more. Poor Margaret.”
“Margaret. Never see me again. Poor Margaret.”
And the too tender heart was still.
And the overly sensitive heart was silent.
And the constant lover, and friend of antique mould, lay silent on the snow; in peril from the weather, in peril from wild beasts, in peril from hunger, friendless and penniless in a strange land, and not halfway to Rome.
And the lifelong lover and friend of old things lay quiet on the snow; in danger from the weather, in danger from wild animals, in danger from hunger, alone and broke in an unfamiliar land, and still not halfway to Rome.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Rude travel is enticing to us English. And so are its records; even though the adventurer be no pilgrim of love. And antique friendship has at least the interest of a fossil. Still, as the true centre of this story is in Holland, it is full time to return thither, and to those ordinary personages and incidents whereof life has been mainly composed in all ages.
Rough travel is appealing to us English. So are its stories, even if the adventurer isn’t a lover. And old friendships have at least the interest of a fossil. Still, since the real focus of this story is in Holland, it’s time to go back there, to those everyday people and events that make up life in every age.
Jorian Ketel came to Peter's house to claim Margaret's promise; but Margaret was ill in bed, and Peter, on hearing his errand, affronted him and warned him off the premises, and one or two that stood by were for ducking him; for both father and daughter were favourites, and the whole story was in every mouth, and Sevenbergens in that state of hot, undiscriminating irritation which accompanies popular sympathy.
Jorian Ketel went to Peter's house to hold Margaret to her promise, but Margaret was sick in bed. When Peter heard why Jorian was there, he confronted him and kicked him off the property. A couple of people nearby wanted to throw him in the water because both Peter and Margaret were well-liked, and everyone was talking about the whole situation. The people of Sevenbergens were stirred up in that intense, blind anger that often comes with public support.
So Jorian Ketel went off in dudgeon, and repented him of his good deed. This sort of penitence is not rare, and has the merit of being sincere. Dierich Brower, who was discovered at “The Three Kings,” making a chatterbox drunk in order to worm out of him the whereabouts of Martin Wittenhaagen, was actually taken and flung into a horsepond, and threatened with worse usage, should he ever show his face in the burgh again; and finally, municipal jealousy being roused, the burgomaster of Sevenbergen sent a formal missive to the burgomaster of Tergou, reminding him he had overstepped the law, and requesting him to apply to the authorities of Sevenbergen on any future occasion when he might have a complaint, real or imaginary, against any of its townsfolk.
So Jorian Ketel left in a huff, regretting his good deed. This kind of regret isn't uncommon, and it’s genuinely felt. Dierich Brower, who was caught at “The Three Kings” trying to get a gossip drunk to find out where Martin Wittenhaagen was, ended up being tossed into a horse pond and threatened with worse if he ever showed up in town again. Finally, after some municipal jealousy flared up, the mayor of Sevenbergen sent an official letter to the mayor of Tergou, reminding him that he had broken the law and asking him to reach out to the authorities of Sevenbergen for any future complaints, whether real or imagined, against its residents.
The wily Ghysbrecht, suppressing his rage at this remonstrance, sent back a civil message to say that the person he had followed to Sevenbergen was a Tergovian, one Gerard, and that he had stolen the town records: that Gerard having escaped into foreign parts, and probably taken the documents with him, the whole matter was at an end.
The clever Ghysbrecht, holding back his anger at this protest, replied with a polite message stating that the person he had tracked to Sevenbergen was a Tergovian named Gerard, who had stolen the town records. He mentioned that Gerard had fled to another country, likely taking the documents with him, so the whole issue was over.
Thus he made a virtue of necessity. But in reality his calmness was but a veil: baffled at Sevenbergen, he turned his views elsewhere he set his emissaries to learn from the family at Tergou whither Gerard had fled, and “to his infinite surprise” they did not know. This added to his uneasiness. It made him fear Gerard was only lurking in the neighbourhood: he would make a certain discovery, and would come back and take a terrible revenge. From this time Dierich and others that were about him noticed a change for the worse in Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. He became a moody irritable man. A dread lay on him. His eyes cast furtive glances, like one who expects a blow, and knows not from what quarter it is to come. Making others wretched had not made him happy. It seldom does.
Thus, he turned a necessity into a virtue. But in reality, his calmness was just a facade: frustrated at Sevenbergen, he shifted his focus elsewhere. He sent out spies to find out where Gerard had fled to the family in Tergou, and “to his infinite surprise,” they didn’t know. This only added to his anxiety. He feared Gerard was secretly hiding nearby: he would uncover something and return for a terrible revenge. From that point on, Dierich and others around him noticed a negative change in Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. He became a moody and irritable man. A sense of dread hung over him. His eyes darted around furtively, like someone who expects a blow but doesn’t know where it will come from. Making others miserable hadn’t brought him happiness. It rarely does.
The little family at Tergou, which, but for his violent interference, might in time have cemented its difference without banishing spem gregis to a distant land, wore still the same outward features, but within was no longer the simple happy family this tale opened with. Little Kate knew the share Cornelis and Sybrandt had in banishing Gerard, and though, for fear of making more mischief still, she never told her mother, yet there were times she shuddered at the bare sight of them, and blushed at their hypocritical regrets. Catherine, with a woman's vigilance, noticed this, and with a woman's subtlety said nothing, but quietly pondered it, and went on watching for more. The black sheep themselves, in their efforts to partake in the general gloom and sorrow, succeeded so far as to impose upon their father and Giles: but the demure satisfaction that lay at their bottom could not escape these feminine eyes—
The little family in Tergou, which, if not for his aggressive meddling, might have eventually strengthened its differences without sending spem gregis to a far-off place, still had the same outward appearance, but inside they were no longer the simple happy family this story began with. Little Kate was aware of the role Cornelis and Sybrandt played in Gerard's banishment, and although she never told her mother out of fear of causing more trouble, there were times she recoiled at just seeing them and felt embarrassed by their fake remorse. Catherine, with a woman's keen observation, noticed this and, with a woman's subtlety, said nothing but quietly thought it over and continued to look for more signs. The black sheep themselves, in their attempts to join in the overall gloom and sadness, managed to deceive their father and Giles to some extent: but the quiet satisfaction underneath their facade didn’t escape these watchful feminine eyes—
“That, noting all, seem nought to note.”
"That, considering everything, seems like nothing to point out."
Thus mistrust and suspicion sat at the table, poor substitutes for Gerard's intelligent face, that had brightened the whole circle, unobserved till it was gone. As for the old hosier his pride had been wounded by his son's disobedience, and so he bore stiffly up, and did his best never to mention Gerard's name; but underneath his Spartan cloak, Nature might be seen tugging at his heart-strings. One anxiety he never affected to conceal. “If I but knew where the boy is, and that his life and health are in no danger, small would be my care,” would he say; and then a deep sigh would follow. I cannot help thinking that if Gerard had opened the door just then, and walked in, there would have been many tears and embraces for him, and few reproaches, or none.
Thus mistrust and suspicion filled the room, poor substitutes for Gerard's intelligent face, which had brightened the entire circle, unnoticed until it was gone. As for the old hosier, his pride had been hurt by his son's disobedience, so he held his head high and did his best never to mention Gerard's name; but beneath his tough exterior, it was clear that his heart was being tugged at by Nature. There was one worry he never pretended to hide. “If only I knew where the boy is, and that his life and health are safe, I wouldn't worry so much,” he would say, followed by a deep sigh. I can’t help but think that if Gerard had opened the door right then and walked in, there would have been many tears and hugs for him, and few, if any, reproaches.
One thing took the old couple quite by surprise—publicity. Ere Gerard had been gone a week, his adventures were in every mouth; and to make matters worse, the popular sympathy declared itself warmly on the side of the lovers, and against Gerard's cruel parents, and that old busybody the burgomaster, who must put his nose into a business that nowise concerned him.
One thing completely shocked the old couple—publicity. Before Gerard had even been gone a week, his adventures were the talk of the town; and to make things worse, everyone was sympathizing with the lovers and turning against Gerard's heartless parents, as well as that meddlesome burgomaster who had to stick his nose into something that was none of his business.
“Mother,” said Kate, “it is all over the town that Margaret is down with a fever—a burning fever; her father fears her sadly.”
“Mom,” said Kate, “it’s all over town that Margaret has a fever—a really high fever; her dad is really worried about her.”
“Margaret? what Margaret?” inquired Catherine, with a treacherous assumption of calmness and indifference.
“Margaret? Which Margaret?” Catherine asked, pretending to be calm and indifferent.
“Oh, mother! whom should I mean? Why, Gerard's Margaret.”
“Oh, mom! Who else could I be talking about? It's Gerard's Margaret.”
“Gerard's Margaret,” screamed Catherine; “how dare you say such a word to me? And I rede you never mention that hussy's name in this house, that she has laid bare. She is the ruin of my poor boy, the flower of all my flock. She is the cause that he is not a holy priest in the midst of us, but is roaming the world, and I a desolate broken-hearted mother. There, do not cry, my girl, I do ill to speak harsh to you. But oh, Kate! you know not what passes in a mother's heart. I bear up before you all; it behoves me swallow my fears; but at night I see him in my dreams, and still some trouble or other near him: sometimes he is torn by wild beasts; other times he is in the hands of robbers, and their cruel knives uplifted to strike his poor pale face, that one should think would move a stone. Oh! when I remember that, while I sit here in comfort, perhaps my poor boy lies dead in some savage place, and all along of that girl: there, her very name is ratsbane to me. I tremble all over when I hear it.”
“Gerard's Margaret,” shouted Catherine; “how dare you say that to me? And I warn you to never mention that woman’s name in this house, that she has tarnished. She is the ruin of my poor boy, the brightest of all my children. She’s the reason he’s not a holy priest among us, but out wandering the world while I’m left a desolate, heartbroken mother. There, don’t cry, my girl, I shouldn’t speak so harshly to you. But oh, Kate! You don’t know what a mother feels. I put on a brave face for you all; I must hide my fears; but at night I see him in my dreams, and there’s always some trouble around him: sometimes he’s being attacked by wild beasts; other times, he’s in the hands of robbers with their cruel knives raised to strike his poor pale face, enough to make even stone weep. Oh! When I remember that, while I sit here in comfort, my poor boy might be dead in some savage place, all because of that girl: just hearing her name is poison to me. I tremble all over when I hear it.”
“I'll not say anything, nor do anything to grieve you worse, mother,” said Kate tenderly; but she sighed.
“I won’t say anything, nor do anything to make you more upset, mom,” said Kate gently; but she sighed.
She whose name was so fiercely interdicted in this house was much spoken of, and even pitied elsewhere. All Sevenbergen was sorry for her, and the young men and maidens cast many a pitying glance, as they passed, at the little window where the beauty of the village lay “dying for love.” In this familiar phrase they underrated her spirit and unselfishness. Gerard was not dead, and she was too loyal herself to doubt his constancy. Her father was dear to her and helpless; and but for bodily weakness, all her love for Gerard would not have kept her from doing her duties, though she might have gone about them with drooping head and heavy heart. But physical and mental excitement had brought on an attack of fever so violent, that nothing but youth and constitution saved her. The malady left her at last, but in that terrible state of bodily weakness in which the patient feels life a burden.
She, whose name was so strongly forbidden in this house, was often discussed and even pitied elsewhere. All of Sevenbergen felt sorry for her, and the young men and women often glanced pityingly at the little window where the village beauty seemed “dying for love.” In this commonly used phrase, they underestimated her spirit and selflessness. Gerard was not dead, and she was too loyal to doubt his faithfulness. Her father was dear to her and helpless; and if it weren't for her physical weakness, her love for Gerard wouldn’t have kept her from fulfilling her responsibilities, even if she carried them out with a heavy heart and downcast eyes. However, the strain of her emotions had caused such a severe fever that only her youth and strong constitution saved her. The illness eventually left her, but she was left in a terrible state of weakness where she felt that life was a burden.
Then it is that love and friendship by the bedside are mortal angels with comfort in their voice, and healing in their palms.
Then love and friendship by the bedside are like angels that bring comfort with their voices and healing with their hands.
But this poor girl had to come back to life and vigour how she could. Many days she lay alone, and the heavy hours rolled like leaden waves over her. In her enfeebled state existence seemed a burden, and life a thing gone by. She could not try her best to get well. Gerard was gone. She had not him to get well for. Often she lay for hours quite still, with the tears welling gently out of her eyes.
But this poor girl had to find a way to come back to life and strength. Many days she lay alone, and the long hours dragged on like heavy waves. In her weakened state, life felt like a burden, and everything seemed like a thing of the past. She couldn't even try her hardest to get better. Gerard was gone. She had no one to get better for. Often, she lay for hours completely still, with tears quietly streaming from her eyes.
One day, waking from an uneasy slumber, she found two women in her room, One was a servant, the other by the deep fur on her collar and sleeves was a person of consideration: a narrow band of silvery hair, being spared by her coiffure, showed her to be past the age when women of sense concealed their years. The looks of both were kind and friendly. Margaret tried to raise herself in the bed, but the old lady placed a hand very gently on her.
One day, waking from a restless sleep, she discovered two women in her room. One was a servant, and the other, distinguished by the deep fur on her collar and sleeves, was a respected individual: a narrow band of silvery hair, revealed by her hairstyle, indicated that she was past the age when sensible women hid their age. Both women looked kind and friendly. Margaret attempted to sit up in bed, but the older woman gently placed a hand on her.
“Lie still, sweetheart; we come not here to put you about, but to comfort you, God willing. Now cheer up a bit, and tell us, first, who think you we are?”
“Lie still, sweetheart; we're not here to bother you, but to comfort you, God willing. Now cheer up a little and tell us, first, who do you think we are?”
“Nay, madam, I know you, though I never saw you before: you are the demoiselle Van Eyck, and this is Reicht Heynes. Gerard has oft spoken of you, and of your goodness to him. Madam, he has no friend like you near him now,” and at this thought she lay back, and the tears welled out of her eyes in a moment.
“Nay, ma'am, I know you, even though I've never seen you before: you are the demoiselle Van Eyck, and this is Reicht Heynes. Gerard has often spoken of you and your kindness to him. Ma'am, he has no friend like you nearby now,” and at this thought, she leaned back, and tears filled her eyes in an instant.
The good-natured Reicht Heynes began to cry for company; but her mistress scolded her. “Well, you are a pretty one for a sick-room,” said she; and she put out a world of innocent art to cheer the patient; and not without some little success. An old woman, that has seen life and all its troubles, is a sovereign blessing by a sorrowful young woman's side. She knows what to say, and what to avoid. She knows how to soothe her and interest her. Ere she had been there an hour, she had Margaret's head lying on her shoulder instead of on the pillow, and Margaret's soft eyes dwelling on her with gentle gratitude.
The kind-hearted Reicht Heynes started crying for support, but her mistress scolded her. “You’re not exactly suited for a sick room,” she said, and she put on a lot of innocent charm to lift the patient’s spirits, and it worked somewhat. An older woman, who has experienced life and its challenges, is a real blessing for a grieving young woman. She knows what to say and what to steer clear of. She knows how to comfort her and keep her engaged. Before she had been there an hour, Margaret’s head was resting on her shoulder instead of on the pillow, and Margaret's soft eyes were full of gentle gratitude as they looked at her.
“Ah! this is hair,” said the old lady, running her fingers through it. “Come and look at it, Reicht!”
“Ah! this is hair,” said the old lady, running her fingers through it. “Come and check it out, Reicht!”
Reicht came and handled it, and praised it unaffectedly. The poor girl that owned it was not quite out of the reach of flattery; owing doubtless to not being dead.
Reicht came and took care of it, genuinely praising it. The poor girl who owned it wasn't completely immune to flattery; probably because she was still alive.
“In sooth, madam, I did use to think it hideous; but he praised it, and ever since then I have been almost vain of it, saints forgive me. You know how foolish those are that love.”
“In truth, madam, I used to find it ugly; but he complimented it, and ever since then I've been almost proud of it, saints forgive me. You know how foolish those in love can be.”
“They are greater fools that don't,” said the old lady, sharply.
“They're bigger fools if they don't,” said the old lady, sharply.
Margaret opened her lovely eyes, and looked at her for her meaning.
Margaret opened her beautiful eyes and looked at her to understand what she meant.
This was only the first of many visits. In fact either Margaret Van Eyck or Reicht came nearly every day until their patient was convalescent; and she improved rapidly under their hands. Reicht attributed this principally to certain nourishing dishes she prepared in Peter's kitchen; but Margaret herself thought more of the kind words and eyes that kept telling her she had friends to live for.
This was just the first of many visits. In fact, either Margaret Van Eyck or Reicht came almost every day until their patient was on the mend; and she got better quickly with their help. Reicht mainly credited this to some nourishing dishes she made in Peter's kitchen, but Margaret believed more in the kind words and the supportive looks that continually reminded her she had friends worth living for.
Martin Wittenhaagen went straight to Rotterdam, to take the bull by the horns. The bull was a biped, with a crown for horns. It was Philip the Good, duke of this, earl of that, lord of the other. Arrived at Rotterdam, Martin found the court was at Ghent. To Ghent he went, and sought an audience, but was put off and baffled by lackeys and pages. So he threw himself in his sovereign's way out hunting, and contrary to all court precedents, commenced the conversation—by roaring lustily for mercy.
Martin Wittenhaagen went straight to Rotterdam to confront the situation head-on. The situation was a person, wearing a crown. It was Philip the Good, duke of this, earl of that, lord of the other. Once he arrived in Rotterdam, Martin learned that the court was in Ghent. So, he headed to Ghent and tried to get a meeting, but he was repeatedly delayed and frustrated by servants and attendants. Eventually, he threw himself in front of his sovereign while he was out hunting and, breaking all court etiquette, started the conversation by shouting loudly for mercy.
“Why, where is the peril, man?” said the duke, looking all round and laughing.
“Why, where's the danger, man?” said the duke, looking around and laughing.
“Grace for an old soldier hunted down by burghers!”
“Mercy for an old soldier chased by townsfolk!”
Now kings differ in character like other folk; but there is one trait they have in common; they are mightily inclined to be affable to men of very low estate. These do not vie with them in anything whatever, so jealousy cannot creep in; and they amuse them by their bluntness and novelty, and refresh the poor things with a touch of nature—a rarity in courts. So Philip the Good reined in his horse and gave Martin almost a tete-a-tete, and Martin reminded him of a certain battlefield where he had received an arrow intended for his sovereign. The duke remembered the incident perfectly, and was graciously pleased to take a cheerful view of it. He could afford to, not having been the one hit. Then Martin told his majesty of Gerard's first capture in the church, his imprisonment in the tower, and the manoeuvre by which they got him out, and all the details of the hunt; and whether he told it better than I have, or the duke had not heard so many good stories as you have, certain it is that sovereign got so wrapt up in it, that, when a number of courtiers came galloping up and interrupted Martin, he swore like a costermonger, and threatened, only half in jest, to cut off the next head that should come between him and a good story; and when Martin had done, he cried out—
Now, kings have different personalities just like everyone else, but they all share one thing in common: they tend to be very friendly towards people of a lower status. These individuals don’t compete with them in any way, so there’s no jealousy involved; instead, they entertain them with their straightforwardness and unique perspectives, bringing a breath of fresh air into the often stiff atmosphere of the court. So, Philip the Good stopped his horse and spoke to Martin almost as if they were having a private conversation. Martin reminded him of a certain battlefield where he had taken an arrow meant for his king. The duke recalled the event clearly and was pleased to view it positively. After all, he hadn’t been the one who was hit. Then, Martin shared the story of Gerard's first capture in the church, his imprisonment in the tower, and how they managed to rescue him, along with all the details of the hunt. Whether he told it better than I have or the duke just hadn't heard as many great stories as you have, it’s clear that the king became so engrossed that when several courtiers rushed up and interrupted Martin, he swore like a street vendor and jokingly threatened to behead the next person who interrupted him while he was enjoying a good story; and when Martin finally finished, he exclaimed—
“St. Luke! what sport goeth on in this mine earldom, ay! in my own woods, and I see it not. You base fellows have all the luck.” And he was indignant at the partiality of Fortune. “Lo you now! this was a man-hunt,” said he. “I never had the luck to be at a man-hunt.”
“St. Luke! What fun is happening in my earldom, yes! In my own woods, and I’m not seeing it. You lowly guys have all the fortune.” And he was upset about Fortune's favoritism. “Look at that! This was a man-hunt,” he said. “I’ve never been lucky enough to be at a man-hunt.”
“My luck was none so great,” replied Martin bluntly: “I was on the wrong side of the dogs' noses.”
“My luck wasn’t that great,” Martin replied frankly. “I was on the wrong side of the dogs' noses.”
“Ah! so you were; I forgot that.” And royalty was more reconciled to its lot. “What would you then?”
“Ah! right, I forgot about that.” And royalty felt more at peace with its situation. “So what do you want then?”
“A free pardon, your highness, for myself and Gerard.”
“A free pardon, your highness, for me and Gerard.”
“For what?”
"For what reason?"
“For prison-breaking.”
“For escaping prison.”
“Go to; the bird will fly from the cage. 'Tis instinct. Besides, coop a young man up for loving a young woman? These burgomasters must be void of common sense. What else?”
“Come on; the bird will fly from the cage. It's instinct. Plus, who keeps a young guy locked up for loving a young woman? These officials must be out of their minds. What else?”
“For striking down the burgomaster.”
“For taking down the mayor.”
“Oh, the hunted boar will turn to bay. 'Tis his right; and I hold him less than man that grudges it him. What else?”
“Oh, the hunted boar will stand his ground. It’s his right, and I think less of anyone who resents that. What else?”
“For killing of the bloodhounds.”
“For killing the bloodhounds.”
The duke's countenance fell.
The duke looked disappointed.
“'Twas their life or mine,” said Martin eagerly.
“It's either their life or mine,” said Martin eagerly.
“Ay! but I can't have, my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds, sacrificed to—
“Ay! but I can't have, my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds, sacrificed to—
“No, no, no! They were not your dogs.”
“No, no, no! They weren't your dogs.”
“Whose dogs, then?”
"Whose dogs are those?"
“The ranger's.”
“The ranger's place.”
“Oh. Well, I am very sorry for him, but as I was saying I can't have my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shalt have thy free pardon.”
“Oh. Well, I feel really sorry for him, but like I was saying, I can't let my old soldiers be sacrificed to his bloodhounds. You will have your full pardon.”
“And poor Gerard.”
"And poor Gerard."
“And poor Gerard too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this burgomaster his doings mislike me: this is to set up for a king, not a burgomaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble; or by St. Jude I'll hang him before his own door, as I hanged the burgomaster of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it was; no, 'twas' somewhere in Brabant—no matter—I hanged him, I remember that much—for oppressing poor folk.”
“And poor Gerard too, for your sake. And more, tell this mayor that I disapprove of his actions: this is acting like a king, not a mayor. I won’t have any kings in Holland but one. Tell him to be more humble; or by St. Jude, I’ll hang him in front of his own door, just like I hanged the mayor of that town in Flanders; no, it was somewhere in Brabant—doesn’t matter—I hanged him, I remember that much—for oppressing the poor.”
The duke then beckoned his chancellor, a pursy old fellow that rode like a sack, and bade him write out a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard.
The duke then signaled to his chancellor, a chubby old guy who rode like a sack, and told him to write a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard.
This precious document was drawn up in form, and signed next day, and Martin hastened home with it.
This important document was prepared in the correct format and signed the next day, and Martin rushed home with it.
Margaret had left her bed some days, and was sitting pale and pensive by the fireside, when he burst in, waving the parchment, and crying, “A free pardon, girl, for Gerard as well as me! Send for him back when you will; all the burgomasters on earth daren't lay a finger on him.”
Margaret had been out of bed for a few days and was sitting pale and thoughtful by the fireside when he burst in, waving the parchment and shouting, “A free pardon, girl, for Gerard as well as me! Call him back whenever you want; no burgomasters on earth dare to touch him.”
She flushed all over with joy and her hands trembled with eagerness as she took the parchment and devoured it with her eyes, and kissed it again and again, and flung her arms round Martin's neck, and kissed him. When she was calmer, she told him Heaven had raised her up a friend in the dame Van Eyck. “And I would fain consult her on this good news; but I have not strength to walk so far.”
She blushed all over with joy, and her hands shook with excitement as she took the parchment and read it eagerly. She kissed it over and over, threw her arms around Martin's neck, and kissed him too. Once she calmed down, she told him that Heaven had given her a friend in Dame Van Eyck. “I really want to talk to her about this great news, but I don’t have the strength to walk that far.”
“What need to walk? There is my mule.”
“What’s the need to walk? There’s my mule.”
“Your mule, Martin?”
"Is that your mule, Martin?"
The old soldier or professional pillager laughed, and confessed he had got so used to her, that he forgot at times Ghysbrecht had a prior claim. To-morrow he would turn her into the burgomaster's yard, but to-night she should carry Margaret to Tergou.
The old soldier or professional looter laughed and admitted that he had gotten so used to her that he sometimes forgot Ghysbrecht had a prior claim. Tomorrow, he would take her to the burgomaster's yard, but tonight she would take Margaret to Tergou.
It was nearly dusk; so Margaret ventured, and about seven in the evening she astonished and gladdened her new but ardent friend, by arriving at her house with unwonted roses on her cheeks, and Gerard's pardon in her bosom.
It was almost evening, so Margaret took a chance, and around seven o'clock she surprised and delighted her new but eager friend by showing up at her house with unexpected roses on her cheeks and Gerard's forgiveness in her heart.
CHAPTER XL
Some are old in heart at forty, some are young at eighty. Margaret Van Eyck's heart was an evergreen. She loved her young namesake with youthful ardour. Nor was this new sentiment a mere caprice; she was quick at reading character, and saw in Margaret Brandt that which in one of her own sex goes far with an intelligent woman; genuineness. But, besides her own sterling qualities, Margaret had from the first a potent ally in the old artist's bosom.
Some people feel old at forty, while others feel young at eighty. Margaret Van Eyck's heart was timeless. She loved her young namesake with a youthful passion. This new feeling wasn't just a whim; she was good at reading people and recognized in Margaret Brandt what truly impresses an intelligent woman—authenticity. Moreover, besides her own admirable traits, Margaret also had a strong supporter in the old artist's heart from the very beginning.
Human nature.
Human nature.
Strange as it may appear to the unobservant, our hearts warm more readily to those we have benefited than to our benefactors. Some of the Greek philosophers noticed this; but the British Homer has stamped it in immortal lines:—
Strange as it may seem to those who don’t pay attention, our hearts tend to warm more quickly to those we've helped than to those who have helped us. Some of the Greek philosophers noticed this; but the British Homer has captured it in timeless lines:—
“I heard, and thought how side by side
We two had stemmed the battle's tide
In many a well-debated field,
Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield.
I thought on Darien's deserts pale,
Where Death bestrides the evening gale,
How o'er my friend my cloak I threw,
And fenceless faced the deadly dew.
I thought on Quariana's cliff,
Where, rescued from our foundering skiff,
Through the white breakers' wrath I bore
Exhausted Bertram to the shore:
And when his side an arrow found,
I sucked the Indian's venom'd wound.
These thoughts like torrents rushed along
To sweep away my purpose strong.”
“I remembered how we stood together
Against the tide of battle
In many debated fields,
Where Bertram's chest was Philip's shield.
I recalled the pale deserts of Darien,
Where Death rides the evening breeze,
How I threw my cloak over my friend,
And faced the deadly chill without protection.
I thought about the cliff at Quariana,
Where, rescued from our sinking boat,
I carried exhausted Bertram to the shore
Through the fierce waves’ wrath:
And when an arrow struck his side,
I sucked the poison from the Indian's wound.
These thoughts rushed in like torrents
To sweep away my strong resolve.”Observe! this assassin's hand is stayed by memory, not of benefits received, but benefits conferred.
Observe! this assassin's hand is held back by memory, not of the favors received, but of the favors given.
Now Margaret Van Eyck had been wonderfully kind to Margaret Brandt; had broken through her own habits to go and see her; had nursed her, and soothed her, and petted her, and cured her more than all the medicine in the world. So her heart opened to the recipient of her goodness, and she loved her now far more tenderly than she had ever loved Gerard, though, in truth, it was purely out of regard for Gerard she had visited her in the first instance.
Now Margaret Van Eyck had been incredibly kind to Margaret Brandt; she had stepped out of her own routine to visit her; she had cared for her, comforted her, pampered her, and helped her heal more than all the medicine in the world could. So her heart opened up to the one who received her kindness, and she loved her now much more deeply than she had ever loved Gerard, even though, in reality, it was solely out of concern for Gerard that she had visited her in the first place.
When, therefore, she saw the roses on Margaret's cheek, and read the bit of parchment that had brought them there, she gave up her own views without a murmur.
When she saw the roses on Margaret's cheek and read the piece of parchment that had brought them there, she silently abandoned her own opinions.
“Sweetheart,” said she, “I did desire he should stay in Italy five or six years, and come back rich, and above all, an artist. But your happiness is before all, and I see you cannot live without him, so we must have him home as fast as may be.”
“Sweetheart,” she said, “I wanted him to stay in Italy for five or six years and come back rich, and most importantly, an artist. But your happiness is what matters most, and I can see you can’t live without him, so we need to get him home as quickly as possible.”
“Ah, madam! you see my very thoughts.” And the young woman hung her head a moment and blushed. “But how to let him know, madam? That passes my skill. He is gone to Italy; but what part I know not. Stay! he named the cities he should visit. Florence was one, and Rome.” But then—Finally, being a sensible girl, she divined that a letter, addressed, “My Gerard—Italy,” might chance to miscarry, and she looked imploringly at her friend for counsel.
“Ah, madam! You can see right through my thoughts.” The young woman looked down for a moment and blushed. “But how can I let him know, madam? That’s beyond my ability. He’s gone to Italy, but I don’t know where exactly. Wait! He mentioned the cities he would visit. Florence was one, and Rome.” But then—Finally, being a smart girl, she realized that a letter addressed, “My Gerard—Italy,” might get lost, and she looked at her friend with a pleading expression for advice.
“You are come to the right place, and at the right time,” said the old lady. “Here was this Hans Memling with me to-day; he is going to Italy, girl, no later than next week, 'to improve his hand,' he says. Not before 'twas needed, I do assure you.”
“You’ve come to the right place, and at the right time,” said the old lady. “This Hans Memling was here with me today; he’s going to Italy, girl, no later than next week, 'to improve his skills,' he says. Not a moment too soon, I assure you.”
“But how is he to find my Gerard?”
“But how is he supposed to find my Gerard?”
“Why, he knows your Gerard, child. They have supped here more than once, and were like hand and glove. Now, as his business is the same as Gerard's, he will visit the same places as Gerard, and soon or late he must fall in with him. Wherefore, get you a long letter written, and copy out this pardon into it, and I'll answer for the messenger. In six months at farthest Gerard shall get it; and when he shall get it, then will he kiss it, and put it in his bosom, and come flying home. What are you smiling at? And now what makes your cheeks so red? And what you are smothering me for, I cannot think. Yes! happy days are coming to my little pearl.”
“Of course, he knows your Gerard, sweetheart. They've dined here more than once and were like two peas in a pod. Since his work is the same as Gerard's, he'll be visiting the same places, and sooner or later, they'll run into each other. So, get a long letter written and copy this pardon into it, and I’ll take care of the messenger. In six months at the latest, Gerard will receive it; and when he does, he’ll kiss it, tuck it close to his heart, and come rushing home. What’s making you smile? And why are your cheeks so red? I can't figure out why you're smothering me with affection. Yes! Happy days are ahead for my little pearl.”
Meantime, Martin sat in the kitchen, with the black-jack before him and Reicht Heynes spinning beside him: and, wow! but she pumped him that night.
Meantime, Martin sat in the kitchen, with the black-jack in front of him and Reicht Heynes spinning next to him: and, wow! she really had him going that night.
This Hans Memling was an old pupil of Jan Van Eyck and his sister. He was a painter notwithstanding Margaret's sneer, and a good soul enough, with one fault. He loved the “nipperkin, canakin, and the brown bowl” more than they deserve. This singular penchant kept him from amassing fortune, and was the cause that he often came to Margaret Van Eyck for a meal, and sometimes for a groat. But this gave her a claim on him, and she knew he would not trifle with any commission she should entrust to him.
This Hans Memling was an old student of Jan Van Eyck and his sister. He was a painter despite Margaret's mockery, and he was a good enough person, with one flaw. He loved the “nipperkin, canakin, and the brown bowl” more than they were worth. This unusual habit prevented him from building wealth and was the reason he often went to Margaret Van Eyck for a meal, and sometimes for a coin. But this gave her a hold over him, and she knew he wouldn’t mess around with any task she gave him.
The letter was duly written and left with Margaret Van Eyck; and the following week, sure enough, Hans Memling returned from Flanders, Margaret Van Eyck gave him the letter, and a piece of gold towards his travelling expenses. He seemed in a hurry to be off.
The letter was written and left with Margaret Van Eyck; and the following week, sure enough, Hans Memling came back from Flanders, Margaret Van Eyck gave him the letter, and some gold for his travel expenses. He seemed eager to leave.
“All the better,” said the old artist; “he will be the sooner in Italy.”
“All the better,” said the old artist; “he’ll get to Italy sooner.”
But as there are horses who burn and rage to start, and after the first yard or two want the whip, so all this hurry cooled into inaction when Hans got as far as the principal hostelry of Tergou, and saw two of his boon companions sitting in the bay window. He went in for a parting glass with them; but when he offered to pay, they would not hear of it, No; he was going a long journey; they would treat him; everybody must treat him, the landlord and all.
But just like some horses are eager to run at first and then need a whip after a few yards, all this rush faded into stillness when Hans reached the main inn of Tergou and saw two of his close friends sitting in the bay window. He went inside for a farewell drink with them, but when he offered to pay, they refused to let him. No, he was going on a long trip; they insisted on treating him. Everyone had to treat him—the landlord and all.
It resulted from this treatment that his tongue got as loose as if the wine had been oil; and he confided to the convivial crew that he was going to show the Italians how to paint: next he sang his exploits in battle, for he had handled a pike; and his amorous successes with females, not present to oppose their version of the incidents. In short, “plenus rimarum erat: huc illuc diffluebat;” and among the miscellaneous matters that oozed out, he must blab that he was entrusted with a letter to a townsman of theirs, one Gerard, a good fellow: he added “you are all good fellows:” and to impress his eulogy, slapped Sybrandt on the back so heartily, as to drive the breath out of his body.
It resulted from this treatment that his tongue got as loose as if the wine had been oil; and he confided to the group that he was going to show the Italians how to paint. Next, he sang about his exploits in battle, since he had handled a pike, and his romantic successes with women, who were not there to challenge his version of events. In short, “plenus rimarum erat: huc illuc diffluebat;” and among the various things that spilled out, he had to blab that he was entrusted with a letter to a local guy, Gerard, a good fellow. He added, “you are all good fellows,” and to emphasize his praise, he slapped Sybrandt on the back so hard that it knocked the breath out of him.
Sybrandt got round the table to avoid this muscular approval; but listened to every word, and learned for the first time that Gerard was gone to Italy. However, to make sure, he affected to doubt it.
Sybrandt moved around the table to avoid this strong approval; but he listened to every word and learned for the first time that Gerard had gone to Italy. However, to be certain, he pretended to doubt it.
“My brother Gerard is never in Italy.”
“My brother Gerard is never in Italy.”
“Ye lie, ye cur,” roared Hans, taking instantly the irascible turn, and not being clear enough to see that he, who now sat opposite him, was the same he had praised, and hit, when beside him. “If he is ten times your brother, he is in Italy. What call ye this? There, read me that superscription!” and he flung down a letter on the table.
“You're lying, you dog,” shouted Hans, quickly becoming angry and not realizing that the person sitting across from him was the same one he had praised and hit while beside him. “Even if he’s your brother ten times over, he’s in Italy. What do you call this? Here, read that address!” He slammed a letter down on the table.
Sybrandt took it up, and examined it gravely; but eventually laid it down, with the remark, that he could not read. However, one of the company, by some immense fortuity, could read; and proud of so rare an accomplishment, took it, and read it out:
Sybrandt picked it up and examined it seriously, but eventually put it down, saying that he couldn’t read it. However, one person in the group, by some huge chance, could read; and proud of such a rare skill, took it and read it aloud:
“To Gerard Eliassoen, of Tergou. These by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling, with all speed.”
“To Gerard Eliassoen, of Tergou. Delivered by the reliable Hans Memling, as quickly as possible.”
“'Tis excellently well writ,” said the reader, examining every letter.
“It's very well written,” said the reader, examining every letter.
“Ay!” said Hans bombastically, “and small wonder: 'tis writ by a famous hand; by Margaret, sister of Jan Van Eyck. Blessed and honoured be his memory! She is an old friend of mine, is Margaret Van Eyck.”
“Ay!” said Hans dramatically, “and it’s no surprise: it's written by a famous hand; by Margaret, sister of Jan Van Eyck. Blessed and honored be his memory! She is an old friend of mine, Margaret Van Eyck.”
Miscellaneous Hans then diverged into forty topics.
Miscellaneous Hans then branched out into forty different topics.
Sybrandt stole out of the company, and went in search of Cornelis.
Sybrandt slipped away from the group and went to find Cornelis.
They put their heads together over the news: Italy was an immense distance off. If they could only keep him there?
They huddled together over the news: Italy was really far away. If only they could keep him there?
“Keep him there? Nothing would keep him long from his Margaret.”
“Keep him there? Nothing would keep him away from his Margaret for long.”
“Curse her!” said Sybrandt. “Why didn't she die when she was about it?”
“Curse her!” said Sybrandt. “Why didn't she just die while she was at it?”
“She die? She would outlive the pest to vex us.” And Cornelis was wroth at her selfishness in not dying, to oblige.
“She die? She would outlive the plague just to annoy us.” And Cornelis was furious at her selfishness for not dying, to make things easier.
These two black sheep kept putting their heads together, and tainting each other worse and worse, till at last their corrupt hearts conceived a plan for keeping Gerard in Italy all his life, and so securing his share of their father's substance.
These two black sheep kept conspiring, making each other worse until finally their twisted hearts came up with a scheme to keep Gerard in Italy for his entire life, ensuring they secured their share of their father's wealth.
But when they had planned it they were no nearer the execution: for that required talent: so iniquity came to a standstill. But presently, as if Satan had come between the two heads, and whispered into the right ear of one and the left of the other simultaneously, they both burst out—
But when they had planned it, they were no closer to actually doing it: that needed skill. So wrongdoing came to a halt. But soon, as if the devil had intervened between the two of them and whispered into one ear of one and the other ear of the other at the same time, they both suddenly exclaimed—
“THE BURGOMASTER!”
"THE MAYOR!"
They went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and he received them at once: for the man who is under the torture of suspense catches eagerly at knowledge. Certainty is often painful, but seldom, like suspense, intolerable.
They went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and he welcomed them right away: because a person who is tortured by uncertainty eagerly grabs onto any information. Certainty can be painful, but it's rarely as unbearable as uncertainty.
“You have news of Gerard?” said he eagerly.
“Do you have any news about Gerard?” he asked eagerly.
Then they told about the letter and Hans Memling. He listened with restless eye. “Who writ the letter?”
Then they talked about the letter and Hans Memling. He listened with a restless gaze. “Who wrote the letter?”
“Margaret Van Eyck,” was the reply; for they naturally thought the contents were by the same hand as the superscription.
“Margaret Van Eyck,” was the reply; because they naturally assumed that the contents were written by the same person as the address.
“Are ye sure?” And he went to a drawer and drew out a paper written by Margaret Van Eyck while treating with the burgh for her house. “Was it writ like this?”
“Are you sure?” He went to a drawer and took out a paper written by Margaret Van Eyck while negotiating with the town for her house. “Was it written like this?”
“Yes. 'Tis the same writing,” said Sybrandt boldly.
“Yes. It’s the same writing,” said Sybrandt confidently.
“Good. And now what would ye of me?” said Ghysbrecht, with beating heart, but a carelessness so well feigned that it staggered them. They fumbled with their bonnets, and stammered and spoke a word or two, then hesitated and beat about the bush, and let out by degrees that they wanted a letter written, to say something that might keep Gerard in Italy; and this letter they proposed to substitute in Hans Memling's wallet for the one he carried. While these fumbled with their bonnets and their iniquity, and vacillated between respect for a burgomaster, and suspicion that this one was as great a rogue as themselves, and somehow or other, on their side against Gerard, pros and cons were coursing one another to and fro in the keen old man's spirit. Vengeance said let Gerard come back and feel the weight of the law. Prudence said keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus: “It is my duty to aid the citizens that cannot write. But for their matter I will not be responsible. Tell me, then, what I shall write.”
“Good. So what do you want from me?” said Ghysbrecht, his heart racing, but he feigned such carelessness that it caught them off guard. They fumbled with their caps, stammered, and said a few words, then hesitated and danced around the issue, gradually revealing that they needed a letter written to say something that might keep Gerard in Italy; they planned to swap this letter with the one Hans Memling was carrying. While they continued fidgeting with their caps and their scheme, torn between respect for a burgomaster and the suspicion that he might be just as crooked as they were, the old man's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Vengeance whispered that Gerard should return and face the law. Prudence argued to keep him away by a thousand miles. But then Prudence also asked, why engage in shady dealings with uncertain outcomes? Why give these two crooks the power to smear your name? Ultimately, his strong belief that Gerard had a secret capable of deeply hurting him, combined with his caution, led him to respond: “It’s my duty to help citizens who can’t write. But I won’t take responsibility for their business. So tell me, what should I write?”
“Something about this Margaret.”
“There's something about this Margaret.”
“Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go bail.”
“Ay, ay! That she's unfaithful, that she's married to someone else, I’ll guarantee it.”
“Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!” cried Sybrandt; “Gerard would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see. No; say that she is dead.”
“Nah, mayor, nah! Not for anything in the world!” cried Sybrandt; “Gerard wouldn’t believe it, or only half, and then he would come back to check. No; just say that she’s dead.”
“Dead! what, at her age, will he credit that?”
“Dead! What, at her age, will he believe that?”
“Sooner than the other. Why she was nearly dead: so it is not to say a downright lie, after all.”
“Sooner than the others. Why she was almost dead: so it's not really a complete lie, after all.”
“Humph! And you think that will keep him in Italy?”
“Humph! And you think that will make him stay in Italy?”
“We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?”
“We're sure of it, right, Cornelis?”
“Ay,” said Cornelis, “our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own family; always did.”
“Yeah,” said Cornelis, “our Gerard will never leave Italy now that he's there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What does he care about us? He looks down on his own family; always has.”
“This would be a bitter pill to him,” said the old hypocrite.
“This would be hard for him to swallow,” said the old hypocrite.
“It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one.
“It will be for his own good in the end,” replied the young one.
“What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis.
“What good does it do for Hunger to marry Thirst?” said Cornelis.
“And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?” Ghysbrecht spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time.
“And the grief you’re getting ready for him so casually?” Ghysbrecht said with sarcasm, but he couldn’t help but savor his own revenge all the while.
“Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and breaks no bones.”
“Oh, a lie isn’t like a hit with a chopping axe. It doesn’t hack any flesh or break any bones.”
“A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; “no, nor even like a stroke with a cudgel.” And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken nose.
“A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; “no, not even close to a hit with a stick.” And he shot a sly, malicious look at the burgomaster's broken nose.
Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate.
Ghysbrecht's face darkened with anger when this snake's tongue hit his wound. But it worked, as intended: the old man seethed with hate.
“Well,” said he, “tell me what to write for you, and I must write it; but take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed.”
“Well,” he said, “just tell me what you want me to write, and I’ll do it; but keep in mind, you’re responsible if anything goes wrong. It's not the hand that writes, but the voice that tells me what to say that’s to blame.”
The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape of the letter, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone.
The brothers agreed enthusiastically, subtly mocking him inside. Ghysbrecht then pulled his inkhorn closer and placed the sample of Margaret Van Eyck's writing in front of him, asking about the size and shape of the letter when, unexpectedly, the door burst open. Jorian Ketel rushed into the room, frustrated to find him not alone.
“Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow.”
“You see I have business to attend to, my friend.”
“Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear.”
“Ay; but this is serious. I have good news; but it’s not for everyone to hear.”
The burgomaster rose, and drew Jorian aside into the embrasure of his deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager tones. It ended by Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to saddle his mule. He then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them—
The burgomaster stood up and pulled Jorian aside into the nook of his deep window, where the brothers could hear them talking in quiet but intense voices. It wrapped up with Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to get his mule ready. He then spoke to the black sheep with a sudden chilliness that surprised them—
“I prize the peace of households; but this is not a thing to be done in a hurry: we will see about it, we will see.”
“I value the peace of homes; but this isn’t something to rush into: we’ll figure it out, we’ll see.”
“But, burgomaster, the man will be gone. It will be too late.”
“But, mayor, the man will be gone. It will be too late.”
“Where is he?”
"Where's he?"
“At the hostelry, drinking.”
“At the bar, drinking.”
“Well, keep him drinking! We will see, we will see.” And he sent them off discomfited.
“Well, keep him drinking! We’ll see, we’ll see.” And he sent them off feeling defeated.
To explain all this we must retrograde a step. This very morning then, Margaret Brandt had met Jorian Ketel near her own door. He passed her with a scowl. This struck her, and she remembered him.
To explain all this, we need to take a step back. This very morning, Margaret Brandt ran into Jorian Ketel right by her door. He walked past her with a frown. This caught her attention, and she recognized him.
“Stay,” said she. “Yes! it is the good man who saved him. Oh! why have you not been near me since? And why have you not come for the parchments? Was it not true about the hundred crowns?”
“Stay,” she said. “Yes! It was the good man who saved him. Oh! Why haven’t you been near me since? And why haven’t you come for the parchments? Wasn't it true about the hundred crowns?”
Jorian gave a snort; but, seeing her face that looked so candid, began to think there might be some mistake. He told her he had come, and how he had been received.
Jorian snorted, but upon seeing her genuinely innocent face, he started to think there might be some misunderstanding. He told her why he had come and how he had been greeted.
“Alas!” said she, “I knew nought of this. I lay at Death's door. She then invited him to follow her, and took him into the garden and showed him the spot where the parchments were buried. Martin was for taking them up, but I would not let him. He put them there; and I said none should move them but you, who had earned them so well of him and me.”
“Wow!” she said, “I had no idea about this. I was on the brink of death. She then invited him to follow her, took him into the garden, and showed him the spot where the documents were buried. Martin wanted to dig them up, but I wouldn’t allow it. He put them there, and I said that no one should move them except you, who had earned them so well from him and me.”
“Give me a spade!” cried Jorian eagerly. “But stay! No; he is a suspicious man. You are sure they are there still?”
“Give me a spade!” Jorian exclaimed eagerly. “But wait! No; he’s a suspicious guy. Are you sure they’re still there?”
“I will openly take the blame if human hand hath touched them.”
“I’ll take the blame if a human has touched them.”
“Then keep them but two hours more, I prithee, good Margaret,” said Jorian, and ran off to the Stadthouse of Tergou a joyful man.
“Then keep them just two more hours, please, good Margaret,” said Jorian, and ran off to the Stadthouse of Tergou a happy man.
The burgomaster jogged along towards Sevenbergen, with Jorian striding beside him, giving him assurance that in an hour's time the missing parchments would be in his hand.
The mayor jogged toward Sevenbergen, with Jorian walking alongside him, assuring him that in an hour, the missing documents would be in his possession.
“Ah, master!” said he, “lucky for us it wasn't a thief that took them.”
“Ah, master!” he said, “thank goodness it wasn't a thief who took them.”
“Not a thief? not a thief? what call you him, then?”
“Not a thief? Not a thief? What do you call him, then?”
“Well, saving your presence, I call him a jackdaw. This is jackdaw's work, if ever there was; 'take the thing you are least in need of, and hide it'—that's a jackdaw. I should know,” added Jorian oracularly, “for I was brought up along with a chough. He and I were born the same year, but he cut his teeth long before me, and wow! but my life was a burden for years all along of him. If you had but a hole in your hose no bigger than a groat, in went his beak like a gimlet; and, for stealing, Gerard all over. What he wanted least, and any poor Christian in the house wanted most, that went first. Mother was a notable woman, so if she did but look round, away flew her thimble. Father lived by cordwaining, so about sunrise Jack went diligently off with his awl, his wax, and his twine. After that, make your bread how you could! One day I heard my mother tell him to his face he was enough to corrupt half-a-dozen other children; and he only cocked his eye at her, and next minute away with the nurseling's shoe off his very foot. Now this Gerard is tarred with the same stick. The parchments are no more use to him than a thimble or an awl to Jack. He took 'em out of pure mischief and hid them, and you would never have found them but for me.”
“Well, aside from your presence, I call him a jackdaw. This is definitely jackdaw behavior; 'take the thing you need the least and hide it'—that's a jackdaw for you. I should know,” Jorian said wisely, “because I grew up with a chough. We were born in the same year, but he started acting out way before I did, and wow! my life was a burden for years because of him. If you had even a small hole in your hose, no bigger than a coin, his beak would dive right in like a drill; and for stealing, he was just like Gerard. He took what he wanted the least, while any poor soul in the house needed it most—that was always the first to go. My mother was a sharp woman, so if she just glanced around, off went her thimble. My father was a shoemaker, so at sunrise, Jack would head out diligently with his awl, wax, and twine. After that, good luck making your bread! One day, I heard my mother tell him straight up that he could corrupt half a dozen other kids; he just gave her a sideways glance, and the next minute, he had a shoe off the nurseling’s foot. Now this Gerard is cut from the same cloth. The parchments are as useful to him as a thimble or an awl to Jack. He took them out of sheer mischief and hid them, and you would never have found them if it weren't for me.”
“I believe you are right,” said Ghysbrecht, “and I have vexed myself more than need.”
“I believe you’re right,” said Ghysbrecht, “and I've stressed myself out more than I should have.”
When they came to Peter's gate he felt uneasy.
When they arrived at Peter's gate, he felt anxious.
“I wish it had been anywhere but here.”
“I wish it had been anywhere else.”
Jorian reassured him.
Jorian calmed him down.
“The girl is honest and friendly,” said he. “She had nothing to do with taking them, I'll be sworn;” and he led him into the garden. “There, master, if a face is to be believed, here they lie; and see, the mould is loose.”
“The girl is honest and friendly,” he said. “She didn’t have anything to do with taking them, I swear;” and he led him into the garden. “There, sir, if you can believe a face, here they are; and look, the soil is loose.”
He ran for a spade which was stuck up in the ground at some distance, and soon went to work and uncovered a parchment. Ghysbrecht saw it, and thrust him aside and went down on his knees and tore it out of the hole. His hands trembled and his face shone. He threw out parchment after parchment, and Jorian dusted them and cleared them and shook them. Now, when Ghysbrecht had thrown out a great many, his face began to darken and lengthen, and when he came to the last, he put his hands to his temples and seemed to be all amazed.
He ran for a spade that was stuck in the ground a little distance away, and soon started digging and uncovered a piece of parchment. Ghysbrecht saw it, pushed him aside, got down on his knees, and pulled it out of the hole. His hands shook and his face lit up. He tossed out parchment after parchment, while Jorian dusted them off, cleared them, and shook them. Then, after Ghysbrecht had thrown out quite a few, his expression began to change and grow serious, and when he reached the last one, he put his hands on his temples and looked completely bewildered.
“What mystery lies here?” he gasped. “Are fiends mocking me? Dig deeper! There must be another.”
“What mystery is this?” he gasped. “Are demons mocking me? Dig deeper! There has to be more.”
Jorian drove the spade in and threw out quantities of hard mould. In vain. And even while he dug, his master's mood had changed.
Jorian shoved the spade in and tossed out chunks of hard soil. It was pointless. And even while he was digging, his master's mood had shifted.
“Treason! treachery!” he cried. “You knew of this.”
“Treason! Betrayal!” he shouted. “You knew about this.”
“Knew what, master, in Heaven's name?”
“Knew what, master, for Heaven's sake?”
“Caitiff, you knew there was another one worth all these twice told.'
“Coward, you knew there was someone else worth all these stories combined.”
“'Tis false,” cried Jorian, made suspicious by the other's suspicion. “'Tis a trick to rob me of my hundred crowns. Oh! I know you, burgomaster.” And Jorian was ready to whimper.
“That's not true,” shouted Jorian, feeling uneasy because of the other's doubts. “It's a trick to steal my hundred crowns. Oh! I know you, mayor.” And Jorian was about to cry.
A mellow voice fell on them both like oil upon the waves.
A smooth voice washed over them like oil on water.
“No, good man, it is not false, nor yet is it quite true: there was another parchment.”
“No, good man, it’s not false, but it’s not completely true either: there was another document.”
“There, there, there! Where is it?”
“There, there, there! Where is it?”
“But,” continued Margaret calmly, “it was not a town record (so you have gained your hundred crowns, good man): it was but a private deed between the burgomaster here and my grandfather Flor—”
“But,” continued Margaret calmly, “it wasn’t a town record (so you’ve earned your hundred crowns, good man): it was just a private agreement between the burgomaster here and my grandfather Flor—”
“Hush, hush!”
"Shh, shh!"
“—is Brandt.”
“—is Brandt.”
“Where is it, girl? that is all we want to know.”
“Where is it, girl? That’s all we want to know.”
“Have patience, and I shall tell you. Gerard read the title of it, and he said, 'This is as much yours as the burgomaster's,' and he put it apart, to read it with me at his leisure.”
“Just be patient, and I’ll explain it to you. Gerard looked at the title and said, 'This belongs to you just as much as it does to the mayor,' and he set it aside to read it with me when he had time.”
“It is in the house, then?” said the burgomaster, recovering his calmness.
“It’s in the house, then?” said the mayor, regaining his composure.
“No, sir,” said Margaret gravely, “it is not.” Then, in a voice that faltered suddenly, “You hunted—my poor Gerard—so hard—and so close-that you gave him—no time-to think of aught—but his life—and his grief. The parchment was in his bosom, and he hath ta'en it with him.”
“No, sir,” Margaret said seriously, “it isn’t.” Then, in a voice that suddenly shook, “You hunted—my poor Gerard—so hard—and so close—that you gave him—no time—to think of anything—except his life—and his grief. The parchment was in his chest pocket, and he took it with him.”
“Whither, whither?”
"Where to, where to?"
“Ask me no more, sir. What right is yours to question me thus? It was for your sake, good man, I put force upon my heart, and came out here, and bore to speak at all to this hard old man. For, when I think of the misery he has brought on him and me, the sight of him is more than I can bear;” and she gave an involuntary shudder, and went slowly in, with her hand to her head, crying bitterly.
“Don’t ask me anymore, sir. What gives you the right to question me like this? I forced myself to come out here and even talk to this harsh old man for your sake, good man. When I think about the misery he’s caused for both of us, just seeing him is more than I can handle;” and she shuddered involuntarily, then slowly went inside, holding her head and crying bitterly.
Remorse for the past, and dread of the future—the slow, but, as he now felt, the inevitable future—avarice, and fear, all tugged in one short moment at Ghysbrecht's tough heart. He hung his head, and his arms fell listless by his sides. A coarse chuckle made him start round, and there stood Martin Wittenhaagen leaning on his bow, and sneering from ear to ear. At sight of the man and his grinning face, Ghysbrecht's worst passions awoke.
Remorse for the past and fear of the future—the slow, but as he felt now, the unavoidable future—greed and anxiety all pulled at Ghysbrecht's tough heart in that brief moment. He hung his head, and his arms dropped limply to his sides. A rough chuckle made him turn around, and there was Martin Wittenhaagen leaning on his bow, grinning widely. At the sight of the man and that smirking face, Ghysbrecht's worst emotions surged.
“Ho! attach him, seize him, traitor and thief!” cried he. “Dog, thou shalt pay for all.”
“Hey! Grab him, catch him, traitor and thief!” he shouted. “Dog, you’ll pay for everything.”
Martin, without a word, calmly thrust the duke's pardon under Ghysbrecht's nose. He looked, and had not a word to say. Martin followed up his advantage.
Martin, without saying a word, calmly pushed the duke's pardon in front of Ghysbrecht. He looked at it and was speechless. Martin seized the moment to press his advantage.
“The duke and I are soldiers. He won't let you greasy burghers trample on an old comrade. He bade me carry you a message too.”
“The duke and I are soldiers. He won’t let you dirty townsfolk walk all over an old comrade. He asked me to bring you a message too.”
“The duke send a message to me?”
“The duke sent a message to me?”
“Ay! I told him of your masterful doings, of your imprisoning Gerard for loving a girl; and says he, 'Tell him this is to be a king, not a burgomaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble, or I'll hang him at his own door,'”
“Ay! I told him about your impressive actions, about how you locked up Gerard for loving a girl; and he said, 'Tell him this is to be a king, not a town mayor. I won't have more than one king in Holland. Tell him to be more humble, or I'll hang him at his own door.'”
(Ghysbrecht trembled: he thought the duke capable of the deed)
(Ghysbrecht trembled: he believed the duke was capable of the act)
“'as I hanged the burgomaster of Thingembob.' The duke could not mind which of you he had hung, or in what part; such trifles stick not in a soldier's memory; but he was sure he had hanged one of you for grinding poor folk, 'and I'm the man to hang another,' quoth the good duke.”
“'as I hanged the mayor of Thingembob.' The duke couldn’t remember which one of you he had hanged, or where; such details don’t stay in a soldier's mind; but he was sure he had hanged one of you for exploiting the poor, 'and I'm the guy to hang another,' said the duke.”
These repeated insults from so mean a man, coupled with his invulnerability, shielded as he was by the duke, drove the choleric old man into a fit of impotent fury: he shook his fist at the soldier, and tried to threaten him, but could not speak for the rage and mortification that choked him: then he gave a sort of screech, and coiled himself up in eye and form like a rattlesnake about to strike; and spat furiously upon Martin's doublet.
These constant insults from such a cruel man, protected as he was by the duke, sent the angry old man into a fit of powerless rage: he shook his fist at the soldier and tried to threaten him, but he couldn't speak because of the anger and humiliation that overwhelmed him. Then he let out a sort of screech and coiled up like a rattlesnake ready to strike, and spat furiously on Martin's doublet.
The thick-skinned soldier treated this ebullition with genuine contempt. “Here's a venomous old toad! he knows a kick from his foot would send him to his last home; and he wants me to cheat the gallows. But I have slain too many men in fair fight to lift limb against anything less than a man; and this I count no man. What is it, in Heaven's name? an old goat's-skin bag full o' rotten bones.”
The tough soldier looked down on this outburst with real disdain. “Look at this nasty old toad! He knows a kick from me could send him to his grave; and he wants me to escape the gallows. But I've killed too many men in honorable combat to fight against anything less than a man; and I don’t see this as a man. What is it, for heaven's sake? Just an old goat's skin filled with decayed bones.”
“My mule! my mule!” screamed Ghysbrecht.
“My mule! my mule!” shouted Ghysbrecht.
Jorian helped the old man up trembling in every joint. Once in the saddle, he seemed to gather in a moment unnatural vigour; and the figure that went flying to Tergou was truly weird-like and terrible: so old and wizened the face; so white and reverend the streaming hair; so baleful the eye; so fierce the fury which shook the bent frame that went spurring like mad; while the quavering voice yelled, “I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. All of them. All!—all!—all!”
Jorian helped the old man up, who was shaking in every joint. Once in the saddle, he seemed to instantly regain some unnatural strength; and the figure that rushed to Tergou was truly strange and frightening: the face was so old and wrinkled; the hair streamed out so white and reverent; the eye was so menacing; and the fury shaking his bent frame urged him on like a madman; while the quivering voice shouted, “I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. All of them. All!—all!—all!”
The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they had not learned to write, like their brother.
The outcast sat sadly among the lively group and looked at Hans Memling's wallet. To make things easier, he had taken it off and tossed it on the table. They could have easily slipped that letter out and put in another. For the first time in their lives, they regretted not learning to write like their brother.
And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely resolved this, when Dierich Brower stood suddenly in the doorway, and gave them a wink.
And now Hans started talking about leaving, and the brothers quietly agreed to put their plan on hold for now. They had barely made this decision when Dierich Brower suddenly appeared in the doorway and gave them a wink.
They went out to him. “Come to the burgomaster with all speed,” said he,
They went out to him. “Come to the mayor quickly,” he said,
They found Ghysbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him lay Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. “I have written what you desired,” said he. “Now for the superscription. What were the words? did ye see?”
They found Ghysbrecht sitting at a table, looking pale and anxious. In front of him was Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. “I've written what you asked for,” he said. “Now for the address. What were the words? Did you see?”
“We cannot read,” said Cornelis.
“We can’t read,” said Cornelis.
“Then is all this labour lost,” cried Ghysbrecht angrily. “Dolts!”
“Then all this work is useless,” shouted Ghysbrecht angrily. “Idiots!”
“Nay, but,” said Sybrandt, “I heard the words read, and I have not lost them. They were, 'To Gerard Eliassoen, these by the hand of the trusty Hans Memling, with all speed.'”
“Nah, but,” said Sybrandt, “I heard the words read, and I still remember them. They were, 'To Gerard Eliassoen, these by the hand of the trusted Hans Memling, with all speed.'”
“'Tis well. Now, how was the letter folded? how big was it?”
“That's good. So, how was the letter folded? How big was it?”
“Longer than that one, and not so long as this.”
“Longer than that one, but not as long as this.”
“'Tis well. Where is he?”
“It's good. Where is he?”
“At the hostelry.”
“At the inn.”
“Come, then, take you this groat, and treat him. Then ask to see the letter, and put this in place of it. Come to me with the other letter.”
“Alright, take this coin and use it to treat him. Then ask to see the letter, and replace it with this. Come back to me with the other letter.”
The brothers assented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry.
The brothers agreed, took the letter, and went to the inn.
They had not been gone a minute, when Dierich Brower issued from the Stadthouse, and followed them. He had his orders not to let them out of his sight till the true letter was in his master's hands. He watched outside the hostelry.
They had barely left for a minute when Dierich Brower came out of the Stadthouse and followed them. He was instructed not to take his eyes off them until the real letter was in his master's hands. He kept watch outside the inn.
He had not long to wait. They came out almost immediately, with downcast looks. Dierich made up to them.
He didn’t have to wait long. They came out almost right away, looking upset. Dierich approached them.
“Too late!” they cried; “too late! He is gone.”
“It's too late!” they shouted; “too late! He’s gone.”
“Gone? How long?”
“Gone? For how long?”
“Scarce five minutes. Cursed chance!”
“Just five minutes. Damn luck!”
“You must go back to the burgomaster at once,” said Dierich Brower.
“You need to go back to the mayor right away,” said Dierich Brower.
“To what end?”
"What's the point?"
“No matter; come!” and he hurried them to the Stadthouse.
“No worries; come on!” and he rushed them to the Town Hall.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the man to accept a defeat.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the type to accept defeat.
“Well,” said he, on hearing the ill news, “suppose he is gone. Is he mounted?”
“Well,” he said when he heard the bad news, “suppose he’s gone. Is he on horseback?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Then what hinders you to come up with him?”
“Then what's stopping you from going with him?”
“But what avails coming up with him! There are no hostelries on the road he is gone.”
“But what good is it to go with him! There are no inns on the road he has taken.”
“Fools!” said Ghysbrecht, “is there no way of emptying a man's pockets but liquor and sleight of hand?”
“Fools!” said Ghysbrecht, “is there no way to clear a man's pockets other than with booze and tricks?”
A meaning look, that passed between Ghysbrecht and Dierich, aided the brothers' comprehension. They changed colour, and lost all zeal for the business.
A meaningful glance exchanged between Ghysbrecht and Dierich helped the brothers understand. They turned pale and lost all enthusiasm for the task.
“No! no! we don't hate our brother. We won't get ourselves hanged to spite him,” said Sybrandt; “that would be a fool's trick.”
“No! No! We don’t hate our brother. We’re not going to get ourselves hanged just to spite him,” said Sybrandt; “that would be a stupid move.”
“Hanged!” cried Ghysbrecht. “Am I not the burgomaster? How can ye be hanged? I see how 'tis ye fear to tackle one man, being two: hearts of hare, that ye are! Oh! why cannot I be young again? I'd do it single-handed.”
“Hanged!” shouted Ghysbrecht. “Am I not the mayor? How can you even talk about hanging me? I can see that you're too scared to take on one person, even with two of you: you’ve got the courage of a rabbit! Oh! Why can’t I be young again? I’d do it all by myself.”
The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in this deed. He then flattered and besought, and jeered them alternately, but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however dishonourable, which was attended with danger. At last he opened a drawer, and showed them a pile of silver coins.
The old man then dropped all pretense and made it clear that he was genuinely invested in this act. He flattered them, begged, and ridiculed them in turns, but no amount of persuasion could convince them to take any action, no matter how shameful, that came with risk. Finally, he opened a drawer and revealed a stack of silver coins.
“Change but those letters for me,” he said, “and each of you shall thrust one hand into this drawer, and take away as many of them as you can hold.”
“Just swap those letters for me,” he said, “and each of you can reach into this drawer and grab as many of them as you can hold.”
The effect was magical. Their eyes glittered with desire. Their whole bodies seemed to swell, and rise into male energy.
The effect was enchanting. Their eyes sparkled with longing. Their entire bodies appeared to swell and lift with masculine energy.
“Swear it, then,” said Sybrandt.
“Promise it, then,” said Sybrandt.
“I swear it.”
“I promise.”
“No; on the crucifix.”
“No; on the cross.”
Ghysbrecht swore upon the crucifix.
Ghysbrecht swore on the cross.
The next minute the brothers were on the road, in pursuit of Hans Memling. They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tergou, but though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent to venture on him in daylight; so they fell back.
The next minute, the brothers were on the road, chasing after Hans Memling. They spotted him about two leagues from Tergou, but even though they knew he only had his staff, they were too smart to confront him in broad daylight; so they pulled back.
But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy road—sun down, moon not yet up—honest Hans suddenly found himself attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who cried in loud though somewhat shaky voices, “Stand and deliver!”
But now that he was over three leagues away from the town and on a grassy road—sun down, moon not yet up—honest Hans suddenly found himself ambushed from both the front and the back by men with raised knives, who shouted in loud but somewhat shaky voices, “Stand and deliver!”
The attack was so sudden, and so well planned, that Hans was dismayed. “Slay me not, good fellows,” he cried; “I am but a poor man, and ye shall have my all.”
The attack was so sudden and so well planned that Hans was shocked. “Don’t kill me, guys,” he yelled; “I’m just a poor man, and you can take everything I have.”
“So be it then. Live! but empty thy wallet.”
“Fine then. Live! But be ready to spend your money.”
“There is nought in my wallet, good friend, but one letter.”
“There’s nothing in my wallet, my friend, except for one letter.”
“That we shall see,” said Sybrandt, who was the one in front.
"That's something we'll find out," said Sybrandt, who was in the lead.
“Well, it is a letter.”
"Well, it's a letter."
“Take it not from me, I pray you. 'Tis worth nought, and the good dame would fret that writ it.”
“Don’t take it from me, please. It’s worthless, and the good woman who wrote it would be upset.”
“There,” said Sybrandt, “take back thy letter; and now empty thy pouch. Come I tarry not!”
“There,” said Sybrandt, “take your letter back; and now empty your pouch. I'm not staying!”
But by this time Hans had recovered his confusion; and from a certain flutter in Sybrandt, and hard breathing of Cornelis, aided by an indescribable consciousness, felt sure the pair he had to deal with were no heroes. He pretended to fumble for his money: then suddenly thrust his staff fiercely into Sybrandt's face, and drove him staggering, and lent Cornelis a back-handed slash on the ear that sent him twirling like a weathercock in March; then whirled his weapon over his head and danced about the road like a figure on springs, shouting:
But by this point, Hans had shaken off his confusion; and from a certain nervousness in Sybrandt and Cornelis's heavy breathing, along with an indescribable awareness, he was certain that the two he was up against were no heroes. He pretended to search for his money, then suddenly jabbed his staff aggressively into Sybrandt's face, sending him reeling, and gave Cornelis a back-handed slap on the ear that made him spin around like a weather vane in March. Then he twirled his weapon above his head and danced down the road like a figure on springs, shouting:
“Come on, ye thieving loons! Come on!”
“Come on, you thieving fools! Let's go!”
It was a plain invitation; yet they misunderstood it so utterly as to take to their heels, with Hans after them, he shouting “Stop thieves!” and they howling with fear and pain as they ran.
It was a simple invitation, yet they completely misunderstood it and took off running, with Hans chasing after them, shouting “Stop, thieves!” while they yelled in fear and pain as they fled.
CHAPTER XLI
Denys, placed in the middle of his companions, lest he should be so mad as attempt escape was carried off in an agony of grief and remorse. For his sake Gerard had abandoned the German route to Rome; and what was his reward? left all alone in the centre of Burgundy. This was the thought which maddened Denys most, and made him now rave at heaven and earth, now fall into a gloomy silence so savage and sinister that it was deemed prudent to disarm him. They caught up their leader just outside the town, and the whole cavalcade drew up and baited at the “Tete d'Or.”
Denys, surrounded by his companions to prevent him from trying to escape, was taken away in deep grief and regret. Gerard had given up the German route to Rome for his sake; and what did he get in return? Left all alone in the heart of Burgundy. This thought drove Denys to madness, making him alternately curse heaven and earth and then sink into a dark, brooding silence that felt so dangerous that it seemed wise to restrain him. They caught up with their leader just outside the town, and the whole group stopped to rest at the “Tete d'Or.”
The young landlady, though much occupied with the count, and still more with the bastard, caught sight of Denys, and asked him somewhat anxiously what had become of his young companion?
The young landlady, although busy with the count and even more with the illegitimate child, noticed Denys and asked him a bit anxiously what had happened to his young friend.
Denys, with a burst of grief, told her all, and prayed her to send after Gerard. “Now he is parted from me, he will maybe listen to my rede,” said he; “poor wretch, he loves not solitude.”
Denys, overwhelmed with sadness, shared everything with her and asked her to send for Gerard. “Now that he’s away from me, he might listen to my advice,” he said; “poor guy, he doesn’t like being alone.”
The landlady gave a toss of her head. “I trow I have been somewhat over-kind already,” said she, and turned rather red.
The landlady shrugged her shoulders. “I think I’ve been a bit too nice already,” she said, and her cheeks turned a bit red.
“You will not?”
"Are you not?"
“Not I.”
“Not me.”
“Then,”—and he poured a volley of curses and abuse upon her.
“Then,”—and he unleashed a stream of curses and insults at her.
She turned her back upon him, and went off whimpering, and Saying she was not used to be cursed at; and ordered her hind to saddle two mules.
She turned her back on him and walked away crying, saying she wasn’t used to being cursed at, and told her servant to saddle two mules.
Denys went north with his troop, mute and drooping over his saddle, and quite unknown to him, that veracious young lady made an equestrian toilet in only forty minutes, she being really in a hurry, and spurred away with her servant in the opposite direction.
Denys rode north with his troop, silent and slumped over his saddle, and completely unaware to him, that truthful young lady got ready to ride in just forty minutes, as she was genuinely in a rush, and galloped off with her servant in the opposite direction.
At dark, after a long march, the bastard and his men reached “The White Hart;” their arrival caused a prodigious bustle, and it was some time before Manon discovered her old friend among so many. When she did, she showed it only by heightened colour. She did not claim the acquaintance. The poor soul was already beginning to scorn.
At night, after a long journey, the jerk and his crew arrived at “The White Hart;” their arrival created a huge commotion, and it took a while for Manon to spot her old friend among the crowd. When she finally did, she only revealed it by blushing. She didn’t acknowledge the connection. The poor thing was starting to feel contempt already.
“The base degrees by which she did ascend.”
“The basic steps by which she rose.”
Denys saw but could not smile. The inn reminded him too much of Gerard.
Denys looked but couldn’t smile. The inn brought back too many memories of Gerard.
Ere the night closed the wind changed. She looked into the room and beckoned him with her finger. He rose sulkily, and his guards with him.
Before night fell, the wind shifted. She glanced into the room and signaled to him with her finger. He stood up moodily, and his guards joined him.
“Nay, I would speak a word to thee in private.”
“Nah, I’d like to talk to you privately.”
She drew him to a corner of the room, and there asked him under her breath would he do her a kindness.
She pulled him to a corner of the room and quietly asked him if he could do her a favor.
He answered out loud, “No, he would not; he was not in the vein to do kindnesses to man or woman. If he did a kindness it should be to a dog; and not that if he could help it.”
He replied loudly, “No, he wouldn’t; he wasn’t in the mood to do favors for anyone. If he were to show kindness, it should be to a dog; and not even that if he could avoid it.”
“Alas, good archer, I did you one eftsoons, you and your pretty comrade,” said Manon humbly.
“Unfortunately, good archer, I did you one again, you and your lovely friend,” said Manon humbly.
“You did, dame, you did; well then, for his sake—what is't to do?”
“You did, lady, you did; well then, for his sake—what should we do?”
“Thou knowest my story. I had been unfortunate. Now I am worshipful. But a woman did cast him in my teeth this day. And so 'twill be ever while he hangs there. I would have him ta'en down; well-a-day!”
“Though you know my story. I was unfortunate. Now I am respected. But a woman threw it in my face today. And so it will always be while he is up there. I wish he would be taken down; oh dear!”
“With all my heart.”
"With all my love."
“And none dare I ask but thee. Wilt do't?”
“And I don’t dare ask anyone but you. Will you do it?”
“Not I, even were I not a prisoner.”
“Not me, even if I weren't a prisoner.”
On this stern refusal the tender Manon sighed, and clasped her palms together despondently. Denys told her she need not fret. There were soldiers of a lower stamp who would not make two bites of such a cherry. It was a mere matter of money; if she could find two angels, he would find two soldiers to do the dirty work of “The White Hart.”
On this harsh refusal, the gentle Manon sighed and put her hands together in despair. Denys told her not to worry. There were soldiers of a lower caliber who wouldn’t think twice about such an opportunity. It was simply a matter of money; if she could come up with two coins, he would find two soldiers to handle the dirty work for “The White Hart.”
This was not very palatable. However, reflecting that soldiers were birds of passage, drinking here to-night, knocked on the head there to-morrow, she said softly, “Send them out to me. But prithee, tell them that 'tis for one that is my friend; let them not think 'tis for me; I should sink into the earth; times are changed.”
This was not very pleasant. However, realizing that soldiers are just temporary guests, having a drink here tonight and then gone tomorrow, she said softly, “Send them out to me. But please, tell them it’s for a friend of mine; don’t let them think it’s for me; I would just disappear into the ground; times have changed.”
Denys found warriors glad to win an angel apiece so easily. He sent them out, and instantly dismissing the subject with contempt, sat brooding on his lost friend.
Denys found warriors eager to win an angel each so easily. He sent them out, and immediately dismissing the topic with disdain, sat lost in thought about his lost friend.
Manon and the warriors soon came to a general understanding. But what were they to do with the body when taken down? She murmured, “The river is nigh the—the place.”
Manon and the warriors soon reached a common agreement. But what were they going to do with the body once it was taken down? She whispered, “The river is near the—the spot.”
“Fling him in, eh?”
"Throw him in, yeah?"
“Nay, nay; be not so cruel! Could ye not put him—gently—and—with somewhat weighty?”
“Nah, nah; don’t be so harsh! Can’t you just place him—gently—and—with a bit of weight?”
She must have been thinking on the subject in detail; for she was not one to whom ideas came quickly.
She must have been thinking about it thoroughly, since she wasn't the type to come up with ideas easily.
All was speedily agreed, except the time of payment. The mail-clad itched for it, and sought it in advance. Manon demurred to that.
All was quickly settled, except for the payment timing. The armored man was eager for it and wanted it upfront. Manon was hesitant about that.
What, did she doubt their word? then let her come along with them, or watch them at a distance.
What, did she not trust them? Then she should either go with them or watch them from afar.
“Me?” said Manon with horror. “I would liever die than see it done.”
“Me?” said Manon in shock. “I’d rather die than see it happen.”
“Which yet you would have done.”
“Which you still would have done.”
“Ay, for sore is my need. Times are changed.”
“Aye, because I really need help. Things have changed.”
She had already forgotten her precept to Denys.
She had already forgotten her lesson to Denys.
An hour later the disagreeable relic of caterpillar existence ceased to canker the worshipful matron's public life, and the grim eyes of the past to cast malignant glances down into a white hind's clover field.
An hour later, the unpleasant reminder of caterpillar life stopped tarnishing the respected matron's public life, and the harsh memories of the past no longer cast dark looks into a white hind's clover field.
Total. She made the landlord an average wife, and a prime house-dog, and outlived everybody.
Total. She made the landlord a typical wife, and a top-notch house pet, and outlived everyone.
Her troops, when they returned from executing with mediaeval naivete the precept, “Off wi' the auld love,” received a shock. They found the market-place black with groups; it had been empty an hour ago. Conscience smote them. This came of meddling with the dead. However, the bolder of the two, encouraged by the darkness, stole forward alone, and slily mingled with a group: he soon returned to his companion, saying, in a tone of reproach not strictly reasonable,
Her soldiers, when they came back from blindly following the old saying, "Away with the old love," were taken aback. They found the marketplace crowded with groups; it had been empty just an hour before. Guilt weighed heavily on them. This was the consequence of interfering with the dead. However, the braver of the two, emboldened by the cover of night, moved ahead alone and stealthily joined a group: he quickly returned to his friend, saying, in a tone of reproach that didn’t completely make sense,
“Ye born fool, it is only a miracle.”
“Hey, you foolish person, it's just a miracle.”
CHAPTER XLII
Letters of fire on the church wall had just inquired, with an appearance of genuine curiosity, why there was no mass for the duke in this time of trouble. The supernatural expostulation had been seen by many, and had gradually faded, leaving the spectators glued there gaping. The upshot was, that the corporation, not choosing to be behind the angelic powers in loyalty to a temporal sovereign, invested freely in masses. By this an old friend of ours, the cure, profited in hard cash; for which he had a very pretty taste. But for this I would not of course have detained you over so trite an occurrence as a miracle.
Letters of fire on the church wall had just asked, with a look of genuine curiosity, why there wasn’t a mass for the duke during this troubling time. Many people had seen the supernatural message, which eventually faded away, leaving the onlookers staring in disbelief. The end result was that the town council, not wanting to fall short of the heavenly beings in loyalty to a earthly ruler, generously funded masses. This benefited an old friend of ours, the priest, who had a good eye for money. But I wouldn’t have held you up over such a common event as a miracle.
Denys begged for his arms. “Why disgrace him as well as break his heart?”
Denys begged for his arms. “Why humiliate him and break his heart?”
“Then swear on the cross of thy sword not to leave the bastard's service until the sedition shall be put down.” He yielded to necessity, and delivered three volleys of oaths, and recovered his arms and liberty.
“Then swear on the cross of your sword not to leave the bastard's service until the uprising is put down.” He gave in to necessity, swore three times, and regained his weapons and freedom.
The troops halted at “The Three Fish,” and Marion at sight of him cried out, “I'm out of luck; who would have thought to see you again?” Then seeing he was sad, and rather hurt than amused at this blunt jest, she asked him what was amiss? He told her. She took a bright view of the case. Gerard was too handsome and well-behaved to come to harm. The women too would always be on his side. Moreover, it was clear that things must either go well or ill with him. In the former case he would strike in with some good company going to Rome; in the latter he would return home, perhaps be there before his friend; “for you have a trifle of fighting to do in Flanders by all accounts.” She then brought him his gold pieces, and steadily refused to accept one, though he urged her again and again. Denys was somewhat convinced by her argument, because she concurred with his own wishes, and was also cheered a little by finding her so honest. It made him think a little better of that world in which his poor little friend was walking alone.
The troops stopped at “The Three Fish,” and when Marion saw him, she exclaimed, “I'm out of luck; who would have thought I’d see you again?” Noticing he looked sad and more hurt than amused by her blunt comment, she asked him what was wrong. He told her. She took an optimistic view of the situation. Gerard was too good-looking and well-behaved to get into trouble. The women would always be on his side. Besides, it was clear that things would either turn out well or poorly for him. If it was the former, he would join some good company heading to Rome; if it was the latter, he might return home, maybe even before his friend, “because you have a bit of fighting to do in Flanders, from what I hear.” She then brought him his gold coins and firmly refused to take one, even though he insisted repeatedly. Denys felt somewhat swayed by her reasoning, since it aligned with what he wanted, and he was also a bit comforted by her honesty. It made him think a little better of the world where his poor little friend was out there all alone.
Foot soldiers in small bodies down to twos and threes were already on the road, making lazily towards Flanders, many of them penniless, but passed from town to town by the bailiffs, with orders for food and lodging on the innkeepers.
Foot soldiers in small groups of two or three were already on the road, making their way to Flanders at a leisurely pace, many of them broke, but being moved from town to town by the bailiffs, with instructions for food and lodging for the innkeepers.
Anthony of Burgundy overtook numbers of these, and gathered them under his standard, so that he entered Flanders at the head of six hundred men. On crossing the frontier he was met by his brother Baldwyn, with men, arms, and provisions; he organized his whole force and marched on in battle array through several towns, not only without impediment, but with great acclamations. This loyalty called forth comments not altogether gracious.
Anthony of Burgundy caught up with many of them and brought them under his banner, entering Flanders at the head of six hundred men. After crossing the border, he was joined by his brother Baldwyn, who brought men, weapons, and supplies. He organized his entire force and marched in battle formation through several towns, not only without any obstacles but also to great cheers. This loyalty drew some comments that weren't exactly kind.
“This rebellion of ours is a bite,” growled a soldier called Simon, who had elected himself Denys's comrade.
“This rebellion of ours is a bite,” grumbled a soldier named Simon, who had chosen himself as Denys's companion.
Denys said nothing, but made a little vow to St. Mars to shoot this Anthony of Burgundy dead, should the rebellion, that had cost him Gerard, prove no rebellion.
Denys said nothing, but silently promised St. Mars that he would kill this Anthony of Burgundy if the rebellion that had cost him Gerard turned out to be a false alarm.
That afternoon they came in sight of a strongly fortified town; and a whisper went through the little army that this was a disaffected place.
That afternoon, they spotted a heavily fortified town, and a quiet murmur spread through the small army that this was an unloyal place.
But when they came in sight, the great gate stood open, and the towers that flanked it on each side were manned with a single sentinel apiece. So the advancing force somewhat broke their array and marched carelessly.
But when they came into view, the massive gate was open, and the towers on either side were each guarded by a single sentry. So, the approaching group somewhat disbanded their formation and marched in a relaxed manner.
When they were within a furlong, the drawbridge across the moat rose slowly and creaking till it stood vertical against the fort and the very moment it settled into this warlike attitude, down rattled the portcullis at the gate, and the towers and curtains bristled with lances and crossbows.
When they were about a tenth of a mile away, the drawbridge over the moat lifted slowly with a creaking sound until it was straight up against the fort. Just as it settled into this defensive position, the portcullis at the gate crashed down, and the towers and walls were lined with spears and crossbows.
A stern hum ran through the bastard's front rank and spread to the rear.
A serious tension ran through the front line of the bastard's group and spread to the back.
“Halt!” cried he. The word went down the line, and they halted. “Herald to the gate!” A pursuivant spurred out of the ranks, and halting twenty yards from the gate, raised his bugle with his herald's flag hanging down round it, and blew a summons. A tall figure in brazen armour appeared over the gate. A few fiery words passed between him and the herald, which were not audible, but their import clear, for the herald blew a single keen and threatening note at the walls, and came galloping back with war in his face. The bastard moved out of the line to meet him, and their heads had not been together two seconds ere he turned in his saddle and shouted, “Pioneers, to the van!” and in a moment hedges were levelled, and the force took the field and encamped just out of shot from the walls; and away went mounted officers flying south, east, and west, to the friendly towns, for catapults, palisades, mantelets, raw hides, tar-barrels, carpenters, provisions, and all the materials for a siege.
“Stop!” he shouted. The command spread down the line, and they stopped. “Herald to the gate!” A messenger rode out from the ranks, stopping twenty yards from the gate, raising his bugle with his herald's flag hanging down around it, and blew a call. A tall figure in shiny armor appeared above the gate. A few intense words were exchanged between him and the herald, which were not audible, but their meaning was clear, as the herald blew a single sharp and threatening note at the walls and galloped back with a fierce expression. The commander stepped out of the line to meet him, and just as their heads came together for a couple of seconds, he turned in his saddle and shouted, “Pioneers, to the front!” In an instant, hedges were leveled, and the troops moved into the field and set up camp just out of range of the walls; and off went the mounted officers racing south, east, and west to the friendly towns for catapults, barricades, shields, raw hides, tar barrels, carpenters, food supplies, and all the materials needed for a siege.
The bright perspective mightily cheered one drooping soldier. At the first clang of the portcullis his eyes brightened and his temple flushed; and when the herald came back with battle in his eye he saw it in a moment, and for the first time this many days cried, “Courage, tout le monde, le diable est mort.”
The bright outlook really lifted one weary soldier's spirits. At the first sound of the portcullis, his eyes lit up and his cheeks flushed; and when the herald returned with a fierce look, he noticed it right away, and for the first time in many days shouted, “Courage, everyone, the devil is dead.”
If that great warrior heard, how he must have grinned!
If that great warrior heard, he must have smiled!
The besiegers encamped a furlong from the walls, and made roads; kept their pikemen in camp ready for an assault when practicable; and sent forward their sappers, pioneers, catapultiers, and crossbowmen. These opened a siege by filling the moat, and mining, or breaching the wall, etc. And as much of their work had to be done under close fire of arrows, quarels, bolts, stones, and little rocks, the above artists “had need of a hundred eyes,” and acted in concert with a vigilance, and an amount of individual intelligence, daring, and skill, that made a siege very interesting, and even amusing: to lookers on.
The attackers set up camp about one-eighth of a mile from the walls and built roads; they kept their pikemen ready for an assault whenever the time was right, and sent out their sappers, pioneers, catapult operators, and crossbowmen. They started the siege by filling the moat and digging under or breaking through the wall, among other tasks. Since much of their work had to be done while under fire from arrows, bolts, stones, and small rocks, these workers “needed a hundred eyes,” and they operated with a level of coordination, awareness, and individual skill and bravery that made the siege quite engaging and even entertaining for onlookers.
The first thing they did was to advance their carpenters behind rolling mantelets, to erect a stockade high and strong on the very edge of the moat. Some lives were lost at this, but not many; for a strong force of crossbowmen, including Denys, rolled their mantelets up and shot over the workmen's heads at every besieged who showed his nose, and at every loophole, arrow-slit, or other aperture, which commanded the particular spot the carpenters happened to be upon. Covered by their condensed fire, these soon raised a high palisade between them and the ordinary missiles from the pierced masonry.
The first thing they did was move their carpenters behind protective screens to build a strong stockade right at the edge of the moat. A few lives were lost during this, but not many; a solid group of crossbowmen, including Denys, rolled their screens forward and shot over the workers' heads at every besieger who showed his face, and at every loophole or opening that overlooked the spot where the carpenters were working. Shielded by their concentrated fire, they quickly raised a tall fence to protect themselves from the regular projectiles coming from the damaged walls.
But the besieged expected this, and ran out at night their boards or wooden penthouses on the top of the curtains. The curtains were built with square holes near the top to receive the beams that supported these structures, the true defence of mediaeval forts, from which the besieged delivered their missiles with far more freedom and variety of range than they could shoot through the oblique but immovable loopholes of the curtain, or even through the sloping crenelets of the higher towers. On this the besiegers brought up mangonels, and set them hurling huge stones at these woodworks and battering them to pieces. Contemporaneously they built a triangular wooden tower as high as the curtain, and kept it ready for use, and just out of shot.
But the people under siege anticipated this and set up their wooden platforms or shelters on top of the walls at night. The walls were designed with square openings near the top to hold the beams that supported these structures, which were the real defense of medieval forts. From these platforms, the defenders could launch their projectiles with much greater freedom and range than they could through the narrow, fixed openings in the walls or even through the sloped notches of the taller towers. In response, the attackers brought in mangonels and started launching large stones at these wooden structures to break them apart. At the same time, they constructed a triangular wooden tower as tall as the walls and kept it ready for action, just out of range.
This was a terrible sight to the besieged. These wooden towers had taken many a town. They began to mine underneath that part of the moat the tower stood frowning at; and made other preparations to give it a warm reception. The besiegers also mined, but at another part, their object being to get under the square barbican and throw it down. All this time Denys was behind his mantelet with another arbalestrier, protecting the workmen and making some excellent shots. These ended by earning him the esteem of an unseen archer, who every now and then sent a winged compliment quivering into his mantelet. One came and struck within an inch of the narrow slit through which Denys was squinting at the moment. “Peste,” cried he, “you shoot well, my friend. Come forth and receive my congratulations! Shall merit such as thine hide its head? Comrade, it is one of those cursed Englishmen, with his half ell shaft. I'll not die till I've had a shot at London wall.”
This was a terrible sight for those trapped inside. Those wooden towers had conquered many towns. They started digging underneath the part of the moat where the tower stood menacingly; and made other preparations to give it a warm welcome. The attackers also dug, but at a different spot, aiming to get under the square barbican and bring it down. Meanwhile, Denys was behind his mantelet with another crossbowman, protecting the workers and taking some excellent shots. His efforts earned him the respect of an unseen archer, who occasionally sent a well-aimed arrow as a compliment into his mantelet. One arrow struck just an inch away from the narrow slit through which Denys was peering at that moment. “Damn,” he exclaimed, “you shoot well, my friend. Step out and accept my congratulations! Should talent like yours hide away? My comrade, it’s one of those cursed Englishmen, with his awkward shaft. I won’t die until I’ve had a shot at the London wall.”
On the side of the besieged was a figure that soon attracted great notice by promenading under fire. It was a tall knight, clad in complete brass, and carrying a light but prodigiously long lance, with which he directed the movements of the besieged. And when any disaster befell the besiegers, this tall knight and his long lance were pretty sure to be concerned in it.
On the side of the besieged stood a figure that quickly drew attention by walking around under fire. It was a tall knight, dressed in full armor, and holding a light but incredibly long lance, with which he directed the movements of the besieged. And whenever anything went wrong for the besiegers, this tall knight and his long lance were likely involved.
My young reader will say, “Why did not Denys shoot him?” Denys did shoot him; every day of his life; other arbalestriers shot him; archers shot him. Everybody shot him. He was there to be shot, apparently. But the abomination was, he did not mind being shot. Nay, worse, he got at last so demoralised as not to seem to know when he was shot. He walked his battlements under fire, as some stout skipper paces his deck in a suit of Flushing, calmly oblivious of the April drops that fall on his woollen armour. At last the besiegers got spiteful, and would not waste any more good steel on him; but cursed him and his impervious coat of mail.
My young reader might ask, “Why didn’t Denys shoot him?” Denys did shoot him; every day of his life; other crossbowmen shot him; archers shot him. Everyone shot him. He was there to be shot, it seemed. But the awful part was that he didn’t care about being shot. In fact, it got to the point where he was so demoralized that he didn’t even seem to realize when he was hit. He walked along the walls under fire, like some brave captain pacing his deck in a suit of armor, completely unaware of the April rain falling on his woolen gear. Eventually, the attackers got angry and decided not to waste any more good steel on him; instead, they cursed him and his impenetrable suit of armor.
He took those missiles like the rest.
He took those missiles just like everyone else.
Gunpowder has spoiled war. War was always detrimental to the solid interests of mankind. But in old times it was good for something: it painted well, sang divinely, furnished Iliads. But invisible butchery, under a pall of smoke a furlong thick, who is any the better for that? Poet with his note-book may repeat, “Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri;” but the sentiment is hollow and savours of cuckoo. You can't tueri anything but a horrid row. He didn't say, “Suave etiam ingentem caliginem tueri per campos instructam.”
Gunpowder has ruined war. War was always harmful to the true interests of humanity. But back in the day, it had some value: it inspired great art, beautiful songs, and epic tales. But now we have hidden slaughter, shrouded in smoke thick enough to hide a whole mile—who actually benefits from that? A poet with his notebook might repeat, “Even the grand battles of war are pleasant to defend,” but that sentiment feels empty and sounds ridiculous. You can’t defend anything but a terrible mess. He didn’t say, “Even the vast darkness covering the fields that are prepared for battle.”
They managed better in the Middle Ages.
They did better in the Middle Ages.
This siege was a small affair; but, such as it was, a writer or minstrel could see it, and turn an honest penny by singing it; so far then the sport was reasonable, and served an end.
This siege was a minor event; but, as it was, a writer or performer could witness it and make a little money by singing about it; so in that way, the entertainment was justified and had a purpose.
It was a bright day, clear, but not quite frosty. The efforts of the besieging force were concentrated against a space of about two hundred and fifty yards, containing two curtains and two towers, one of which was the square barbican, the other had a pointed roof that was built to overlap, resting on a stone machicolade, and by this means a row of dangerous crenelets between the roof and the masonry grinned down at the nearer assailants, and looked not very unlike the grinders of a modern frigate with each port nearly closed. The curtains were overlapped with penthouses somewhat shattered by the mangonels, trebuchets, and other slinging engines of the besiegers. On the besiegers' edge of the moat was what seemed at first sight a gigantic arsenal, longer than it was broad, peopled by human ants, and full of busy, honest industry, and displaying all the various mechanical science of the age in full operation. Here the lever at work, there the winch and pulley, here the balance, there the capstan. Everywhere heaps of stones, and piles of fascines, mantelets, and rows of fire-barrels. Mantelets rolling, the hammer tapping all day, horses and carts in endless succession rattling up with materials. Only, on looking closer into the hive of industry, you might observe that arrows were constantly flying to and fro, that the cranes did not tenderly deposit their masses of stone, but flung them with an indifference to property, though on scientific principles, and that among the tubs full of arrows, and the tar-barrels and the beams, the fagots, and other utensils, here and there a workman or a soldier lay flatter than is usual in limited naps, and something more or less feathered stuck in them, and blood, and other essentials, oozed out.
It was a bright day, clear but not quite chilly. The besieging force focused their efforts on an area of about two hundred and fifty yards, which included two sections of wall and two towers—one being the square barbican and the other featuring a pointed roof that was designed to overlap. This roof rested on a stone machicolation, creating a line of dangerous crenellations that looked down menacingly at the approaching attackers, resembling the gun ports of a modern frigate with each port nearly shut. The walls were covered with makeshift shelters, partially damaged by the mangonels, trebuchets, and other projectile weaponry of the besiegers. At the outer edge of the moat was what looked like a massive arsenal, longer than it was wide, filled with busy workers going about their tasks, showcasing all the mechanical expertise of the time in full swing. Here, a lever was in action, there a winch and pulley, here a balance, and there a capstan. Piles of stones, bundles of faggots, protective screens, and rows of fire barrels were everywhere. Protective screens were being moved, hammers were pounding all day, and horses along with carts continuously rattled by, loaded with materials. However, upon looking more closely at this hive of activity, you might notice that arrows were constantly flying back and forth, that the cranes didn't gently place their heavy stones but tossed them carelessly, though scientifically, and that among the barrels full of arrows, tar barrels, beams, and bundles, you might spot a worker or soldier lying flat, more than usual for brief naps, with something feathered sticking out from them, while blood and other fluids seeped out.
At the edge of the moat opposite the wooden tower, a strong penthouse, which they called “a cat,” might be seen stealing towards the curtain, and gradually filling up the moat with fascines and rubbish, which the workmen flung out at its mouth. It was advanced by two sets of ropes passing round pulleys, and each worked by a windlass at some distance from the cat. The knight burnt the first cat by flinging blazing tar-barrels on it. So the besiegers made the roof of this one very steep, and covered it with raw hides, and the tar-barrels could not harm it. Then the knight made signs with his spear, and a little trebuchet behind the walls began dropping stones just clear of the wall into the moat, and at last they got the range, and a stone went clean through the roof of the cat, and made an ugly hole.
At the edge of the moat opposite the wooden tower, a strong siege engine they called "a cat" could be seen stealthily moving toward the wall, gradually filling the moat with bundles of sticks and debris that the workers tossed out of its mouth. It was operated by two sets of ropes that went around pulleys, each one turned by a windlass located a bit away from the cat. The knight destroyed the first cat by hurling burning barrels of tar at it. In response, the besiegers made the roof of the new one very steep and covered it with raw animal hides, which protected it from the tar barrels. Then the knight signaled with his spear, and a small trebuchet behind the walls began launching stones just over the wall into the moat. Eventually, they adjusted their aim, and a stone smashed right through the roof of the cat, leaving a big hole.
Baldwyn of Burgundy saw this, and losing his temper, ordered the great catapult that was battering the wood-work of the curtain opposite it to be turned and levelled slantwise at this invulnerable knight. Denys and his Englishman went to dinner. These two worthies being eternally on the watch for one another had made a sort of distant acquaintance, and conversed by signs, especially on a topic that in peace or war maintains the same importance. Sometimes Denys would put a piece of bread on the top of his mantelet, and then the archer would hang something of the kind out by a string; or the order of invitation would be reversed. Anyway, they always managed to dine together.
Baldwyn of Burgundy saw this and, losing his temper, ordered the massive catapult that was smashing the woodwork of the curtain opposite to be turned and aimed sideways at this invulnerable knight. Denys and his Englishman went to dinner. These two characters, always on the lookout for each other, had formed a sort of distant acquaintance and communicated through gestures, especially on a topic that remains important whether in peace or war. Sometimes Denys would place a piece of bread on top of his mantelet, and then the archer would hang something similar out by a string; or the invitation order would be switched. In any case, they always found a way to have dinner together.
And now the engineers proceeded to the unusual step of slinging fifty-pound stones at an individual.
And now the engineers took the unusual step of throwing fifty-pound stones at a person.
This catapult was a scientific, simple, and beautiful engine, and very effective in vertical fire at the short ranges of the period.
This catapult was a smart, straightforward, and elegant machine, and it was very effective for vertical fire at the short distances of the time.
Imagine a fir-tree cut down, and set to turn round a horizontal axis on lofty uprights, but not in equilibrio; three-fourths of the tree being on the hither side. At the shorter and thicker end of the tree was fastened a weight of half a ton. This butt end just before the discharge pointed towards the enemy. By means of a powerful winch the long tapering portion of the tree was forced down to the very ground, and fastened by a bolt; and the stone placed in a sling attached to the tree's nose. But this process of course raised the butt end with its huge weight high in the air, and kept it there struggling in vain to come down. The bolt was now drawn; Gravity, an institution which flourished even then, resumed its sway, the short end swung furiously down, the long end went as furiously round up, and at its highest elevation flung the huge stone out of the sling with a tremendous jerk. In this case the huge mass so flung missed the knight; but came down near him on the penthouse, and went through it like paper, making an awful gap in roof and floor. Through the latter fell out two inanimate objects, the stone itself and the mangled body of a besieger it had struck. They fell down the high curtain side, down, down, and struck almost together the sullen waters of the moat, which closed bubbling on them, and kept both the stone and the bone two hundred years, till cannon mocked those oft perturbed waters, and civilization dried them.
Imagine a fir tree that’s been cut down and set to rotate around a horizontal axis on tall supports, but not balanced; three-quarters of the tree is on this side. At the shorter, thicker end of the tree, a half-ton weight is attached. This butt end is aimed at the enemy just before it's released. Using a powerful winch, the long, tapered part of the tree is pushed down to the ground and secured with a bolt, while a stone is placed in a sling attached to the end of the tree. This process, of course, lifts the heavy butt end high in the air, where it struggles to come back down. Once the bolt is released, gravity, which existed even back then, took over; the short end swung down violently, while the long end swung up just as fiercely, and at its highest point, launched the huge stone from the sling with an enormous force. In this instance, the massive stone missed the knight but struck down near him on the penthouse, going through it like it was paper and creating a huge hole in the roof and floor. Out of the hole fell two lifeless objects: the stone itself and the mangled body of a besieger it had hit. They plummeted down the tall curtain wall, hitting the dark waters of the moat almost simultaneously, which bubbled around them, keeping both the stone and the bone for two hundred years, until cannons disrupted those often-troubled waters and civilization eventually drained them.
“Aha! a good shot,” cried Baldwyn of Burgundy.
“Aha! Nice shot,” shouted Baldwyn of Burgundy.
The tall knight retired. The besiegers hooted him.
The tall knight walked away. The attackers mocked him.
He reappeared on the platform of the barbican, his helmet being just visible above the parapet. He seemed very busy, and soon an enormous Turkish catapult made its appearance on the platform and aided by the elevation at which it was planted, flung a twentypound stone some two hundred and forty yards in the air; it bounded after that, and knocked some dirt into the Lord Anthony's eye, and made him swear. The next stone struck a horse that was bringing up a sheaf of arrows in a cart, bowled the horse over dead like a rabbit, and spilt the cart. It was then turned at the besiegers' wooden tower, supposed to be out of shot. Sir Turk slung stones cut with sharp edges on purpose, and struck it repeatedly, and broke it in several places. The besiegers turned two of their slinging engines on this monster, and kept constantly slinging smaller stones on to the platform of the barbican, and killed two of the engineers. But the Turk disdained to retort. He flung a forty-pound stone on to the besiegers' great catapult, and hitting it in the neighbourhood of the axis, knocked the whole structure to pieces, and sent the engineers skipping and yelling.
He reappeared on the platform of the gatehouse, his helmet just visible above the wall. He looked very busy, and soon an enormous Turkish catapult showed up on the platform. Thanks to its high position, it launched a twenty-pound stone about two hundred and forty yards up in the air; it landed with a thud and got some dirt in Lord Anthony's eye, making him curse. The next stone hit a horse that was delivering a load of arrows in a cart, knocked it over dead like a rabbit, and spilled the cart's contents. The catapult then aimed at the attackers' wooden tower, which was thought to be out of range. Sir Turk loaded stones with sharp edges on purpose and hit it repeatedly, breaking it in several places. The attackers turned two of their slings at this giant and continuously shot smaller stones onto the platform of the gatehouse, killing two of the engineers. But the Turk ignored them. He hurled a forty-pound stone at the attackers' big catapult, hitting it near the pivot, and shattered the entire structure, sending the engineers scrambling and yelling.
In the afternoon, as Simon was running back to his mantelet from a palisade where he had been shooting at the besieged, Denys, peeping through his slit, saw the poor fellow suddenly stare and hold out his arms, then roll on his face, and a feathered arrow protruded from his back. The archer showed himself a moment to enjoy his skill. It was the Englishman. Denys, already prepared, shot his bolt, and the murderous archer staggered away wounded. But poor Simon never moved. His wars were over.
In the afternoon, as Simon was running back to his cloak from a palisade where he had been shooting at the people under siege, Denys, peeking through his slit, saw the poor guy suddenly freeze and raise his arms, then fall face down, with a feathered arrow sticking out of his back. The archer briefly revealed himself to flaunt his skill. It was the Englishman. Denys, already ready, shot his bolt, and the deadly archer stumbled away, injured. But poor Simon never moved. His battles were done.
“I am unlucky in my comrades,” said Denys.
“I have bad luck with my friends,” said Denys.
The next morning an unwelcome sight greeted the besieged. The cat was covered with mattresses and raw hides, and fast filling up the moat. The knight stoned it, but in vain; flung burning tar-barrels on it, but in vain. Then with his own hands he let down by a rope a bag of burning sulphur and pitch, and stunk them out. But Baldwyn, armed like a lobster, ran, and bounding on the roof, cut the string, and the work went on. Then the knight sent fresh engineers into the mine, and undermined the place and underpinned it with beams, and covered the beams thickly with grease and tar.
The next morning, an unwelcome sight greeted those under siege. The cat was covered with mattresses and animal hides, quickly filling up the moat. The knight threw stones at it, but it was useless; he launched burning barrels of tar at it, but that did nothing either. Then, with his own hands, he lowered a bag of burning sulfur and pitch down by a rope to drive them out. But Baldwyn, dressed in armor that looked like a lobster, ran up and jumped onto the roof, cutting the string, and the work continued. Then the knight sent in new engineers to dig into the mine, undermining the area and supporting it with beams, which he coated thickly in grease and tar.
At break of day the moat was filled, and the wooden tower began to move on its wheels towards a part of the curtain on which two catapults were already playing to breach the hoards, and clear the way. There was something awful and magical in its approach without visible agency, for it was driven by internal rollers worked by leverage. On the top was a platform, where stood the first assailing party protected in front by the drawbridge of the turret, which stood vertical till lowered on to the wall; but better protected by full suits of armour. The beseiged slung at the tower, and struck it often, but in vain. It was well defended with mattresses and hides, and presently was at the edge of the moat. The knight bade fire the mine underneath it.
At dawn, the moat was filled, and the wooden tower began to roll on its wheels toward a section of the wall where two catapults were already firing to break through the defenses and clear a path. There was something terrifying and magical about its movement without any visible force, as it was propelled by internal rollers using leverage. On top was a platform where the first attacking group stood, shielded in front by the turret's drawbridge, which remained upright until it was lowered onto the wall; but they were better protected by full suits of armor. The defenders aimed at the tower and hit it frequently, but it was useless. The tower was well-protected with mattresses and hides and soon reached the edge of the moat. The knight ordered to ignite the mine beneath it.
Then the Turkish engine flung a stone of half a hundredweight right amongst the knights, and carried two away with it off the tower on to the plain. One lay and writhed: the other neither moved nor spake.
Then the Turkish cannon launched a stone weighing about fifty pounds right into the knights, and took two of them off the tower and onto the plain. One lay there struggling, while the other neither moved nor spoke.
And now the besieging catapults flung blazing tar-barrels, and fired the hoards on both sides, and the assailants ran up the ladders behind the tower, and lowered the drawbridge on to the battered curtain, while the catapults in concert flung tar-barrels and fired the adjoining works to dislodge the defenders. The armed men on the platform sprang on the bridge, led by Baldwyn. The invulnerable knight and his men-at-arms met them, and a fearful combat ensued, in which many a figure was seen to fall headlong down off the narrow bridge. But fresh besiegers kept swarming up behind the tower, and the besieged were driven off the bridge.
And now the attacking catapults hurled flaming barrels of tar, igniting the piles on both sides, as the attackers rushed up the ladders behind the tower and lowered the drawbridge onto the damaged wall. Meanwhile, the catapults continued to launch tar barrels and set fire to the nearby structures to dislodge the defenders. The armed men on the platform jumped onto the bridge, led by Baldwyn. The invincible knight and his soldiers confronted them, and a fierce battle broke out, with many warriors plummeting off the narrow bridge. But more attackers kept pouring up behind the tower, forcing the defenders off the bridge.
Another minute, and the town was taken; but so well had the firing of the mine been timed, that just at this instant the underpinners gave way, and the tower suddenly sank away from the walls, tearing the drawbridge clear and pouring the soldiers off it against the masonry, and on to the dry moat. The besieged uttered a fierce shout, and in a moment surrounded Baldwyn and his fellows; but strange to say, offered them quarter. While a party disarmed and disposed of these, others fired the turret in fifty places with a sort of hand grenades. At this work who so busy as the tall knight. He put the fire-bags on his long spear, and thrust them into the doomed structure late so terrible. To do this he was obliged to stand on a projecting beam of the shattered hoard, holding on by the hand of a pikeman to steady himself. This provoked Denys; he ran out from his mantelet, hoping to escape notice in the confusion, and levelling his crossbow missed the knight clean, but sent his bolt into the brain of the pikeman, and the tall knight fell heavily from the wall, lance and all. Denys gazed wonder-struck; and in that unlucky moment, suddenly he felt his arm hot, then cold, and there was an English arrow skewering it.
Another minute, and the town was captured; but the timing of the mine explosion was so perfect that just at that moment, the supports gave way, and the tower suddenly collapsed away from the walls, ripping the drawbridge clean off and sending the soldiers tumbling onto the dry moat. The defenders let out a fierce shout and quickly surrounded Baldwyn and his companions; strangely enough, they offered them mercy. While one group disarmed and secured them, others set fire to the turret in fifty different spots using a kind of hand grenade. Who was more active in this effort than the tall knight? He placed the firebags on his long spear and thrust them into the doomed structure that had been so menacing. To do this, he had to balance on a projecting beam of the ruined hoard, holding on to a pikeman’s hand for support. This infuriated Denys; he darted out from behind his shield, hoping to go unnoticed in the chaos, and aimed his crossbow, but missed the knight entirely, instead hitting the pikeman in the head, causing the tall knight to fall heavily from the wall, lance and all. Denys watched in astonishment; in that unfortunate moment, he suddenly felt his arm go from hot to cold as an English arrow pierced it.
This episode was unnoticed in a much greater matter. The knight, his armour glittering in the morning sun, fell headlong, but turning as he neared the water, struck it with a slap that sounded a mile off.
This moment went unnoticed in a much larger situation. The knight, his armor shining in the morning sun, fell hard, but as he approached the water, he turned and hit it with a splash that echoed for a mile.
None ever thought to see him again. But he fell at the edge of the fascines on which the turret stood all cocked on one side, and his spear stuck into them under water, and by a mighty effort he got to the side, but could not get out. Anthony sent a dozen knights with a white flag to take him prisoner. He submitted like a lamb, but said nothing.
None ever thought they would see him again. But he fell at the edge of the bundles where the turret was tilted to one side, and his spear got stuck in them underwater. With a huge effort, he managed to reach the side, but he couldn’t get out. Anthony sent a dozen knights with a white flag to capture him. He surrendered like a lamb but didn’t say a word.
He was taken to Anthony's tent.
He was taken to Anthony's tent.
That worthy laughed at first at the sight of his muddy armour, but presently, frowning, said, “I marvel, sir, that so good a knight as you should know his devoir so ill as turn rebel, and give us all this trouble.”
That honorable man first laughed at the sight of his muddy armor, but then, frowning, said, “I’m surprised, sir, that such a good knight as you would ignore your duty and turn rebel, causing us all this trouble.”
“I am nun-nun-nun-nun-nun-no knight.”
“I am no knight.”
“What then?”
"Now what?"
“A hosier.”
“A sock shop owner.”
“A what? Then thy armour shall be stripped off, and thou shalt be tied to a stake in front of the works, and riddled with arrows for a warning to traitors.”
“A what? Then your armor will be taken off, and you’ll be tied to a stake in front of the fortifications, getting shot with arrows as a warning to traitors.”
“N-n-n-n-no! duda-duda-duda-duda-don't do that.”
“No! Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“Tuta-tuta-tuta-townsfolk will-h-h-h-hang t'other buba-buba-buba-buba-bastard.”
“Townsfolk will hang the other bastard.”
“What, whom?”
"Who, what?"
“Your bub-bub-bub-brother Baldwyn.”
“Your brother Baldwyn.”
“What, have you knaves ta'en him?”
“What, have you guys taken him?”
The warlike hosier nodded.
The aggressive hosier nodded.
“Hang the fool!” said Anthony, peevishly.
“Hang the idiot!” said Anthony, irritably.
The warlike hosier watched his eye, and doffing his helmet, took out of the lining an intercepted letter from the duke, bidding the said Anthony come to court immediately, as he was to represent the court of Burgundy at the court of England; was to go over and receive the English king's sister, and conduct her to her bridegroom, the Earl of Charolois. The mission was one very soothing to Anthony's pride, and also to his love of pleasure. For Edward the Fourth held the gayest and most luxurious court in Europe. The sly hosier saw he longed to be off, and said, “We'll gega-gega-gega-gega-give ye a thousand angels to raise the siege.”
The battle-ready hosier kept an eye on him, and after taking off his helmet, pulled out a letter from the duke hidden in the lining. The letter instructed Anthony to come to court immediately because he was to represent the court of Burgundy at the court of England. He was to travel there to meet the English king's sister and escort her to her husband, the Earl of Charolois. This mission was very flattering to Anthony's pride and his love for pleasure, as Edward the Fourth hosted the most extravagant and lively court in Europe. The crafty hosier noticed his eagerness to leave and said, “We’ll gega-gega-gega-gega-give you a thousand angels to lift the siege.”
“And Baldwyn?”
"And Baldwyn?"
“I'll gega-gega-gega-gega-go and send him with the money.”
“I'll go and send him with the money.”
It was now dinner-time; and a flag of truce being hoisted on both sides, the sham knight and the true one dined together and came to a friendly understanding.
It was now dinner time; and with a truce raised on both sides, the fake knight and the real one had dinner together and reached a friendly agreement.
“But what is your grievance, my good friend?”
“But what’s bothering you, my good friend?”
“Tuta-tuta-tuta-tuta-too much taxes.”
"Tuta-tuta-tuta-tuta-too many taxes."
Denys, on finding the arrow in his right arm, turned his back, which was protected by a long shield, and walked sulkily into camp. He was met by the Comte de Jarnac, who had seen his brilliant shot, and finding him wounded into the bargain, gave him a handful of broad pieces.
Denys, discovering the arrow in his right arm, turned his back—shielded by a long shield—and grumpily walked back to camp. He ran into the Comte de Jarnac, who had witnessed his impressive shot and, seeing that he was injured as well, handed him a handful of gold coins.
“Hast got the better of thy grief, arbalestrier, methinks.”
“Looks like you've gotten over your grief, crossbowman, I think.”
“My grief, yes; but not my love. As soon as ever I have put down this rebellion, I go to Holland, and there I shall meet with him.”
“My grief, yes; but not my love. As soon as I put down this rebellion, I’m going to Holland, and there I’ll meet him.”
This event was nearer than Denys thought. He was relieved from service next day, and though his wound was no trifle, set out with a stout heart to rejoin his friend in Holland.
This event was closer than Denys realized. He was relieved from duty the next day, and although his injury was no small matter, he set out with a brave heart to reunite with his friend in Holland.
CHAPTER XLIII
A change came over Margaret Brandt. She went about her household duties like one in a dream. If Peter did but speak a little quickly to her, she started and fixed two terrified eyes on him. She went less often to her friend Margaret Van Eyck, and was ill at her ease when there. Instead of meeting her warm old friend's caresses, she used to receive them passive and trembling, and sometimes almost shrink from them. But the most extraordinary thing was, she never would go outside her own house in daylight. When she went to Tergou it was after dusk, and she returned before daybreak. She would not even go to matins. At last Peter, unobservant as he was, noticed it, and asked her the reason.
A change came over Margaret Brandt. She went about her household tasks like someone in a daze. If Peter spoke to her a bit too quickly, she would startle and fix two terrified eyes on him. She visited her friend Margaret Van Eyck less often and felt uncomfortable when she was there. Instead of welcoming her old friend's hugs, she would accept them passively and trembling, sometimes almost flinching away from them. But the most unusual thing was that she wouldn't go outside her own house during the day. When she went to Tergou, it was after dark, and she returned before dawn. She wouldn't even go to morning services. Eventually, Peter, as inattentive as he was, noticed this and asked her why.
“Methinks the folk all look at me.”
“I think everyone is looking at me.”
One day, Margaret Van Eyck asked her what was the matter.
One day, Margaret Van Eyck asked her what was wrong.
A scared look and a flood of tears were all the reply; the old lady expostulated gently. “What, sweetheart, afraid to confide your sorrows to me?”
A scared look and a stream of tears were all the response; the old lady gently said, “What, sweetheart, are you afraid to share your troubles with me?”
“I have no sorrows, madam, but of my own making. I am kinder treated than I deserve; especially in this house.”
“I have no sorrows, ma'am, except for those I've caused myself. I'm treated better than I deserve, especially in this house.”
“Then why not come oftener, my dear?”
“Then why not come by more often, my dear?”
“I come oftener than I deserve;” and she sighed deeply.
"I come more often than I should;" and she sighed deeply.
“There, Reicht is bawling for you,” said Margaret Van Eyck; “go, child!—what on earth can it be?”
“There, Reicht is crying for you,” said Margaret Van Eyck; “go on, kid!—what could it be?”
Turning possibilities over in her mind, she thought Margaret must be mortified at the contempt with which she was treated by Gerard's family. “I will take them to task for it, at least such of them as are women;” and the very next day she put on her hood and cloak and followed by Reicht, went to the hosier's house. Catherine received her with much respect, and thanked her with tears for her kindness to Gerard. But when, encouraged by this, her visitor diverged to Margaret Brandt, Catherine's eyes dried, and her lips turned to half the size, and she looked as only obstinate, ignorant women can look. When they put on this cast of features, you might as well attempt to soften or convince a brick wall. Margaret Van Eyck tried, but all in vain. So then, not being herself used to be thwarted, she got provoked, and at last went out hastily with an abrupt and mutilated curtsey, which Catherine, returned with an air rather of defiance than obeisance. Outside the door Margaret Van Eyck found Reicht conversing with a pale girl on crutches. Margaret Van Eyck was pushing by them with heightened colour, and a scornful toss intended for the whole family, when suddenly a little delicate hand glided timidly into hers, and looking round she saw two dove-like eyes, with the water in them, that sought hers gratefully and at the same time imploringly. The old lady read this wonderful look, complex as it was, and down went her choler. She stopped and kissed Kate's brow. “I see,” said she. “Mind, then, I leave it to you.” Returned home, she said—“I have been to a house to-day, where I have seen a very common thing and a very uncommon thing; I have seen a stupid, obstinate woman, and I have seen an angel in the flesh, with a face-if I had it here I'd take down my brushes once more and try and paint it.”
Turning thoughts over in her mind, she figured Margaret must be embarrassed by the disdain shown to her by Gerard's family. “I’ll confront them about it, at least the women;” and the next day she put on her hood and cloak and, followed by Reicht, went to the hosier's house. Catherine greeted her with great respect and thanked her with tears for her kindness to Gerard. But when, encouraged by this, her visitor brought up Margaret Brandt, Catherine's eyes dried up, her lips shrank to half their size, and she looked as only stubborn, ignorant women can look. When they put on this expression, you might as well try to soften or persuade a brick wall. Margaret Van Eyck tried, but it was all in vain. So then, not used to being thwarted herself, she got annoyed and eventually stormed out with a quick and awkward curtsey, which Catherine returned with an air more of defiance than respect. Outside the door, Margaret Van Eyck found Reicht talking to a pale girl on crutches. Margaret Van Eyck was trying to push past them, her face flushed and a scornful toss aimed at the whole family, when suddenly a small delicate hand slipped timidly into hers. Looking around, she saw two dove-like eyes, filled with tears, looking at her gratefully yet pleadingly. The old lady understood this complex look, and her anger subsided. She stopped and kissed Kate's forehead. “I see,” she said. “So, I’ll leave it to you.” When she returned home, she said—“Today I visited a house where I saw something very ordinary and something very extraordinary; I saw a stupid, stubborn woman, and I saw an angel in human form, with a face—if I had it here, I’d pick up my brushes again and try to paint it.”
Little Kate did not belie the good opinion so hastily formed of her. She waited a better opportunity, and told her mother what she had learned from Reicht Heynes, that Margaret had shed her very blood for Gerard in the wood.
Little Kate did not go against the good opinion that was quickly formed about her. She waited for a better moment and told her mother what she had learned from Reicht Heynes, that Margaret had given her very blood for Gerard in the woods.
“See, mother, how she loves him.”
“Look, mom, how much she loves him.”
“Who would not love him?”
"Who wouldn't love him?"
“Oh, mother, think of it! Poor thing.”
“Oh, mom, just think about it! Poor thing.”
“Ay, wench. She has her own trouble, no doubt, as well as we ours. I can't abide the sight of blood, let alone my own.”
“Aye, girl. She has her own problems, just like we have ours. I can't stand the sight of blood, especially my own.”
This was a point gained; but when Kate tried to follow it up she was stopped short.
This was a point scored; but when Kate tried to build on it, she was abruptly halted.
About a month after this a soldier of the Dalgetty tribe, returning from service in Burgundy, brought a letter one evening to the hosier's house. He was away on business; but the rest of the family sat at Supper. The soldier laid the letter on the table by Catherine, and refusing all guerdon for bringing it, went off to Sevenbergen.
About a month later, a soldier from the Dalgetty tribe, returning from his service in Burgundy, delivered a letter one evening to the hosier's house. He was out on business, but the rest of the family was having dinner. The soldier placed the letter on the table next to Catherine and, declining any reward for delivering it, headed off to Sevenbergen.
The letter was unfolded and spread out; and curiously enough, though not one of them could read, they could all tell it was Gerard's handwriting.
The letter was opened and laid out; interestingly, even though none of them could read, they all recognized it was Gerard's handwriting.
“And your father must be away,” cried Catherine. “Are ye not ashamed of yourselves? not one that can read your brother's letter.”
“And your father must be gone,” shouted Catherine. “Aren't you ashamed of yourselves? Not one of you can read your brother's letter.”
But although the words were to them what hieroglyphics are to us, there was something in the letter they could read. There is an art can speak without words; unfettered by the penman's limits, it can steal through the eye into the heart and brain, alike of the learned and unlearned; and it can cross a frontier or a sea, yet lose nothing. It is at the mercy of no translator; for it writes an universal language.
But even though the words were like hieroglyphics to them, there was something in the letter they could understand. There is an art that can communicate without words; free from the limits of the writer, it can move through the eyes into the hearts and minds of both the educated and the uneducated; and it can cross borders or oceans without losing anything. It doesn’t rely on any translator because it speaks a universal language.
When, therefore, they saw this,
When they saw this,
[a picture of two hands clasped together]
[a picture of two hands clasped together]
which Gerard had drawn with his pencil between the two short paragraphs, of which his letter consisted, they read it, and it went straight to their hearts.
which Gerard had sketched with his pencil between the two short paragraphs, of which his letter was made up, they read it, and it touched their hearts.
Gerard was bidding them farewell.
Gerard was saying goodbye.
As they gazed on that simple sketch, in every turn and line of which they recognized his manner, Gerard seemed present, and bidding them farewell.
As they looked at that simple sketch, in every curve and line of which they recognized his style, Gerard felt like he was there, saying goodbye to them.
The women wept over it till they could see it no longer.
The women cried about it until they could no longer see it.
Giles said, “Poor Gerard!” in a lower voice than seemed to belong to him.
Giles said, “Poor Gerard!” in a quieter voice than what you'd expect from him.
Even Cornelis and Sybrandt felt a momentary remorse, and sat silent and gloomy.
Even Cornelis and Sybrandt experienced a brief feeling of guilt, and sat quietly and somber.
But how to get the words read to them. They were loth to show their ignorance and their emotion to a stranger.
But how would they get the words read to them? They were reluctant to reveal their ignorance and their feelings to a stranger.
“The Dame Van Eyck?” said Kate timidly.
“The Lady Van Eyck?” said Kate timidly.
“And so I will, Kate. She has a good heart. She loves Gerard, too. She will be glad to hear of him. I was short with her when she came here; but I will make my submission, and then she will tell me what my poor child says to me.”
“And so I will, Kate. She has a good heart. She loves Gerard, too. She will be glad to hear about him. I was rude to her when she came here, but I will apologize, and then she will tell me what my poor child has to say to me.”
She was soon at Margaret Van Eyck's house. Reicht took her into a room, and said, “Bide a minute; she is at her orisons.”
She was soon at Margaret Van Eyck's house. Reicht took her into a room and said, “Wait a moment; she’s in prayer.”
There was a young woman in the room seated pensively by the stove; but she rose and courteously made way for the visitor.
There was a young woman in the room sitting thoughtfully by the stove; but she got up and politely stepped aside for the visitor.
“Thank you, young lady; the winter nights are cold, and your stove is a treat.” Catherine then, while warming her hands, inspected her companion furtively from head to foot, inclusive. The young person wore an ordinary wimple, but her gown was trimmed with fur, which was, in those days, almost a sign of superior rank or wealth. But what most struck Catherine was the candour and modesty of the face. She felt sure of sympathy from so good a countenance, and began to gossip.
“Thank you, young lady; the winter nights are chilly, and your stove is a delight.” Catherine then, warming her hands, glanced at her companion from head to toe. The young woman wore a simple wimple, but her dress was trimmed with fur, which was almost a sign of higher status or wealth back then. What caught Catherine's attention the most was the honesty and modesty of her face. She felt confident she would find understanding in such a kind expression and started to chat.
“Now, what think you brings me here, young lady? It is a letter! a letter from my poor boy that is far away in some savage part or other. And I take shame to say that none of us can read it. I wonder whether you can read?”
“Now, what do you think brings me here, young lady? It’s a letter! A letter from my poor boy who is far away in some wild place or another. And I’m ashamed to say that none of us can read it. I wonder if you can read?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Can ye, now? It is much to your credit, my dear. I dare say she won't be long; but every minute is an hour to a poor longing mother.”
"Can you, now? That's quite impressive, my dear. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't take long; but every minute feels like an hour to a poor, yearning mother."
“I will read it to you.”
"I'll read it to you."
“Bless you, my dear; bless you!”
“Bless you, my dear; bless you!”
In her unfeigned eagerness she never noticed the suppressed eagerness with which the hand was slowly put out to take the letter. She did not see the tremor with which the fingers closed on it.
In her genuine eagerness, she never noticed the hidden excitement with which the hand slowly reached out to grab the letter. She didn't see the slight shake as the fingers closed around it.
“Come, then, read it to me, prithee. I am wearying for it.”
“Come on, read it to me, please. I’m really eager to hear it.”
“The first words are, 'To my honoured parents.'”
“The first words are, 'To my respected parents.'”
“Ay! and he always did honour us, poor soul.”
“Ay! And he always honored us, poor soul.”
“'God and the saints have you in His holy keeping, and bless you by night and by day. Your one harsh deed is forgotten; your years of love remembered.'”
“God and the saints are looking after you, and may they bless you day and night. Your one mistake is forgotten; your years of kindness are remembered.”
Catherine laid her hand on her bosom, and sank back in her chair with one long sob.
Catherine placed her hand on her chest and leaned back in her chair with a deep sigh.
“Then comes this, madam. It doth speak for itself; 'a long farewell.'”
“Then this comes, ma'am. It speaks for itself; 'a long goodbye.'”
“Ay, go on; bless you, girl you give me sorry comfort. Still 'tis comfort.”
“Ay, go on; bless you, girl, you give me such little comfort. Still, it’s comfort.”
“'To my brothers Cornelis and Sybrandt—Be content; you will see me no more!'”
“'To my brothers Cornelis and Sybrandt—Be at peace; you won't see me again!'”
“What does that mean? Ah!”
"What does that mean? Oh!"
“'To my sister Kate. Little angel of my father's house. Be kind to her—' Ah!”
“'To my sister Kate. Little angel of my dad's house. Be kind to her—' Ah!”
“That is Margaret Brandt, my dear—his sweetheart, poor soul. I've not been kind to her, my dear. Forgive me, Gerard!”
“That’s Margaret Brandt, my dear—his girlfriend, poor thing. I haven't been nice to her, my dear. Forgive me, Gerard!”
“'—for poor Gerard's sake: since grief to her is death to me—Ah!” And nature, resenting the poor girl's struggle for unnatural composure, suddenly gave way, and she sank from her chair and lay insensible, with the letter in her hand and her head on Catherine's knees.
“'—for poor Gerard's sake: since grief to her is death to me—Ah!” And nature, reacting to the poor girl's attempt to keep her composure, suddenly broke down, and she collapsed from her chair and lay unconscious, with the letter in her hand and her head on Catherine's knees.
CHAPTER XLIV
Experienced women are not frightened when a woman faints, or do they hastily attribute it to anything but physical causes, which they have often seen produce it. Catherine bustled about; laid the girl down with her head on the floor quite flat, opened the window, and unloosed her dress as she lay. Not till she had done all this did she step to the door and say, rather loudly:
Experienced women are not scared when a woman faints, nor do they quickly blame it on anything other than physical reasons, which they have often seen cause it. Catherine hurried around, laid the girl down with her head flat on the floor, opened the window, and loosened her dress while she lay there. Only after doing all this did she walk to the door and say, rather loudly:
“Come here, if you please.”
"Come here, please."
Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht came, and found Margaret lying quite flat, and Catherine beating her hands.
Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht arrived and found Margaret lying completely flat, while Catherine was clapping her hands.
“Oh, my poor girl! What have you done to her?”
“Oh, my poor girl! What did you do to her?”
“Me?” said Catherine angrily.
"Me?" Catherine said angrily.
“What has happened, then?”
“What’s happened, then?”
“Nothing, madam; nothing more than is natural in her situation.”
“Nothing, ma'am; nothing more than what’s usual in her situation.”
Margaret Van Eyck coloured with ire.
Margaret Van Eyck turned red with anger.
“You do well to speak so coolly,” said she, “you that are the cause of her situation.”
“You're doing a good job of staying so calm,” she said, “you who are the reason for her situation.”
“That I am not,” said Catherine bluntly; “nor any woman born.”
“That I'm not,” Catherine said straightforwardly; “and neither is any woman born.”
“What! was it not you and your husband that kept them apart? and now he has gone to Italy all alone. Situation indeed! You have broken her heart amongst you.”
“What! Wasn't it you and your husband who kept them apart? And now he’s gone to Italy all alone. What a situation! You’ve both broken her heart.”
“Why, madam? Who is it then? in Heaven's name! To hear you, one would think this was my Gerard's lass. But that can't be. This fur never cost less than five crowns the ell; besides, this young gentlewoman is a wife; or ought to be.”
“Why, ma'am? Who is it then? For Heaven's sake! Listening to you, one would think this was my Gerard's girl. But that can't be. This fur never cost less than five crowns a yard; besides, this young lady is a wife; or at least should be.”
“Of course she ought. And who is the cause she is none? Who came before them at the very altar?”
“Of course she should. And who’s to blame for her not being there? Who stood before them at the very altar?”
“God forgive them, whoever it was,” said Catherine gravely; “me it was not, nor my man.”
“God forgive them, whoever did it,” Catherine said seriously; “it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t my husband.”
“Well,” said the other, a little softened, “now you have seen her, perhaps you will not be quite so bitter against her madam. She is coming to, thank Heaven.”
“Well,” said the other, a bit less harsh, “now that you’ve seen her, maybe you won’t be so angry with her, ma’am. She’s waking up, thank God.”
“Me bitter against her?” said Catherine; “no, that is all over. Poor soul! trouble behind her and trouble afore her; and to think of my setting her, of all living women, to read Gerard's letter to me. Ay, and that was what made her go off, I'll be sworn. She is coming to. What, sweetheart! be not afeard, none are here but friends.”
“Am I bitter against her?” said Catherine; “no, that's all in the past. Poor thing! Trouble behind her and trouble ahead of her; and to think that I made her, of all people, read Gerard's letter to me. Yes, and that's what made her freak out, I swear. She’s coming around. What’s wrong, sweetheart? Don’t be scared, there’s no one here but friends.”
They seated her in an easy chair. As the colour was creeping back to her face and lips. Catherine drew Margaret Van Eyck aside.
They sat her down in a comfy chair. As the color returned to her face and lips, Catherine pulled Margaret Van Eyck aside.
“Is she staying with you, if you please?”
“Is she staying with you, please?”
“No, madam.”
“No, ma'am.”
“I wouldn't let her go back to Sevenbergen to-night, then.”
“I won't let her go back to Sevenbergen tonight, then.”
“That is as she pleases. She still refuses to bide the night.”
“That’s up to her. She still refuses to stay the night.”
“Ay, but you are older than she is; you can make her. There, she is beginning to notice.”
“Ay, but you’re older than she is; you can make her. Look, she’s starting to notice.”
Catherine then put her mouth to Margaret Van Eyck's ear for half a moment; it did not seem time enough to whisper a word, far less a sentence. But on some topics females can flash communication to female like lightning, or thought itself.
Catherine then leaned in and briefly whispered into Margaret Van Eyck's ear; it didn’t feel like enough time to say even a word, let alone a full sentence. But when it comes to certain subjects, women can communicate with each other instantly, almost like a flash of lightning or pure thought.
The old lady started, and whispered back—
The old lady jumped and whispered back—
“It's false! it is a calumny! it is monstrous! look at her face. It is blasphemy to accuse such a face.”
“It's not true! It's a lie! It's outrageous! Look at her face. It's an insult to accuse someone with such a face.”
“Tut! tut! tut!” said the other; “you might as well say this is not my hand. I ought to know; and I tell ye it is so.”
“Tut! tut! tut!” said the other; “you might as well say this isn’t my hand. I should know; and I’m telling you it is.”
Then, much to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she went up to the girl, and taking her round the neck, kissed her warmly.
Then, to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she walked up to the girl and, wrapping her arms around her neck, kissed her warmly.
“I suffered for Gerard, and you shed your blood for him I do hear; his own words show me that I have been to blame, the very words you have read to me. Ay, Gerard, my child, I have held aloof from her; but I'll make it up to her once I begin. You are my daughter from this hour.”
“I suffered for Gerard, and I hear you bled for him too; his own words make it clear that I’ve been at fault, the same words you’ve read to me. Yes, Gerard, my child, I kept my distance from her; but I’ll make it right once I start. You are my daughter from this moment on.”
Another warm embrace sealed this hasty compact, and the woman of impulse was gone.
Another warm hug finalized this quick agreement, and the impulsive woman was gone.
Margaret lay back in her chair, and a feeble smile stole over her face. Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter; but the next moment she saw her old friend looking at her with a vexed air.
Margaret leaned back in her chair, and a faint smile crossed her face. Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter; but the next moment, she noticed her old friend looking at her with a frustrated expression.
“I wonder you let that woman kiss you.”
“I’m surprised you let that woman kiss you.”
“His mother!” murmured Margaret, half reproachfully.
"His mom!" murmured Margaret, half-scolding.
“Mother, or no mother, you would not let her touch you if you knew what she whispered in my ear about you.”
“Mom or not, you wouldn’t let her touch you if you knew what she whispered to me about you.”
“About me?” said Margaret faintly.
“About me?” Margaret asked softly.
“Ay, about you, whom she never saw till to-night.” The old lady was proceeding, with some hesitation and choice of language, to make Margaret share her indignation, when an unlooked-for interruption closed her lips.
“Ay, about you, who she never saw until tonight.” The old lady was starting, with some hesitation and careful choice of words, to get Margaret to share her anger, when an unexpected interruption made her stop talking.
The young woman slid from her chair to her knees, and began to pray piteously to her for pardon. From the words and the manner of her penitence a bystander would have gathered she had inflicted some cruel wrong, some intolerable insult, upon her venerable friend.
The young woman slid from her chair to her knees and started to pray desperately for forgiveness. From her words and how she was expressing her remorse, anyone watching would have thought she had committed some terrible wrong or an unbearable insult to her respected friend.
CHAPTER XLV
The little party at the hosier's house sat at table discussing the recent event, when their mother returned, and casting a piercing glance all round the little circle, laid the letter flat on the table. She repeated every word of it by memory, following the lines with her finger, to cheat herself and bearers into the notion that she could read the words, or nearly. Then, suddenly lifting her head, she cast another keen look on Cornelis and Sybrandt: their eyes fell.
The small gathering at the hosier's house was sitting at the table discussing the recent event when their mother came back. She scanned the room with a sharp look, then placed the letter flat on the table. She recited every word from memory, following the lines with her finger to convince herself and the others that she could read the words, or almost. Then, suddenly lifting her head, she shot another piercing glance at Cornelis and Sybrandt, causing them to look away.
On this the storm that had long been brewing burst on their heads.
On this, the storm that had been building for a long time finally hit them hard.
Catherine seemed to swell like an angry hen ruffling her feathers, and out of her mouth came a Rhone and Saone of wisdom and twaddle, of great and mean invective, such as no male that ever was born could utter in one current; and not many women.
Catherine looked like an angry hen fluffing up her feathers, and from her mouth flowed a mix of wise insights and nonsense, filled with both powerful and petty insults, something no man ever born could express in one breath; nor could many women.
The following is a fair though a small sample of her words: only they were uttered all in one breath.
The following is a fair, though small, sample of her words: they were all spoken in one breath.
“I have long had my doubts that you blew the flame betwixt Gerard and your father, and set that old rogue, Ghysbrecht, on. And now, here are Gerard's own written words to prove it. You have driven your own flesh and blood into a far land, and robbed the mother that bore you of her darling, the pride of her eye, the joy of her heart. But you are all of a piece from end to end. When you were all boys together, my others were a comfort; but you were a curse: mischievous and sly; and took a woman half a day to keep your clothes whole: for why? work wears cloth, but play cuts it. With the beard comes prudence; but none came to you: still the last to go to bed, and the last to leave it; and why? because honesty goes to bed early, and industry rises betimes; where there are two lie-a-beds in a house there are a pair of ne'er-do-weels. Often I've sat and looked at your ways, and wondered where ye came from: ye don't take after your father, and ye are no more like me than a wasp is to an ant; sure ye were changed in the cradle, or the cuckoo dropped ye on my floor: for ye have not our hands, nor our hearts: of all my blood, none but you ever jeered them that God afflicted; but often when my back was turned I've heard you mock at Giles, because he is not as big as some; and at my lily Kate, because she is not so strong as a Flanders mare. After that rob a church an you will! for you can be no worse in His eyes that made both Kate and Giles, and in mine that suffered for them, poor darlings, as I did for you, you paltry, unfeeling, treasonable curs! No, I will not hush, my daughter, they have filled the cup too full. It takes a deal to turn a mother's heart against the sons she has nursed upon her knees; and many is the time I have winked and wouldn't see too much, and bitten my tongue, lest their father should know them as I do; he would have put them to the door that moment. But now they have filled the cup too full. And where got ye all this money? For this last month you have been rolling in it. You never wrought for it. I wish I may never hear from other mouths how ye got it. It is since that night you were out so late, and your head came back so swelled, Cornelis. Sloth and greed are ill-mated, my masters. Lovers of money must sweat or steal. Well, if you robbed any poor soul of it, it was some woman, I'll go bail; for a man would drive you with his naked hand. No matter, it is good for one thing. It has shown me how you will guide our gear if ever it comes to be yourn. I have watched you, my lads, this while. You have spent a groat to-day between you. And I spend scarce a groat a week, and keep you all, good and bad. No I give up waiting for the shoes that will maybe walk behind your coffin; for this shop and this house shall never be yourn. Gerard is our heir; poor Gerard, whom you have banished and done your best to kill; after that never call me mother again! But you have made him tenfold dearer to me. My poor lost boy! I shall soon see him again shall hold him in my arms, and set him on my knees. Ay, you may stare! You are too crafty, and yet not crafty enow. You cut the stalk away; but you left the seed—the seed that shall outgrow you, and outlive you. Margaret Brandt is quick, and it is Gerard's, and what is Gerard's is mine; and I have prayed the saints it may be a boy; and it will—it must. Kate, when I found it was so, my bowels yearned over her child unborn as if it had been my own. He is our heir. He will outlive us. You will not; for a bad heart in a carcass is like the worm in the nut, soon brings the body to dust. So, Kate, take down Gerard's bib and tucker that are in the drawer you wot of, and one of these days we will carry them to Sevenbergen. We will borrow Peter Buyskens' cart, and go comfort Gerard's wife under her burden. She is his wife. Who is Ghysbrecht Van Swieten? Can he come between a couple and the altar, and sunder those that God and the priest make one? She is my daughter, and I am as proud of her as I am of you, Kate, almost; and as for you, keep out of my way awhile, for you are like the black dog in my eyes.”
“I’ve always had my doubts that you stirred up trouble between Gerard and your father, and set that old rogue, Ghysbrecht, against him. And now, here's Gerard's own words to prove it. You've driven your own family into distant lands, taking away the mother who gave you life from her darling, the pride of her eye, the joy of her heart. But you’re all the same, from start to finish. When you were all boys together, my other children were a comfort; but you were a burden: mischievous and devious; it took a woman half a day just to keep your clothes intact. Why? Because work wears out fabric, but play destroys it. With age comes wisdom; but none came your way: still the last to go to bed, and the last to get up; and why? Because honesty goes to bed early, and hard work rises early; when there are two lazybones in a house, there’s a pair of good-for-nothings. I’ve often watched your ways and wondered where you came from: you don’t resemble your father, and you are no more like me than a wasp is like an ant; surely you were switched at birth, or a cuckoo left you on my doorstep: you don’t have our hands or our hearts: of all my blood, you're the only one who ever mocked those whom God afflicted; but often, when my back was turned, I’ve heard you tease Giles because he isn’t as big as others, and my sweet Kate, because she isn’t as strong as a Flanders mare. After that, you might as well rob a church! For you can’t be any worse in His eyes, who made both Kate and Giles, and in mine, who suffered for them, poor darlings, like I did for you, you worthless, unfeeling, treasonous curs! No, I won’t be silent, my daughter, they’ve filled the cup too full. It takes a lot to turn a mother’s heart against the sons she raised on her knees; many times I’ve turned a blind eye and bit my tongue, so their father wouldn’t see them as I do; he would have thrown them out immediately. But now they’ve gone too far. And where did you get all this money? For this past month, you’ve been rolling in it. You never worked for it. I hope I never hear from anyone how you got it. It’s since that night you were out so late and came back with such a swollen head, Cornelis. Laziness and greed don’t go well together, my friends. Those who love money must either work hard or steal. Well, if you robbed someone of it, it was probably some woman, I’ll bet; because no man would put up with you. No matter, it’s good for one thing. It has shown me how you would manage our property if it ever becomes yours. I've been watching you, boys, for a while now. You’ve spent a penny today between you. And I spend barely a penny a week while taking care of all of you, good and bad. No, I’m done waiting for the shoes that may someday follow behind your coffin; this shop and this house will never be yours. Gerard is our heir; poor Gerard, whom you've exiled and done your best to destroy; after that, never call me mother again! But you’ve made him ten times more precious to me. My poor lost boy! I’ll soon see him again, hold him in my arms, and set him on my knees. Yes, you may stare! You are too clever, yet not clever enough. You cut off the branch; but you left the seed—the seed that will outgrow and outlive you. Margaret Brandt is pregnant, and it’s Gerard's, and what is Gerard's is mine; and I’ve prayed to the saints that it may be a boy; and it will—it must. Kate, when I found out it was true, my heart ached for her unborn child as if it were my own. He is our heir. He will outlive us. You will not; for a bad heart in a body is like a worm in a nut, soon bringing the body to dust. So, Kate, take down Gerard's little clothes that are in that drawer you know about, and one of these days we’ll take them to Sevenbergen. We’ll borrow Peter Buyskens' cart and go comfort Gerard's wife with her burden. She is his wife. Who is Ghysbrecht Van Swieten? Can he come between a couple and the altar, and separate those whom God and the priest have joined? She is my daughter, and I’m as proud of her as I am of you, Kate, almost; and as for you, stay out of my way for a while, because you look like a black dog to me.”
Cornelis and Sybrandt took the hint and slunk out, aching with remorse, and impenitence, and hate. They avoided her eye as much as ever they could; and for many days she never spoke a word, good, bad, or indifferent, to either of them. Liberaverat animum suum.
Cornelis and Sybrandt got the message and quietly left, filled with regret, stubbornness, and resentment. They avoided making eye contact with her as much as possible; for many days, she didn’t say a word, whether good, bad, or indifferent, to either of them. Liberaverat animum suum.
CHAPTER XLVI
Catherine was a good housewife who seldom left home for a day, and then one thing or another always went amiss. She was keenly conscious of this, and watching for a slack tide in things domestic, put off her visit to Sevenbergen from day to day, and one afternoon that it really could have been managed, Peter Buyskens' mule was out of the way.
Catherine was a good housewife who rarely left home for a whole day, and whenever she did, something always went wrong. She was very aware of this, and while waiting for a calm moment in her household duties, she kept postponing her visit to Sevenbergen. One afternoon when she actually could have gone, Peter Buyskens' mule was out of the way.
At last, one day Eli asked her before all the family, whether it was true she had thought of visiting Margaret Brandt.
At last, one day Eli asked her in front of the whole family if it was true that she had considered visiting Margaret Brandt.
“Ay, my man.”
"Hey, my dude."
“Then I do forbid you.”
“Then I forbid you.”
“Oh, do you?”
"Oh, really?"
“I do.”
"I do."
“Then there is no more to be said, I suppose,” said she, colouring.
“Then there's nothing more to say, I guess,” she said, blushing.
“Not a word,” replied Eli sternly.
“Not a word,” Eli replied sharply.
When she was alone with her daughter she was very severe, not upon Eli, but upon herself.
When she was alone with her daughter, she was really hard on herself, not on Eli.
“Behoved me rather go thither like a cat at a robin. But this was me all over. I am like a silly hen that can lay no egg without cackling, and convening all the house to rob her on't. Next time you and I are after aught the least amiss, let's do't in Heaven's name then and there, and not take time to think about it, far less talk; so then, if they take us to task we can say, alack we knew nought; we thought no ill; now, who'd ever? and so forth. For two pins I'd go thither in all their teeth.”
"I really should just go there like a cat after a bird. But that’s just me. I’m like a foolish hen that can’t lay an egg without cackling and calling everyone to come and take it. Next time you and I are up to something even slightly questionable, let’s just do it right then and there without overthinking it or talking about it. That way, if we get caught, we can say we had no idea; we meant no harm; who would ever think that? For just a bit of encouragement, I’d go there in defiance of them all."
Defiance so wild and picturesque staggered Kate. “Nay, mother, with patience father will come round.”
Defiance so wild and striking shocked Kate. “No, mom, with patience dad will come around.”
“And so will Michaelmas; but when? and I was so bent on you seeing the girl. Then we could have put our heads together about her. Say what they will, there is no judging body or beast but by the eye. And were I to have fifty more sons I'd ne'er thwart one of them's fancy, till such time as I had clapped my eyes upon her and seen Quicksands; say you, I should have thought of that before condemning Gerard his fancy; but there, life is a school, and the lesson ne'er done; we put down one fault and take up t'other, and so go blundering here, and blundering there, till we blunder into our graves, and there's an end of us.”
“And so will Michaelmas; but when? I was really looking forward to you meeting the girl. Then we could have figured things out together about her. No matter what anyone says, you can’t judge anyone or anything just by words; it’s all about what you see. Even if I had fifty more sons, I wouldn’t stand in the way of any of their choices until I had seen her for myself and checked out Quicksands. I should have thought of that before judging Gerard's preference; but that’s life for you, it’s a never-ending school where the lesson is never complete. We deal with one mistake and pick up another, stumbling along here and there until we stumble into our graves, and that’s the end of it.”
“Mother,” said Kate timidly.
“Mom,” said Kate timidly.
“Well, what is a-coming now? no good news though, by the look of you. What on earth can make the poor wretch so scared?”
“Well, what’s coming now? No good news, by the looks of you. What on earth could make the poor wretch so scared?”
“An avowal she hath to make,” faltered Kate faintly.
“She's got something to confess,” Kate said weakly.
“Now, there is a noble word for ye,” said Catherine proudly. “Our Gerard taught thee that, I'll go bail. Come then, out with thy vowel.”
“Now, there’s a noble word for you,” said Catherine proudly. “Our Gerard taught you that, I’ll bet. Come on then, share your vowel.”
“Well then, sooth to say, I have seen her.”
“Well then, to be honest, I have seen her.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And spoken with her to boot.”
“And talked to her too.”
“And never told me? After this marvels are dirt.”
“And you never told me? After this, wonders are worthless.”
“Mother, you were so hot against her. I waited till I could tell you without angering you worse.”
“Mom, you were so intense with her. I waited until I could bring it up without making you more upset.”
“Ay,” said Catherine, half sadly, half bitterly, “like mother, like daughter; cowardice it is our bane. The others I whiles buffet, or how would the house fare? but did you, Kate, ever have harsh word or look from your poor mother, that you—Nay, I will not have ye cry, girl; ten to one ye had your reason; so rise up, brave heart, and tell me all, better late than ne'er; and first and foremost when ever, and how ever, wend you to Sevenbergen wi' your poor crutches, and I not know?”
“Yeah,” Catherine said, half sadly, half bitterly, “like mother, like daughter; cowardice is our curse. The others I sometimes confront, or how would the house manage? But did you, Kate, ever get a harsh word or look from your poor mother that you—No, I won’t let you cry, girl; chances are you had your reasons; so get up, brave heart, and tell me everything, better late than never; and first and foremost, when and how did you go to Sevenbergen with your poor crutches without me knowing?”
“I never was there in my life; and, mammy dear, to say that I ne'er wished to see her that I will not, but I ne'er went nor sought to see her.”
“I was never there in my life; and, dear mom, to say that I never wanted to see her, I won’t say, but I never went or tried to see her.”
“There now,” said Catherine disputatively, “said I not 'twas all unlike my girl to seek her unbeknown to me? Come now, for I'm all agog.
“There now,” Catherine said, a bit challengingly, “didn’t I say it wasn’t like my girl to look for her without me knowing? Come on, I’m really excited.”
“Then thus 'twas. It came to my ears, no matter how, and prithee, good mother, on my knees ne'er ask me how, that Gerard was a prisoner in the Stadthouse tower.”
“Then it was like this. I heard it somehow, and please, good mother, don’t ever ask me how, that Gerard was a prisoner in the Stadthouse tower.”
“Ah”
“Wow”
“By father's behest as 'twas pretended.”
“By my father's request, as it was claimed.”
Catherine uttered a sigh that was almost a moan. “Blacker than I thought,” she muttered faintly.
Catherine let out a sigh that was nearly a moan. “Darker than I expected,” she whispered faintly.
“Giles and I went out at night to bid him be of good cheer. And there at the tower foot was a brave lass, quite strange to me I vow, on the same errand.”
“Giles and I went out at night to encourage him. And there at the base of the tower was a brave girl, completely unfamiliar to me, on the same mission.”
“Lookee there now, Kate.”
“Look over there, Kate.”
“At first we did properly frighten one another, through the place his bad name, and our poor heads being so full o' divels, and we whitened a bit in moonshine. But next moment, quo' I, 'You are Margaret.' 'And you are Kate,' quo' she. Think on't!”
“At first, we really scared each other, with his bad reputation and our minds full of craziness, and we turned a bit pale in the moonlight. But the next moment, I said, 'You are Margaret.' 'And you are Kate,' she replied. Think about it!”
“Did one ever? 'Twas Gerard! He will have been talking backards and forrards of thee to her, and her to thee.”
“Did anyone ever? It was Gerard! He must have been going back and forth about you to her, and her to you.”
In return for this, Kate bestowed on Catherine one of the prettiest presents in nature—the composite kiss, i.e., she imprinted on her cheek a single kiss, which said—
In return for this, Kate gave Catherine one of the prettiest gifts in nature—the composite kiss, meaning she pressed a single kiss on her cheek, which expressed—
1. Quite correct.
2. Good, clever mother, for guessing so right and quick.
3. How sweet for us twain to be' of one mind again after
never having been otherwise.
4. Etc.
1. Absolutely right.
2. Smart, clever mom, for figuring that out so quickly.
3. How nice for us to be on the same page again after never being that way before.
4. Etc. “Now then, speak thy mind, child, Gerard is not here. Alas, what am I saying? would to Heaven he were.”
“Now then, speak your mind, kid, Gerard isn't here. Oh, what am I saying? I wish he were.”
“Well then, mother, she is comely, and wrongs her picture but little.”
“Well then, Mom, she’s attractive and doesn't do her looks much injustice.”
“Eh, dear; hark to young folk! I am for good acts, not good looks. Loves she my boy as he did ought to be loved?”
“Hey, dear; listen to the young people! I believe in good actions, not good looks. Does she love my son like he deserves to be loved?”
“Sevenbergen is farther from the Stadthouse than we are,” said Kate thoughtfully; “yet she was there afore me.”
“Sevenbergen is farther from the Stadthouse than we are,” Kate said thoughtfully; “yet she got there before me.”
Catherine nodded intelligence.
Catherine nodded wisely.
“Nay, more, she had got him out ere I came. Ay, down from the captive's tower.”
“Nay, more, she had gotten him out before I arrived. Yep, down from the captive's tower.”
Catherine shook her head incredulously. “The highest tower for miles! It is not feasible.”
Catherine shook her head in disbelief. “The tallest tower for miles! That’s not practical.”
“'Tis sooth though. She and an old man she brought found means and wit to send him up a rope. There 'twas dangling from his prison, and our Giles went up it. When first I saw it hang, I said, 'This is glamour.' But when the frank lass's arms came round me, and her bosom' did beat on mine, and her cheeks wet, then said I, ''Tis not glamour: 'tis love.' For she is not like me, but lusty and able; and, dear heart, even I, poor frail creature, do feel sometimes as I could move the world for them I love: I love you, mother. And she loves Gerard.”
"That's true, though. She and an old man she brought figured out a way to send him up a rope. There it was, hanging from his prison, and our Giles climbed it. When I first saw it dangling, I thought, 'This is magic.' But when the honest girl's arms wrapped around me, her body pressed against mine, and her cheeks were wet, I realized, 'This isn't magic: it's love.' Because she's not like me; she's strong and capable. And, dear heart, even I, a poor fragile creature, sometimes feel like I could move mountains for the ones I love: I love you, Mom. And she loves Gerard."
“God bless her for't! God bless her!”
“God bless her for it! God bless her!”
“But
“But"
“But what, lamb?”
“But what is it, lamb?”
“Her love, is it for very certain honest? 'Tis most strange; but that very thing, which hath warmed your heart, hath somewhat cooled mine towards her; poor soul. She is no wife, you know, mother, when all is done.”
“Is her love really honest? It’s so strange; but the very thing that has warmed your heart has somewhat cooled mine towards her; poor thing. She is not a wife, you know, Mother, after all.”
“Humph! They have stood at the altar together.”
“Humph! They've stood at the altar together.”
“Ay, but they went as they came, maid and bachelor.”
“Ay, but they left just like they arrived, a maid and a bachelor.”
“The parson, saith he so?”
"The pastor, he says?"
“Nay, for that I know not.”
“Nah, because I don’t know that.”
“Then I'll take no man's word but his in such a tangled skein.” After some reflection she added, “Natheless art right, girl; I'll to Sevenbergen alone. A wife I am but not a slave. We are all in the dark here. And she holds the clue. I must question her, and no one by; least of all you. I'll not take any lily to a house Wi' a spot, no, not to a palace o' gold and silver.”
“Then I won't take anyone's word except his in such a complicated mess.” After some thought, she added, “But you’re right, girl; I’ll go to Sevenbergen alone. I’m a wife but not a slave. We’re all in the dark here. And she has the answer. I need to question her, and no one else; least of all you. I won’t take any pure flower to a house with a stain, no, not even to a palace of gold and silver.”
The more Catherine pondered this conversation, the more she felt drawn towards Margaret, and moreover “she was all agog” with curiosity, a potent passion with us all, and nearly omnipotent with those who like Catherine, do not slake it with reading. At last, one fine day, after dinner, she whispered to Kate, “Keep the house from going to pieces, an ye can;” and donned her best kirtle and hood, and her scarlet clocked hose and her new shoes, and trudged briskly off to Sevenbergen, troubling no man's mule.
The more Catherine thought about this conversation, the more she felt drawn to Margaret, and on top of that, “she was all excited” with curiosity, a strong passion we all share, and nearly overwhelming for those like Catherine, who don’t satisfy it with reading. Finally, one beautiful day, after dinner, she whispered to Kate, “Try to keep the house from falling apart, if you can;” and she put on her best dress and hood, her red clocked stockings, and her new shoes, and set off cheerfully to Sevenbergen, bothering no one’s mule.
When she got there she inquired where Margaret Brandt lived. The first person she asked shook his head, and said—“The name is strange to me.” She went a little farther and asked a girl of about fifteen who was standing at a door. “Father,” said the girl, speaking into the house, “here is another after that magician's daughter.” The man came out and told Catherine Peter Brandt's cottage was just outside the town on the east side. “You may see the chimney hence;” and he pointed it out to her. “But you will not find them there, neither father nor daughter; they have left the town this week, bless you.”
When she arrived, she asked where Margaret Brandt lived. The first person she approached shook his head and said, “I’m not familiar with that name.” She went a little further and asked a girl around fifteen who was standing by a door. “Dad,” the girl called into the house, “here’s another person looking for that magician's daughter.” The man came out and told Catherine that Peter Brandt's cottage was just outside of town on the east side. “You can see the chimney from here,” he said, pointing it out to her. “But you won’t find them there, neither the father nor the daughter; they left town this week, I assure you.”
“Say not so, good man, and me walken all the way from Tergou.”
“Don't say that, good man, and make me walk all the way from Tergou.”
“From Tergou? then you must ha' met the soldier.”
“From Tergou? Then you must have met the soldier.”
“What soldier? ay, I did meet a soldier.”
“What soldier? Yeah, I did meet a soldier.”
“Well, then, yon soldier was here seeking that self-same Margaret.”
“Well, then, that soldier was here looking for the same Margaret.”
“Ay, and warn't a mad with us because she was gone?” put in the girl. “His long beard and her cheek are no strangers, I warrant.”
“Ay, and wasn’t she angry with us because she left?” added the girl. “I bet his long beard and her cheek are familiar with each other.”
“Say no more than ye know,” said Catherine sharply. “You are young to take to slandering your elders. Stay! tell we more about this soldier, good man.
“Say no more than you know,” Catherine said sharply. “You're too young to be slandering your elders. Wait! Tell us more about this soldier, good man.
“Nay, I know no more than that he came hither seeking Margaret Brandt, and I told him she and her father had made a moonlight flit on't this day sennight, and that some thought the devil had flown away with them, being magicians. 'And,' says he, 'the devil fly away with thee for thy ill news;' that was my thanks. 'But I doubt 'tis a lie,' said he. 'An you think so,' said I, 'go and see.' 'I will,' said he, and burst out wi' a hantle o' gibberish: my wife thinks 'twas curses; and hied him to the cottage. Presently back a comes, and sings t'other tune. 'You were right and I was wrong,' says he, and shoves a silver coin in my hand. Show it the wife, some of ye; then she'll believe me; I have been called a liar once to-day.”
“Nah, I don’t know anything more than he came here looking for Margaret Brandt, and I told him she and her dad slipped away under the moonlight a week ago today, and that some people thought the devil had taken them because they were magicians. ‘And,’ he says, ‘the devil take you for your bad news;’ that was my thanks. ‘But I doubt it’s a lie,’ he said. ‘If you think so,’ I replied, ‘go see for yourself.’ ‘I will,’ he said, and burst out with a bunch of nonsense: my wife thinks it was curses; and he rushed off to the cottage. Soon enough, he came back and sang a different tune. ‘You were right and I was wrong,’ he says, and puts a silver coin in my hand. Show it to the wife, someone; then she’ll believe me; I’ve been called a liar once today.”
“It needs not,” said Catherine, inspecting the coin all the same.
“It doesn’t have to,” said Catherine, inspecting the coin anyway.
“And he seemed quiet and sad like, didn't he now, wench?”
“And he seemed quiet and sad, didn’t he, girl?”
“That a did,” said the young woman warmly; “and, dame, he was just as pretty a man as ever I clapped eyes on. Cheeks like a rose, and shining beard, and eyes in his head like sloes.”
“That he did,” said the young woman warmly; “and, ma’am, he was just as good-looking a man as I’ve ever seen. Cheeks like a rose, a shiny beard, and eyes like blackthorn berries.”
“I saw he was well bearded,” said Catherine; “but, for the rest, at my age I scan them not as when I was young and foolish. But he seemed right civil: doffed his bonnet to me as I had been a queen, and I did drop him my best reverence, for manners beget manners. But little I wist he had been her light o' love, and most likely the—Who bakes for this town?”
“I saw he had a good beard,” said Catherine; “but at my age, I’m not as quick to judge them like I was when I was young and naive. He seemed quite polite: he took off his hat to me as if I were a queen, and I showed him my utmost respect, because good manners create good manners. But little did I know he had been her great love, and most likely the—Who bakes for this town?”
The man, not being acquainted with her, opened his eyes at this transition, swift and smooth.
The man, unfamiliar with her, widened his eyes at this sudden and seamless change.
“Well, dame, there be two; John Bush and Eric Donaldson, they both bide in this street.”
“Well, lady, there are two: John Bush and Eric Donaldson; they both live on this street.”
“Then, God be with you, good people,” said she, and proceeded; but her sprightly foot came flat on the ground now, and no longer struck it with little jerks and cocking heel. She asked the bakers whether Peter Brandt had gone away in their debt. Bush said they were not customers. Donaldson said, “Not a stiver: his daughter had come round and paid him the very night they went. Didn't believe they owed a copper in the town.” So Catherine got all the information of that kind she wanted with very little trouble.
“Then, goodbye, good people,” she said, and moved on; but her lively step was now flat on the ground, no longer bouncing with little kicks and a raised heel. She asked the bakers if Peter Brandt had left town in debt. Bush said they weren't his customers. Donaldson said, “Not a penny: his daughter came by and paid him the very night they left. Didn’t think they owed anything in town.” So Catherine got all the information she needed without much trouble.
“Can you tell me what sort this Margaret was?” said she, as she turned to go.
“Can you tell me what kind of person this Margaret was?” she asked as she turned to leave.
“Well, somewhat too reserved for my taste. I like a chatty customer—when I'm not too busy. But she bore a high character for being a good daughter.”
“Well, a bit too reserved for my liking. I prefer a talkative customer—when I'm not too busy. But she had a good reputation for being a great daughter.”
“'Tis no small praise. A well-looking lass, I am told?”
"That's no small compliment. I've heard she's a pretty girl?"
“Why, whence come you, wyfe?”
"Where do you come from, wife?"
“From Tergou.”
"From Tergou."
“Oh, ay. Well you shall judge: the lads clept her 'the beauty of Sevenbergen;' the lasses did scout it merrily, and terribly pulled her to pieces, and found so many faults no two could agree where the fault lay.”
“Oh, sure. Well, you can decide for yourself: the guys called her 'the beauty of Sevenbergen;' the girls teased her playfully, picked her apart, and found so many flaws that no two of them could agree on what the problem was.”
“That is enough,” said Catherine. “I see, the bakers are no fools in Sevenbergen, and the young women no shallower than in other burghs.”
“That’s enough,” Catherine said. “I see, the bakers are no fools in Sevenbergen, and the young women are no shallower than in other towns.”
She bought a manchet of bread, partly out of sympathy and justice (she kept a shop), partly to show her household how much better bread she gave them daily; and returned to Tergou dejected.
She bought a loaf of bread, partly out of sympathy and fairness (she owned a shop), partly to show her family how much better bread she provided for them every day; and returned to Tergou feeling down.
Kate met her outside the town with beaming eyes.
Kate met her outside the town with bright, shining eyes.
“Well, Kate, lass, it is a happy thing I went; I am heartbroken. Gerard has been sore abused. The child is none of ourn, nor the mother from this hour.”
“Well, Kate, girl, I’m glad I went; I’m heartbroken. Gerard has been really mistreated. The child isn’t ours, nor is the mother from this moment on.”
“Alas, mother, I fathom not your meaning.”
“Unfortunately, mom, I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Ask me no more, girl, but never mention her name to me again. That is all.”
“Don’t ask me anymore, girl, and never bring up her name to me again. That’s all.”
Kate acquiesced with a humble sigh, and they went home together.
Kate sighed and agreed, and they went home together.
They found a soldier seated tranquilly by their fire. The moment they entered the door he rose, and saluted them civilly. They stood and looked at him; Kate with some little surprise, but Catherine with a great deal, and with rising indignation.
They found a soldier calmly sitting by their fire. As soon as they walked through the door, he stood up and greeted them politely. They stood there looking at him; Kate felt a bit surprised, while Catherine was much more surprised and filled with growing anger.
“What makes you here?” was Catherine's greeting.
“What brings you here?” was Catherine's greeting.
“I came to seek after Margaret.”
“I came to look for Margaret.”
“Well, we know no such person.”
“Well, we don’t know anyone like that.”
“Say not so, dame; sure you know her by name, Margaret Brandt.”
“Don’t say that, ma’am; you surely know her by name, Margaret Brandt.”
“We have heard of her for that matter—to our cost.”
“We’ve heard about her, and it’s been a costly lesson.”
“Comes, dame, prithee tell me at least where she bides.”
“Come on, lady, please tell me at least where she stays.”
“I know not where she bides, and care not.”
“I don’t know where she is, and I don’t care.”
Denys felt sure this was a deliberate untruth. He bit his lip. “Well, I looked to find myself in an enemy's country at this Tergou; but maybe if ye knew all ye would not be so dour.”
Denys was sure this was a deliberate lie. He bit his lip. “Well, I thought I would find myself in enemy territory here at Tergou; but maybe if you knew everything, you wouldn’t be so grim.”
“I do know all,” replied Catherine bitterly. “This morn I knew nought.” Then suddenly setting her arms akimbo she told him with a raised voice and flashing eyes she wondered at his cheek sitting down by that hearth of all hearths in the world.
“I know everything,” Catherine replied bitterly. “This morning, I knew nothing.” Then, suddenly placing her hands on her hips, she exclaimed with a raised voice and fierce eyes that she was amazed at his audacity for sitting down by that hearth of all hearths in the world.
“May Satan fly away with your hearth to the lake of fire and brimstone,” shouted Denys, who could speak Flemish fluently. “Your own servant bade me sit there till you came, else I had ne'er troubled your hearth. My malison on it, and on the churlish roof-tree that greets an unoffending stranger this way,” and he strode scowling to the door.
“May the devil take your home to the lake of fire and brimstone,” shouted Denys, who spoke Flemish fluently. “Your own servant told me to wait there until you arrived, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you. Curse it, and curse the rude roof that welcomes an innocent stranger like this,” and he stormed towards the door.
“Oh! oh!” ejaculated Catherine, frightened, and also a little conscience-stricken; and the virago sat suddenly down and burst into tears. Her daughter followed suit quietly, but without loss of time.
“Oh! oh!” Catherine exclaimed, scared and a bit guilty; then the fierce woman suddenly sat down and broke into tears. Her daughter quietly followed her lead, but without wasting any time.
A shrewd writer, now unhappily lost to us, has somewhere the following dialogue:
A clever writer, who we sadly no longer have with us, wrote this dialogue somewhere:
She. “I feel all a woman's weakness.”
She. “I feel all the weaknesses of a woman.”
He. “Then you are invincible.”
He. “Then you’re unstoppable.”
Denys, by anticipation, confirmed that valuable statement; he stood at the door looking ruefully at the havoc his thunderbolt of eloquence had made.
Denys, anticipating the outcome, confirmed that important statement; he stood at the door, looking regretfully at the chaos his powerful speech had caused.
“Nay, wife,” said he, “weep not neither for a soldier's hasty word. I mean not all I said. Why, your house is your own, and what right in it have I? There now, I'll go.”
“Don't cry, wife,” he said, “over a soldier's harsh words. I didn't mean everything I said. Your house is yours, and what right do I have in it? Alright then, I’ll leave.”
“What is to do?” said a grave manly voice.
“What should we do?” said a serious, masculine voice.
It was Eli; he had come in from the shop.
It was Eli; he had just come in from the store.
“Here is a ruffian been a-scolding of your women folk and making them cry,” explained Denys.
“Here’s a troublemaker who’s been yelling at your women and making them cry,” Denys explained.
“Little Kate, what is't? for ruffians do not use to call themselves ruffians,” said Eli the sensible.
“Little Kate, what’s going on? Because ruffians don’t usually refer to themselves as ruffians,” said Eli the sensible.
Ere she could explain, “Hold your tongue, girl,” said Catherine; “Muriel bade him sat down, and I knew not that, and wyted on him; and he was going and leaving his malison on us, root and branch. I was never so becursed in all my days, oh! oh! oh!”
Ere she could explain, “Hold your tongue, girl,” said Catherine; “Muriel told him to sit down, and I didn’t know that, and waited on him; and he was going on, cursing us, root and branch. I was never so cursed in all my life, oh! oh! oh!”
“You were both somewhat to blame; both you and he,” said Eli calmly. “However, what the servant says the master should still stand to. We keep not open house, but yet we are not poor enough to grudge a seat at our hearth in a cold day to a wayfarer with an honest face, and, as I think, a wounded man. So, end all malice, and sit ye down!”
“You're both a bit at fault; both you and him,” Eli said calmly. “However, a servant's word should still be respected by the master. We don’t keep an open house, but we’re not so poor that we can’t offer a seat by our fire on a cold day to a traveler with an honest face, and, I believe, a wounded man. So, let's put aside all resentment and take a seat!”
“Wounded?” cried mother and daughter in a breath.
“Wounded?” exclaimed mother and daughter in unison.
“Think you a soldier slings his arm for sport?”
"Do you think a soldier swings his arm just for fun?"
“Nay, 'tis but an arrow,” said Denys cheerfully.
“Nah, it’s just an arrow,” said Denys cheerfully.
“But an arrow?” said Kate, with concentrated horror. “Where were our eyes, mother?”
“But an arrow?” Kate said, horrified. “Where were we looking, Mom?”
“Nay, in good sooth, a trifle. Which, however, I will pray mesdames to accept as an excuse for my vivacity. 'Tis these little foolish trifling wounds that fret a man, worthy sir. Why, look ye now, sweeter temper than our Gerard never breathed, yet, when the bear did but strike a piece no bigger than a crown out of his calf, he turned so hot and choleric y'had said he was no son of yours, but got by the good knight Sir John Pepper on his wife dame Mustard; who is this? a dwarf? your servant, Master Giles.”
“Nay, truly, just a small thing. Which, however, I ask the ladies to accept as an excuse for my lively behavior. It’s these little silly wounds that bother a man, good sir. Why, just look now, a sweeter temperament than our Gerard never existed, yet when the bear merely struck a piece no bigger than a crown out of his calf, he got so angry and hot-tempered you’d think he wasn’t your son, but the child of the good knight Sir John Pepper and his wife, dame Mustard; who is this? A dwarf? Your servant, Master Giles.”
“Your servant, soldier,” roared the newcomer. Denys started. He had not counted on exchanging greetings with a petard.
“Your servant, soldier,” shouted the newcomer. Denys jumped. He hadn't expected to be greeting a petard.
Denys's words had surprised his hosts, but hardly more than their deportment now did him. They all three came creeping up to where he sat, and looked down into him with their lips parted, as if he had been some strange phenomenon.
Denys's words had surprised his hosts, but not as much as their behavior surprised him now. The three of them slowly approached where he sat and looked down at him with their mouths open, as if he was some kind of strange phenomenon.
And growing agitation succeeded to amazement.
And growing frustration replaced the amazement.
“Now hush!” said Eli, “let none speak but I. Young man,” said he solemnly, “in God's name who are you, that know us though we know you not, and that shake our hearts speaking to us of—the absent-our poor rebellious son: whom Heaven forgive and bless?”
“Now be quiet!” said Eli, “let no one else speak but me. Young man,” he said seriously, “in God's name, who are you that you know us even though we don’t know you, and that you touch our hearts by talking about our absent—our troubled son: may Heaven forgive and bless him?”
“What, master,” said Denys, lowering his voice, “hath he not writ to you? hath he not told you of me, Denys of Burgundy?”
“What’s up, master,” said Denys, lowering his voice, “hasn’t he written to you? hasn’t he told you about me, Denys of Burgundy?”
“He hath writ, but three lines, and named not Denys of Burgundy, nor any stranger.”
“He has written only three lines and hasn’t mentioned Denys of Burgundy or any outsider.”
“Ay, I mind the long letter was to his sweetheart, this Margaret, and she has decamped, plague take her, and how I am to find her Heaven knows.”
“Ay, I remember the long letter was to his girlfriend, this Margaret, and she has run off, damn her, and how I’m supposed to find her, only God knows.”
“What, she is not your sweetheart then?”
“What, she's not your girlfriend then?”
“Who, dame? an't please you.”
“Who, ma'am? Can I help you?”
“Why, Margaret Brandt.”
"Wow, Margaret Brandt."
“How can my comrade's sweetheart be mine? I know her not from Noah's niece; how should I? I never saw her.”
“How can my friend's girlfriend be mine? I don’t know her at all; how could I? I’ve never seen her.”
“Whist with this idle chat, Kate,” said Eli impatiently, “and let the young man answer me. How came you to know Gerard, our son? Prithee now think on a parent's cares, and answer me straightforward, like a soldier as thou art.”
“Enough of this idle talk, Kate,” Eli said, feeling impatient. “Let the young man respond. How do you know Gerard, our son? Please, think about a parent's concerns and give me a straight answer, like the soldier you are.”
“And shall. I was paid off at Flushing, and started for Burgundy. On the German frontier I lay at the same inn with Gerard. I fancied him. I said, 'Be my comrade.' He was loth at first; consented presently. Many a weary league we trode together. Never were truer comrades: never will be while earth shall last. First I left my route a bit to be with him: then he his to be with me. We talked of Sevenbergen and Tergou a thousand times; and of all in this house. We had our troubles on the road; but battling them together made them light. I saved his life from a bear; he mine in the Rhine: for he swims like a duck and I like a hod o' bricks and one another's lives at an inn in Burgundy, where we two held a room for a good hour against seven cut-throats, and crippled one and slew two; and your son did his devoir like a man, and met the stoutest champion I ever countered, and spitted him like a sucking-pig. Else I had not been here. But just when all was fair, and I was to see him safe aboard ship for Rome, if not to Rome itself, met us that son of a—the Lord Anthony of Burgundy, and his men, making for Flanders, then in insurrection, tore us by force apart, took me where I got some broad pieces in hand, and a broad arrow in my shoulder, and left my poor Gerard lonesome. At that sad parting, soldier though I be, these eyes did rain salt scalding tears, and so did his, poor soul. His last word to me was, 'Go, comfort Margaret!' so here I be. Mine to him was, 'Think no more of Rome. Make for Rhine, and down stream home.' Now say, for you know best, did I advise him well or ill?”
“And shall. I got paid off in Flushing and headed for Burgundy. At the German border, I stayed at the same inn as Gerard. I liked him and said, 'Be my friend.' He hesitated at first but eventually agreed. We walked many tiring miles together. We were never truer friends and never will be while the earth lasts. I diverged from my route a bit to be with him, and he did the same for me. We talked about Sevenbergen and Tergou a thousand times, and everything in this house. We faced challenges on the road, but tackling them together made them feel easier. I saved his life from a bear; he saved mine in the Rhine, because he swims like a duck while I swim like a heavy brick. We also defended ourselves at an inn in Burgundy, where we held a room for a good hour against seven attackers, wounding one and killing two. Your son fought bravely and faced the toughest opponent I’ve ever encountered, taking him down like a piglet. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. Just when everything seemed okay, and I was about to see him safely on a ship to Rome, or at least to Rome itself, we were confronted by that—son of a—Lord Anthony of Burgundy and his men, who were heading to Flanders, where there was an uprising. They forcibly separated us, took me, and I ended up with some gold in hand and an arrow in my shoulder, leaving my poor Gerard all alone. During that sad farewell, even as a soldier, I shed hot tears, and so did he, poor thing. His last words to me were, 'Go, comfort Margaret!' So here I am. My last words to him were, 'Forget about Rome. Head for the Rhine, and make your way home.' Now tell me, since you know best, did I give him good advice or bad?”
“Soldier, take my hand,” said Eli. “God bless thee! God bless thee!” and his lip quivered. It was all his reply, but more eloquent than many words.
“Soldier, take my hand,” said Eli. “God bless you! God bless you!” and his lip trembled. That was all he said, but it was more powerful than many words.
Catherine did not answer at all, but she darted from the room and bade Muriel bring the best that was in the house, and returned with wood in both arms, and heaped the fire, and took out a snow-white cloth from the press, and was going in a great hurry to lay it for Gerard's friend, when suddenly she sat down and all the power ebbed rapidly out of her body.
Catherine didn’t respond at all; instead, she rushed out of the room and told Muriel to bring the best things in the house. She returned with wood in both arms, stacked up the fire, and took out a snow-white cloth from the cupboard. She was in a big hurry to set the table for Gerard's friend when, all of a sudden, she sat down and all her strength quickly faded away.
“Father!” cried Kate, whose eye was as quick as her affection.
“Dad!” cried Kate, whose eye was as sharp as her love.
Denys started up; but Eli waved him back and flung a little water sharply in his wife's face. This did her instant good. She gasped, “So sudden. My poor boy!” Eli whispered Denys, “Take no notice! she thinks of him night and day.” They pretended not to observe her, and she shook it off, and hustled and laid the cloth with her own hands; but as she smoothed it, her hands trembled and a tear or two stole down her cheeks.
Denys jumped up, but Eli waved him back and splashed a bit of water in his wife's face. This helped her immediately. She gasped, “So sudden. My poor boy!” Eli whispered to Denys, “Don’t pay attention! She thinks about him all the time.” They pretended not to notice her, and she shook it off, busied herself, and set the table with her own hands; but as she smoothed the cloth, her hands shook, and a tear or two slipped down her cheeks.
They could not make enough of Denys. They stuffed him, and crammed him; and then gathered round him and kept filling his glass in turn, while by that genial blaze of fire and ruby wine and eager eyes he told all that I have related, and a vast number of minor details, which an artist, however minute, omits.
They couldn’t get enough of Denys. They stuffed him full and crammed him in; then they gathered around him, taking turns filling his glass, while by the warm glow of the fire, the red wine, and eager faces, he shared everything I’ve mentioned, along with a ton of little details that even the most careful artist leaves out.
But how different the effect on my readers and on this small circle! To them the interest was already made before the first word came from his lips. It was all about Gerard, and he who sat there telling it them, was warm from Gerard and an actor with him in all these scenes.
But how different the impact was on my readers and this small group! For them, the interest was already built up before the first word left his lips. It was all about Gerard, and the person sitting there sharing it with them was still energized by Gerard and involved in all these scenes.
The flesh and blood around that fire quivered for their severed member, hearing its struggles and perils.
The people gathered around that fire trembled for their lost part, hearing its struggles and dangers.
I shall ask my readers to recall to memory all they can of Gerard's journey with Denys, and in their mind's eye to see those very matters told by his comrade to an exile's father, all stoic outside, all father within, and to two poor women, an exile's mother and a sister, who were all love and pity and tender anxiety both outside and in. Now would you mind closing this book for a minute and making an effort to realize all this? It will save us so much repetition.
I ask my readers to remember everything they can about Gerard's journey with Denys and to picture those moments as narrated by his friend to the father of an exile—stoic on the outside but a father on the inside—and to two poor women: the exile's mother and sister, who were filled with love, concern, and tender anxiety both outside and within. Would you mind closing this book for a minute and trying to really grasp all this? It will save us a lot of repetition.
Then you will not be surprised when I tell you that after a while Giles came softly and curled himself up before the fire, and lay gazing at the speaker with a reverence almost canine; and that, when the rough soldier had unconsciously but thoroughly betrayed his better qualities, and above all his rare affection for Gerard, Kate, though timorous as a bird, stole her little hand into the warrior's huge brown palm, where it lay an instant like a tea-spoonful of cream spilt on a platter, then nipped the ball of his thumb and served for a Kardiometer. In other words, Fate is just even to rival storytellers, and balances matters. Denys had to pay a tax to his audience which I have not. Whenever Gerard was in too much danger, the female faces became so white, and their poor little throats gurgled so, he was obliged in common humanity to spoil his recital. Suspense is the soul of narrative, and thus dealt Rough-and-Tender of Burgundy with his best suspenses. “Now, dame, take not on till ye hear the end; ma'amselle, let not your cheek blanch so; courage! it looks ugly; but you shall hear how we won through. Had he miscarried, and I at hand, would I be alive?”
Then you won't be surprised when I tell you that after a while, Giles softly came and curled up before the fire, watching the speaker with a reverence almost like a dog. And when the tough soldier unintentionally revealed his better qualities, especially his rare affection for Gerard, Kate, although as timid as a bird, slipped her little hand into the warrior's large brown palm, where it rested for a moment like a spoonful of cream spilled on a plate, then pinched the pad of his thumb and served as a Kardiometer. In other words, Fate treats rival storytellers fairly and balances things out. Denys had to pay a price to his audience that I don't. Whenever Gerard was in serious danger, the women's faces went pale, and their poor little throats would choke up, so he had to pause his story out of basic decency. Suspense is the heart of a good story, and that’s how Rough-and-Tender from Burgundy handled his best suspense. “Now, madam, don’t get upset until you hear the end; young lady, don’t let your cheek turn pale; have courage! It looks bad, but you’ll hear how we made it through. If he had failed and I was there, would I still be alive?”
And meantime Kate's little Kardiometer, or heart-measurer, graduated emotion, and pinched by scale. At its best it was by no means a high-pressure engine. But all is relative. Denys soon learned the tender gamut; and when to water the suspense, and extract the thrill as far as possible. On one occasion only he cannily indemnified his narrative for this drawback. Falling personally into the Rhine, and sinking, he got pinched, he Denys, to his surprise and satisfaction. “Oho!” thought he, and on the principle of the anatomists, “experimentum in corpore vili,” kept himself a quarter of an hour under water; under pressure all the time. And even when Gerard had got hold of him, he was loth to leave the river, so, less conscientious than I was, swam with Gerard to the east bank first, and was about to land, but detected the officers and their intent, chaffed them a little space, treading water, then turned and swam wearily all across, and at last was obliged to get out, for very shame, or else acknowledge himself a pike; so permitted himself to land, exhausted: and the pressure relaxed.
And in the meantime, Kate's little Kardiometer, or heart-measurer, gauged emotions and measured them on a scale. At its best, it was definitely not a high-pressure engine. But everything is relative. Denys quickly figured out the delicate range and when to build up the suspense to get the most thrill out of it. Only once did he cleverly compensate for this limitation in his story. After accidentally falling into the Rhine and sinking, he was surprised and pleased to get a bit overwhelmed. "Oh wow!" he thought, following the principle of anatomists, "experimentum in corpore vili," and he stayed underwater for about fifteen minutes, feeling the pressure all the time. Even when Gerard grabbed him, he was reluctant to leave the river, so less concerned than I was, he swam with Gerard to the east bank first and was about to land when he spotted the officers and their intentions. He teased them for a bit while treading water, then turned and swam all the way back across, ultimately forced to get out, either out of sheer embarrassment or to avoid being called a coward; so he allowed himself to land, exhausted, and finally felt the pressure ease.
It was eleven o'clock, an unheard-of hour, but they took no note of time this night; and Denys had still much to tell them, when the door was opened quietly, and in stole Cornelis and Sybrandt looking hang-dog. They had this night been drinking the very last drop of their mysterious funds.
It was eleven o'clock, an unusual hour, but they didn't pay attention to the time that night; and Denys still had a lot to share with them when the door opened quietly, and in walked Cornelis and Sybrandt looking downcast. They had consumed the very last drop of their mysterious funds that night.
Catherine feared her husband would rebuke them before Denys; but he only looked sadly at them, and motioned them to sit down quietly.
Catherine was worried her husband would scold them in front of Denys; but he simply looked at them with sadness and gestured for them to sit down quietly.
Denys it was who seemed discomposed. He knitted his brows and eyed them thoughtfully and rather gloomily. Then turned to Catherine. “What say you, dame? the rest to-morrow; for I am somewhat weary, and it waxes late.”
Denys was the one who appeared unsettled. He furrowed his brow and looked at them thoughtfully and somewhat gloomily. Then he turned to Catherine. “What do you think, lady? Let’s finish the rest tomorrow; I’m a bit tired, and it’s getting late.”
“So be it,” said Eli. But when Denys rose to go to his inn, he was instantly stopped by Catherine. “And think you to lie from this house? Gerard's room has been got ready for you hours agone; the sheets I'll not say much for, seeing I spun the flax and wove the web.”
“So be it,” said Eli. But when Denys stood up to head to his inn, Catherine quickly stopped him. “Do you really think you can leave this house? Gerard's room has been ready for you for hours; I won’t say much about the sheets, since I spun the flax and wove the fabric myself.”
“Then would I lie in them blindfold,” was the gallant reply. “Ah, dame, our poor Gerard was the one for fine linen. He could hardly forgive the honest Germans their coarse flax, and whene'er my traitors of countrymen did amiss, a would excuse them, saying, 'Well, well; bonnes toiles sont en Bourgogne:' that means, there be good lenten cloths in Burgundy.' But indeed he beat all for bywords and cleanliness.
“Then I'd lie in them blindfold,” was the bold response. “Ah, lady, our poor Gerard was all about fine linen. He could barely tolerate the honest Germans and their rough flax, and whenever my treacherous countrymen messed up, he would excuse them, saying, 'Well, well; good cloths are in Burgundy.' But honestly, he was the best when it came to sayings and being clean.
“Oh, Eli! Eli! doth not our son come back to us at each word?”
“Oh, Eli! Eli! doesn’t our son come back to us with every word?”
“Ay. Buss me, my poor Kate. You and I know all that passeth in each other's hearts this night. None other can, but God.”
“Ay. Hit me, my poor Kate. You and I know everything that’s in each other's hearts tonight. No one else can, except for God.”
CHAPTER XLVII
Denys took an opportunity next day and told mother and daughter the rest, excusing himself characteristically for not letting Cornelis and Sybrandt hear of it. “It is not for me to blacken them; they come of a good stock. But Gerard looks on them as no friends of his in this matter; and I'm Gerard's comrade and it is a rule with us soldiers not to tell the enemy aught—but lies.”
Denys seized the chance the next day and informed the mother and daughter about the rest, making his usual excuses for not letting Cornelis and Sybrandt know. "It's not my place to tarnish their reputation; they come from a good background. But Gerard sees them as no allies in this situation, and I'm Gerard's comrade, and we soldiers have a rule: we don’t share anything with the enemy—except for lies."
Catherine sighed, but made no answer.
Catherine let out a sigh but didn't respond.
The adventures he related cost them a tumult of agitation and grief, and sore they wept at the parting of the friends, which even now Denys could not tell without faltering. But at last all merged in the joyful hope and expectation of Gerard's speedy return. In this Denys confidently shared; but reminded them that was no reason why he should neglect his friend's wishes and last words. In fact, should Gerard return next week, and no Margaret to be found, what sort of figure should he cut?
The stories he told caused them a mix of turmoil and sadness, and they cried hard at the friends' farewell, which even now Denys couldn't talk about without hesitating. But eventually, all their thoughts turned to the joyful hope and anticipation of Gerard's quick return. Denys felt confident about this; however, he reminded them that it didn't mean he should ignore his friend's wishes and final words. In fact, if Gerard came back next week and there was no Margaret to be found, how would he explain that?
Catherine had never felt so kindly towards the truant Margaret as now; and she was fully as anxious to find her, and be kind to her before Gerard's return, as Denys was; but she could not agree with him that anything was to be gained by leaving this neighbourhood to search for her. “She must have told somebody whither she was going. It is not as though they were dishonest folk flying the country; they owe not a stiver in Sevenbergen; and dear heart, Denys, you can't hunt all Holland for her.”
Catherine had never felt as kindly towards the runaway Margaret as she did now; and she was just as eager to find her and show her kindness before Gerard came back, as Denys was. But she couldn't agree with him that leaving the area to search for her would be helpful. “She must have told someone where she was headed. It’s not like they’re dishonest people trying to escape the country; they don’t owe any money in Sevenbergen; and honestly, Denys, you can't search all of Holland for her.”
“Can I not?” said Denys grimly. “That we shall see.” He added, after some reflection, that they must divide their forces; she stay here with eyes and ears wide open, and he ransack every town in Holland for her, if need be. “But she will not be many leagues from here. They be three. Three fly not so fast, nor far, as one.”
“Can I not?” Denys said seriously. “We’ll see about that.” After thinking for a moment, he suggested that they should split up: she would stay here, keeping her eyes and ears open, while he searched every town in Holland for her if necessary. “But she won’t be far from here. There are three of them. Three don’t fly as fast or as far as one.”
“That is sense,” said Catherine. But she insisted on his going first to the demoiselle Van Eyck. “She and our Margaret were bosom friends. She knows where the girl is gone, if she will but tell us.” Denys was for going to her that instant, so Catherine, in a turn of the hand, made herself one shade neater, and took him with her.
“That makes sense,” said Catherine. But she insisted he go see the demoiselle Van Eyck first. “She and our Margaret were best friends. She knows where the girl has gone, if she would just tell us.” Denys was ready to go to her right away, so Catherine quickly tidied herself up a bit and took him with her.
She was received graciously by the old lady sitting in a richly furnished room; and opened her business. The tapestry dropped out of Margaret Van Eyck's hands. “Gone? Gone from Sevenbergen and not told me; the thankless girl.”
She was welcomed warmly by the elderly woman seated in an elegantly decorated room and began discussing her matters. The tapestry slipped from Margaret Van Eyck's hands. “Gone? Gone from Sevenbergen without telling me; that ungrateful girl.”
This turn greatly surprised the visitors. “What, you know not? when was she here last?”
This twist really surprised the visitors. “What, you don't know? When was she here last?”
“Maybe ten days agone. I had ta'en out my brushes, after so many years, to paint her portrait. I did not do it, though; for reasons.”
“Maybe ten days ago. I had taken out my brushes, after so many years, to paint her portrait. I didn’t end up doing it, though; for reasons.”
Catherine remarked it was “a most strange thing she should go away bag and baggage like this, without with your leave or by your leave, why, or wherefore. Was ever aught so untoward; just when all our hearts are warm to her; and here is Gerard's mate come from the ends of the earth with comfort for her from Gerard, and can't find her, and Gerard himself expected. What to do I know not. But sure she is not parted like this without a reason. Can ye not give us the clue, my good demoiselle? Prithee now.
Catherine said it was “so strange that she would leave like this, without asking for permission or saying why or where she was going. Has anything ever been so unlucky; just when we all care for her so much; and here’s Gerard's friend who traveled from far away to bring her comfort from Gerard, and we can’t find her, and Gerard himself is waiting. I don't know what to do. But she definitely didn’t leave like this without a reason. Can you give us a hint, my good lady? Please.”
“I have it not to give,” said the elder lady, rather peevishly.
“I don’t have it to give,” said the older woman, a bit annoyed.
“Then I can,” said Reicht Heynes, showing herself in the doorway, with colour somewhat heightened.
“Then I can,” said Reicht Heynes, appearing in the doorway, a bit flushed.
“So you have been hearkening all the time, eh?”
“So you’ve been listening the whole time, huh?”
“What are my ears for, mistress?”
“What are my ears for, ma'am?”
“True. Well, throw us the light of thy wisdom on this dark matter.”
“True. Well, share your insight on this unclear issue.”
“There is no darkness that I see,” said Reicht. “And the clue, why, an ye call't a two-plye twine, and the ends on't in this room e'en now, ye'll not be far out. Oh, mistress, I wonder at you sitting there pretending.”
“There’s no darkness at all,” said Reicht. “And the clue, well, if you call it a two-ply twine, and the ends of it are right here in this room, you won’t be far off. Oh, mistress, I’m amazed you’re just sitting there pretending.”
“Marry, come up.” and the mistress's cheek was now nearly as red as the servant's. “So 'twas I drove the foolish girl away.”
“Come here, Marry.” The mistress’s cheek was now almost as red as the servant's. “It was me who drove that foolish girl away.”
“You did your share, mistress. What sort of greeting gave you her last time she came? Think you she could miss to notice it, and she all friendless? And you said, 'I have altered my mind about painting of you,' says you, a turning up your nose at her.”
“You did your part, ma'am. What kind of greeting did she get from you the last time she came? Do you really think she couldn’t notice it, being all alone? And you said, 'I've changed my mind about painting you,' turning your nose up at her.”
“I did not turn up my nose. It is not shaped like yours for looking heavenward.”
“I didn’t turn up my nose. It doesn’t look like yours, which points toward the sky.”
“Oh, all our nosen can follow our heartys bent, for that matter. Poor soul. She did come into the kitchen to me. 'I am not to be painted now,' said she, and the tears in her eyes. She said no more. But I knew well what she did mean. I had seen ye.”
“Oh, everyone can follow their heart's desire, for that matter. Poor soul. She did come into the kitchen to me. 'I can’t be painted now,' she said, with tears in her eyes. She didn’t say anything else. But I knew exactly what she meant. I had seen you.”
“Well,” said Margaret Van Eyck, “I do confess so much, and I make you the judge, madam. Know that these young girls can do nothing of their own heads, but are most apt at mimicking aught their sweethearts do. Now your Gerard is reasonably handy at many things, and among the rest at the illuminator's craft. And Margaret she is his pupil, and a patient one: what marvel? having a woman's eye for colour, and eke a lover to ape. 'Tis a trick I despise at heart: for by it the great art of colour, which should be royal, aspiring, and free, becomes a poor slave to the petty crafts of writing and printing, and is fettered, imprisoned, and made little, body and soul, to match the littleness of books, and go to church in a rich fool's pocket. Natheless affection rules us all, and when the poor wench would bring me her thorn leaves, and lilies, and ivy, and dewberries, and ladybirds, and butterfly grubs, and all the scum of Nature-stuck fast in gold-leaf like wasps in a honey-pot, and withal her diurnal book, showing she had pored an hundred, or an hundred and fifty, or two hundred hours over each singular page, certes I was wroth that an immortal soul, and many hours of labour, and much manual skill, should be flung away on Nature's trash, leaves, insects, grubs, and on barren letters; but, having bowels, I did perforce restrain, and as it were, dam my better feelings, and looked kindly at the work to see how it might be bettered; and said I, 'Sith Heaven for our sins hath doomed us to spend time, and soul, and colour on great letters and little beetles, omitting such small fry as saints and heroes, their acts and passions, why not present the scum naturally?' I told her 'the grapes I saw, walking abroad, did hang i' the air, not stick in a wall; and even these insects,' quo' I, 'and Nature her slime in general, pass not their noxious lives wedged miserably in metal prisons like flies in honey-pots and glue-pots, but do crawl or hover at large, infesting air.' 'Ah my dear friend,' says she, 'I see now whither you drive; but this ground is gold; whereon we may not shade.' 'Who said so?' quoth I. 'All teachers of this craft,' says she; and (to make an end o' me at once, I trow) 'Gerard himself!' 'That for Gerard himself,' quoth I, 'and all the gang; gi'e me a brush!'
"Well," said Margaret Van Eyck, "I admit this much, and I leave it up to you, madam. Understand that these young girls can't do anything on their own; they are really good at copying whatever their boyfriends do. Now your Gerard is quite skilled in many things, including the art of illumination. And Margaret is his student, a patient one at that; what can you expect? She has a woman's eye for color and a boyfriend to mimic. It’s a habit I truly despise: it turns the great art of color, which should be lofty, aspiring, and free, into a mere servant for the trivial tasks of writing and printing. It becomes shackled, trapped, and diminished, body and soul, to fit the smallness of books and end up in the pocket of a wealthy fool at church. Nevertheless, love controls us all, and when that poor girl would bring me her thorn leaves, lilies, ivy, dewberries, ladybugs, and caterpillars, all the junk of Nature stuck in gold leaf like wasps in a honey pot, along with her daily book showing she had poured a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, or two hundred hours over each individual page, I was genuinely angry that an immortal soul, along with many hours of labor and a lot of skill, should be wasted on Nature's rubbish, leaves, insects, grubs, and on useless letters. But having compassion, I had to hold back my better feelings and looked at the work kindly to see how it could be improved; and I said, 'Since Heaven for our sins has doomed us to spend time, soul, and color on big letters and little beetles, ignoring the likes of saints and heroes, their deeds and passions, why not just represent the trash naturally?' I told her, 'The grapes I saw while out for a walk hung in the air, not stuck to a wall; and even these insects,' I said, 'and Nature's muck in general, don’t live their toxic lives trapped miserably in metal prisons like flies in honey pots and glue pots, but crawl or hover freely, infesting the air.' 'Ah my dear friend,' she said, 'I see now what you're getting at; but this ground is gold; we cannot shade it.' 'Who says that?' I replied. 'All the teachers of this craft,' she said; and (to finish me off at once, I suppose) 'even Gerard himself!' 'That’s for Gerard himself,' I said, 'and all the others; give me a brush!'"
“Then chose I, to shade her fruit and reptiles, a colour false in nature, but true relatively to that monstrous ground of glaring gold; and in five minutes out came a bunch of raspberries, stalk and all, and a'most flew in your mouth; likewise a butterfly grub she had so truly presented as might turn the stoutest stomach. My lady she flings her arms round my neck, and says she, 'Oh!'”
“Then I chose a color that wasn’t natural to shade her fruit and reptiles, but was true in comparison to that shocking background of bright gold; and in just five minutes, a bunch of raspberries popped out, stalk and all, and almost flew into your mouth; she also presented a caterpillar so realistically that it could make anyone sick. My lady threw her arms around my neck and said, 'Oh!'"
“Did she now?”
"Really?"
“The little love!” observed Denys, succeeding at last in wedging in a word.
“The little love!” Denys remarked, finally managing to squeeze in a word.
Margaret Van Eyck stared at him; and then smiled. She went on to tell them how from step to step she had been led on to promise to resume the art she had laid aside with a sigh when her brothers died, and to paint the Madonna once more—with Margaret for model. Incidentally she even revealed how girls are turned into saints. “Thy hair is adorable,” said I. “Why, 'tis red,” quo' she. “Ay,” quoth I, “but what a red! how brown! how glossy! most hair is not worth a straw to us painters; thine the artist's very hue. But thy violet eyes, which smack of earth, being now languid for lack of one Gerard, now full of fire in hopes of the same Gerard, these will I lift to heaven in fixed and holy meditation, and thy nose, which doth already somewhat aspire that way (though not so piously as Reicht's), will I debase a trifle, and somewhat enfeeble thy chin.”
Margaret Van Eyck looked at him and then smiled. She continued to share how she had been encouraged step by step to promise to take up the art she had put aside with a sigh when her brothers died, and to paint the Madonna again—with herself as the model. She even mentioned how girls are turned into saints. “Your hair is stunning,” I said. “Well, it’s red,” she replied. “Yes,” I said, “but what a red! How brown! How shiny! Most hair isn’t worth anything to us painters; yours has the perfect shade. But your violet eyes, full of earthiness, now tired from missing one Gerard and now full of fire hoping for the same Gerard, I will elevate to heaven in deep, holy thought, and your nose, which already somewhat points that way (though not as piously as Reicht’s), I will tone down a bit, and also soften your chin.”
“Enfeeble her chin? Alack! what may that mean? Ye go beyond me, mistress.”
“Make her chin weak? Oh no! What could that mean? You’re confusing me, ma’am.”
“'Tis a resolute chin. Not a jot too resolute for this wicked world; but when ye come to a Madonna? No thank you.”
“It's a determined chin. Not too determined for this wicked world; but when it comes to a Madonna? No thanks.”
“Well I never. A resolute chin.”
“Well, I never. A determined chin.”
Denys. “The darling!”
Denys. "The sweetheart!"
“And now comes the rub. When you told me she was—the way she is, it gave me a shock; I dropped my brushes. Was I going to turn a girl, that couldn't keep her lover at a distance, into the Virgin Mary, at my time of life? I love the poor ninny still. But I adore our blessed Lady. Say you, 'a painter must not be peevish in such matters'? Well, most painters are men; and men are fine fellows. They can do aught. Their saints and virgins are neither more nor less than their lemans, saving your presence. But know that for this very reason half their craft is lost on me, which find beneath their angels' white wings the very trollops I have seen flaunting it on the streets, bejewelled like Paynim idols, and put on like the queens in a pack o' cards. And I am not a fine fellow, but only a woman, and my painting is but one half craft, and t'other half devotion. So now you may read me. 'Twas foolish, maybe, but I could not help it; yet am I sorry.” And the old lady ended despondently a discourse which she had commenced in a'mighty defiant tone.
“And now comes the dilemma. When you told me she was—the way she is, it shocked me; I dropped my brushes. Was I really going to turn a girl who can't keep her lover at arm's length into the Virgin Mary, at my age? I still love the poor girl. But I adore our blessed Lady. You might say, 'A painter shouldn’t be sensitive about such things'? Well, most painters are men; and men are great guys. They can do anything. Their saints and virgins are no different than their lovers, with all due respect. But because of this, half their art doesn’t resonate with me, as I see beneath their angels' white wings the same women I’ve seen strutting on the streets, decked out like pagan idols, and dressed up like queens in a deck of cards. And I’m not a fine fellow, just a woman, and my painting is only half skill, the other half devotion. So now you can understand me. It was foolish, maybe, but I couldn’t help it; yet I am sorry.” And the old lady ended her speech sadly, which she had started in a rather defiant tone.
“Well, you know, dame,” observed Catherine, “you must think it would go to the poor girl's heart, and she so fond of ye?”
“Well, you know, lady,” Catherine remarked, “you must think it would really affect the poor girl's feelings, especially since she cares so much about you?”
Margaret Van Eyck only sighed.
Margaret Van Eyck just sighed.
The Frisian girl, after biting her lips impatiently a little while, turned upon Catherine. “Why, dame, think you 'twas for that alone Margaret and Peter hath left Sevenbergen? Nay.”
The Frisian girl, after impatiently biting her lips for a moment, turned to Catherine. “Why, ma'am, do you think it was just for that that Margaret and Peter left Sevenbergen? No.”
“For what else, then?”
“What else, then?”
“What else? Why, because Gerard's people slight her so cruel. Who would bide among hard-hearted folk that ha' driven her lad t' Italy, and now he is gone, relent not, but face it out, and ne'er come anigh her that is left?”
“What else? Well, it's because Gerard's people treat her so poorly. Who would want to stay among such unkind people that have sent her guy to Italy, and now that he's gone, they won't show any mercy, but just keep going and never come close to her who's been left behind?”
“Reicht, I was going.”
“Reicht, I was leaving.”
“Oh, ay, going, and going, and going. Ye should ha' said less or else done more. But with your words you did uplift her heart and let it down wi' your deeds. 'They have never been,' said the poor thing to me, with such a sigh. Ay, here is one can feel for her: for I too am far from my friends, and often, when first I came to Holland, I did used to take a hearty cry all to myself. But ten times liever would I be Reicht Heynes with nought but the leagues atw'een me and all my kith, than be as she is i' the midst of them that ought to warm to her, and yet to fare as lonesome as I.”
“Oh, yeah, going and going and going. You should have said less or done more. But with your words, you lifted her spirits and then brought them down with your actions. 'They have never been,' the poor thing told me with such a sigh. Yeah, here’s someone you can empathize with: I’m also far from my friends, and often, when I first came to Holland, I would have a good cry all to myself. But I’d much rather be Reicht Heynes with nothing but the distance between me and all my loved ones than be like her, surrounded by those who should care for her, yet feeling as lonely as I do.”
“Alack, Reicht, I did go but yestreen, and had gone before, but one plaguy thing or t'other did still come and hinder me.”
“Unfortunately, Reicht, I went just last night, and I would have gone before, but one annoying thing or another kept getting in my way.”
“Mistress, did aught hinder ye to eat your dinner any one of those days? I trow not. And had your heart been as good towards your own flesh and blood, as 'twas towards your flesher's meat, nought had prevailed to keep you from her that sat lonely, a watching the road for you and comfort, wi' your child's child a beating 'neath her bosom.”
“Miss, did anything keep you from having your dinner on any of those days? I doubt it. And if your heart had been as good towards your own family as it was towards the butcher's meat, nothing would have stopped you from going to her who sat alone, watching the road for you and comfort, with your grandchild beating beneath her chest.”
Here this rude young woman was interrupted by an incident not uncommon in a domestic's bright existence. The Van Eyck had been nettled by the attack on her, but with due tact had gone into ambush. She now sprang out of it. “Since you disrespect my guests, seek another place!”
Here this impudent young woman was interrupted by something that often happens in a servant's lively life. The Van Eyck had been irritated by the insult directed at her, but with appropriate subtlety, she had set a trap. She now sprang out of it. “Since you show no respect for my guests, find another place!”
“With all my heart,” said Reicht stoutly.
“With all my heart,” Reicht said firmly.
“Nay, mistress,” put in the good-natured Catherine. “True folk will still speak out. Her tongue is a stinger.” Here the water came into the speaker's eyes by way of confirmation. “But better she said it than thought it. So now 't won't rankle in her. And part with her for me, that shall ye not. Beshrew the wench, she wots she is a good servant, and takes advantage. We poor wretches which keep house must still pay 'em tax for value. I had a good servant once, when I was a young woman. Eh dear, how she did grind me down into the dust. In the end, by Heaven's mercy, she married the baker, and I was my own woman again. 'So,' said I, 'no more good servants shall come hither, a hectoring o' me.' I just get a fool and learn her; and whenever she knoweth her right hand from her left, she sauceth me: then out I bundle her neck and crop, and take another dunce in her place. Dear heart, 'tis wearisome, teaching a string of fools by ones; but there—I am mistress:” here she forgot that she was defending Reicht, and turning rather spitefully upon her, added, “and you be mistress here, I trow.”
“Nah, mistress,” chimed in the good-natured Catherine. “Real people will still speak their minds. Her words can sting.” At this, tears welled up in her eyes as if to confirm her point. “But it’s better she said it than keep it inside. Now it won’t fester in her. And don’t let her go for me, you won’t. Curse that girl, she knows she’s a good servant and takes advantage. We poor souls who run the household still have to pay them for their worth. I had a good servant once when I was younger. Oh dear, she really ground me down to nothing. In the end, by Heaven’s mercy, she married the baker, and I was my own woman again. ‘So,’ I said, ‘no more good servants are coming here to bully me.’ I just get a fool and teach her; and whenever she learns her right hand from her left, she gets sassy with me: then I kick her out and take in another dimwit. Goodness, it’s exhausting teaching a bunch of fools one by one; but there—I am the mistress:” here she forgot she was defending Reicht, and turning rather spitefully toward her, added, “and you’re the mistress here, I suppose.”
“No more than that stool,” said the Van Eyck loftily. “She is neither mistress nor servant; but Gone. She is dismissed the house, and there's an end of her. What, did ye not hear me turn the saucy baggage off?”
“Nothing more than that stool,” said the Van Eyck proudly. “She is neither the boss nor a helper; she’s gone. She’s been kicked out of the house, and that’s that. What, didn’t you hear me send that cheeky girl away?”
“Ay, ay. We all heard ye,” said Reicht, with vast indifference.
“Yeah, yeah. We all heard you,” said Reicht, with complete indifference.
“Then hear me!” said Denys solemnly.
“Then listen to me!” said Denys seriously.
They all went round like things on wheels, and fastened their eyes on him.
They all moved around like they were on wheels and focused their gaze on him.
“Ay, let us hear what the man says,” urged the hostess. “Men are fine fellows, with their great hoarse voices.”
“Ay, let us hear what the man says,” urged the hostess. “Men are great guys, with their deep, loud voices.”
“Mistress Reicht,” said Denys, with great dignity and ceremony, indeed so great as to verge on the absurd, “you are turned off. If on a slight acquaintance I might advise, I'd say, since you are a servant no more, be a mistress, a queen.”
“Mistress Reicht,” said Denys, with a lot of dignity and ceremony, so much so that it almost seemed ridiculous, “you are dismissed. If I may give you a little advice based on our brief acquaintance, I’d say, since you are no longer a servant, embrace being a mistress, a queen.”
“Easier said than done,” replied Reicht bluntly.
“Easier said than done,” Reicht replied bluntly.
“Not a jot. You see here one who is a man, though but half an arbalestrier, owing to that devilish Englishman's arrow, in whose carcass I have, however, left a like token, which is a comfort. I have twenty gold pieces” (he showed them) “and a stout arm. In another week or so I shall have twain. Marriage is not a habit of mine; but I capitulate to so many virtues. You are beautiful, good-hearted, and outspoken, and above all, you take the part of my she-comrade. Be then an arbalestriesse!”
“Not a bit. You see here a man, though only half an arbalestier, thanks to that damn Englishman’s arrow. But I have made sure to leave a similar mark on him, which is some consolation. I have twenty gold pieces” (he showed them) “and a strong arm. In another week or so, I’ll have two. Marriage isn’t really my thing, but I find myself giving in to so many good qualities. You’re beautiful, kind, and straightforward, and above all, you stand by my lady friend. So become an arbalestress!”
“And what the dickens is that?” inquired Reicht.
"And what the heck is that?" asked Reicht.
“I mean, be the wife, mistress, and queen of Denys of Burgundy here present.”
"I mean, be the wife, mistress, and queen of Denys of Burgundy right here."
A dead silence fell on all.
A complete silence fell over everyone.
It did not last long, though; and was followed by a burst of unreasonable indignation.
It didn't last long, though; and was followed by a surge of unreasonable anger.
Catherine. “Well, did you ever?”
Catherine. “Well, did you really?”
Margaret. “Never in all my born days.”
Margaret. “Never in all my life.”
Catherine. “Before our very faces.”
Catherine. “Right in front of us.”
Margaret. “Of all the absurdity, and insolence of this ridiculous sex—”
Margaret. “Of all the nonsense and arrogance of this ridiculous gender—”
Then Denys observed somewhat drily, that the female to whom he had addressed himself was mute; and the others, on whose eloquence there was no immediate demand, were fluent: on this the voices stopped, and the eyes turned pivot-like upon Reicht.
Then Denys remarked somewhat dryly that the woman he had spoken to was silent; and the others, whose eloquence wasn't immediately needed, were chatty: at this, the voices fell quiet, and everyone’s gaze turned sharply toward Reicht.
She took a sly glance from under her lashes at her military assailant, and said, “I mean to take a good look at any man ere I leap into his arms.”
She shot a sly look from under her lashes at her military attacker and said, “I plan to really see any man before I jump into his arms.”
Denys drew himself up majestically. “Then look your fill, and leap away.”
Denys straightened himself proudly. “So go ahead, take it all in, and jump away.”
This proposal led to a new and most unexpected result. A long white finger was extended by the Van Eyck in a line with the speaker's eye, and an agitated voice bade him stand, in the name of all the saints. “You are beautiful, so,” cried she. “You are inspired—with folly. What matters that? you are inspired. I must take off your head.” And in a moment she was at work with her pencil. “Come out, hussy,” she screamed to Reicht, “more in front of him, and keep the fool inspired and beautiful. Oh, why had I not this maniac for my good centurion? They went and brought me a brute with a low forehead and a shapeless beard.”
This proposal led to a new and totally unexpected outcome. A long white finger was pointed by the Van Eyck in line with the speaker's gaze, and a frantic voice commanded him to stop, in the name of all the saints. “You are beautiful, just like that,” she exclaimed. “You are inspired—with madness. What does that matter? You are inspired. I need to take off your head.” And in an instant, she started sketching with her pencil. “Step forward, hussy,” she yelled to Reicht, “get in front of him, and keep the fool inspired and beautiful. Oh, why didn’t I have this maniac for my good centurion? Instead, they brought me a brute with a low forehead and a shapeless beard.”
Catherine stood and looked with utter amazement at this pantomime, and secretly resolved that her venerable hostess had been a disguised lunatic all this time, and was now busy throwing off the mask. As for Reicht, she was unhappy and cross. She had left her caldron in a precarious state, and made no scruple to say so, and that duties so grave as hers left her no “time to waste a playing the statee and the fool all at one time.” Her mistress in reply reminded her that it was possible to be rude and rebellious to one's poor, old, affectionate, desolate mistress, without being utterly heartless and savage; and a trampler on arts.
Catherine stood and watched this performance in complete amazement, secretly deciding that her elderly hostess had been pretending to be crazy all along and was now busy dropping the act. As for Reicht, she was upset and irritable. She had left her pot in a risky state and didn’t hold back in saying so, claiming that her serious responsibilities didn’t leave her any “time to waste playing the state and the fool at the same time.” In response, her mistress reminded her that it was possible to be rude and defiant to one’s poor, old, loving, and lonely mistress without being completely heartless and cruel, and without trampling on the arts.
On this Reicht stopped, and pouted, and looked like a little basilisk at the inspired model who caused her woe. He retorted with unshaken admiration. The situation was at last dissolved by the artist's wrist becoming cramped from disuse; this was not, however, until she had made a rough but noble sketch. “I can work no more at present,” said she sorrowfully.
On this, Reicht paused, pouted, and glared like a little basilisk at the inspired model who brought her misery. He replied with unwavering admiration. The tension finally eased when the artist's wrist cramped from being unused; however, this was only after she had created a rough but impressive sketch. “I can't work any longer right now,” she said sadly.
“Then, now, mistress, I may go and mind my pot?”
“Then, can I go and take care of my pot now, mistress?”
“Ay, ay, go to your pot! And get into it, do; you will find your soul in it: so then you will all be together.”
“Ay, ay, go to your pot! And get into it, do; you will find your soul in it: so then you will all be together.”
“Well, but, Reicht,” said Catherine, laughing, “she turned you off.”
“Well, Reicht,” Catherine said with a laugh, “she dumped you.”
“Boo, boo, boo!” said Reicht contemptuously. “When she wants to get rid of me, let her turn herself off and die. I am sure she is old enough for't. But take your time, mistress; if you are in no hurry, no more am I. When that day doth come, 'twill take a man to dry my eyes; and if you should be in the same mind then, soldier, you can say so; and if you are not, why, 'twill be all one to Reicht Heynes.”
“Boo, boo, boo!” Reicht said with disdain. “If she wants to get rid of me, she should just turn herself off and die. I’m sure she’s old enough for that. But take your time, mistress; if you’re not in a rush, neither am I. When that day does come, it’ll take a man to dry my tears; and if you're feeling the same way then, soldier, you can say so; and if not, well, it’ll all be the same to Reicht Heynes.”
And the plain speaker went her way. But her words did not fall to the ground. Neither of her female hearers could disguise from herself that this blunt girl, solitary herself, had probably read Margaret Brandt aright, and that she had gone away from Sevenbergen broken-hearted.
And the straightforward speaker left. But her words didn’t just fade away. Neither of the women listening could hide from themselves that this frank girl, alone in her own way, had probably understood Margaret Brandt correctly, and that she had left Sevenbergen heartbroken.
Catherine and Denys bade the Van Eyck adieu, and that same afternoon Denys set out on a wild goose chase. His plan, like all great things, was simple. He should go to a hundred towns and villages, and ask in each after an old physician with a fair daughter, and an old long-bow soldier. He should inquire of the burgomasters about all new-comers, and should go to the fountains and watch the women and girls as they came with their pitchers for water.
Catherine and Denys said goodbye to the Van Eycks, and that afternoon Denys embarked on a wild goose chase. His plan, like all great ideas, was straightforward. He would visit a hundred towns and villages, asking in each one about an old doctor with a beautiful daughter and an old longbow soldier. He would ask the mayors about any newcomers and go to the fountains to watch the women and girls as they came to fetch water with their pitchers.
And away he went, and was months and months on the tramp, and could not find her.
And off he went, wandering for months and months, and he couldn't find her.
Happily, this chivalrous feat of friendship was in some degree its own reward.
Happily, this brave act of friendship was to some extent its own reward.
Those who sit at home blindfolded by self-conceit, and think camel or man out of the depths of their inner consciousness, alias their ignorance, will tell you that in the intervals of war and danger, peace and tranquil life acquire their true value and satisfy the heroic mind. But those who look before they babble or scribble will see and say that men who risk their lives habitually thirst for exciting pleasures between the acts of danger, are not for innocent tranquility.
Those who sit at home blindfolded by self-importance and believe that true value in peace and a calm life comes only from the depths of their ignorance will tell you that in times of war and danger, those things become meaningful and fulfill the heroic spirit. But those who think critically before they speak or write will recognize and say that people who regularly put their lives on the line crave thrilling experiences during the breaks in danger; they are not drawn to innocent tranquility.
To this Denys was no exception. His whole military life had been half sparta, half Capua. And he was too good a soldier and too good a libertine to have ever mixed either habit with the other. But now for the first time he found himself mixed; at peace and yet on duty; for he took this latter view of his wild goose chase, luckily. So all these months he was a demi-Spartan; sober, prudent, vigilant, indomitable; and happy, though constantly disappointed, as might have been expected. He flirted gigantically on the road; but wasted no time about it. Nor in these his wanderings did he tell a single female that “marriage was not one of his habits, etc.”
To this, Denys was no exception. His entire military life had been part Spartan, part Capuan. And he was too skilled a soldier and too much of a libertine to ever combine the two lifestyles. But now, for the first time, he found himself in the middle; at peace yet on duty, viewing this wild goose chase in a positive light. So for all these months, he was a sort of demi-Spartan; sober, sensible, watchful, determined; and happy, though constantly let down, as one might expect. He flirted massively along the way but didn’t waste time on it. During his travels, he didn’t tell a single woman that “marriage was not one of his habits, etc.”
And so we leave him on the tramp, “Pilgrim of Friendship,” as his poor comrade was of Love.
And so we leave him wandering, “Pilgrim of Friendship,” just like his poor companion was of Love.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Catherine was in dismay when she reflected that Gerard must reach home in another month at farthest, more likely in a week; and how should she tell him she had not even kept an eye upon his betrothed? Then there was the uncertainty as to the girl's fate; and this uncertainty sometimes took a sickening form.
Catherine was upset when she realized that Gerard would be home in a month at the latest, probably in a week. How could she explain that she hadn't even checked on his fiancée? Then there was the worry about what had happened to the girl, and that worry sometimes made her feel nauseous.
“Oh, Kate,” she groaned, “if she should have gone and made herself away!”
“Oh, Kate,” she groaned, “what if she went and killed herself?”
“Mother, she would never be so wicked.”
“Mom, she would never be that evil.”
“Ah, my lass, you know not what hasty fools young lasses be, that have no mothers to keep 'em straight. They will fling themselves into the water for a man that the next man they meet would ha' cured 'em of in a week. I have known 'em to jump in like brass one moment and scream for help in the next. Couldn't know their own minds ye see even about such a trifle as yon. And then there's times when their bodies ail like no other living creatures ever I could hear of, and that strings up their feelings so, the patience, that belongs to them at other times beyond all living souls barring an ass, seems all to jump out of 'em at one turn, and into the water they go. Therefore, I say that men are monsters.”
“Ah, my girl, you have no idea how impulsive young women can be when they don't have mothers to guide them. They'll throw themselves into the water for a guy when the next guy they meet could have moved on from them in a week. I've seen them dive in confidently one moment and then scream for help the next. They can’t even figure out what they want, even about something as trivial as that. And there are times when their bodies hurt like nothing else I've ever heard of, and that makes their emotions so intense that all the patience they usually possess—aside from an ass—seems to vanish in an instant, and in they go. So, I say that men are monsters.”
“Mother!”
“Mom!”
“Monsters, and no less, to go making such heaps o' canals just to tempt the poor women in. They know we shall not cut our throats, hating the sight of blood and rating our skins a hantle higher nor our lives; and as for hanging, while she is a fixing of the nail and a making of the noose she has time t' alter her mind. But a jump into a canal is no more than into bed; and the water it does all the lave, will ye, nill ye. Why, look at me, the mother o' nine, wasn't I agog to make a hole in our canal for the nonce?”
“Monsters, really, to create so many canals just to lure the poor women in. They know we won't take drastic actions, since we can’t stand the sight of blood and value our skin a lot more than our lives; and as for hanging, while she’s tying the knot and making the noose, she has enough time to change her mind. But jumping into a canal is no different from jumping into bed; the water will take care of everything, whether you want it to or not. Just look at me, the mother of nine; wasn’t I eager to make a hole in our canal just for a moment?”
“Nay, mother, I'll never believe it of you.”
“Nah, Mom, I’ll never believe that about you.”
“Ye may, though. 'Twas in the first year of our keeping house together. Eli hadn't found out my weak stitches then, nor I his; so we made a rent, pulling contrariwise; had a quarrel. So then I ran crying, to tell some gabbling fool like myself what I had no business to tell out o' doors except to the saints, and there was one of our precious canals in the way; do they take us for teal? Oh, how tempting it did look! Says I to myself, 'Sith he has let me go out of his door quarrelled, he shall see me drowned next, and then he will change his key. He will blubber a good one, and I shall look down from heaven' (I forgot I should be in t'other part), 'and see him take on, and oh, but that will be sweet!' and I was all a tiptoe and going in, only just then I thought I wouldn't. I had got a new gown a making, for one thing, and hard upon finished. So I went home instead, and what was Eli's first word, 'Let yon flea stick i' the wall, my lass,' says he. 'Not a word of all I said t' anger thee was sooth, but this, “I love thee.”' These were his very words; I minded 'em, being the first quarrel. So I flung my arms about his neck and sobbed a bit, and thought o' the canal; and he was no colder to me than I to him, being a man and a young one; and so then that was better than lying in the water; and spoiling my wedding kirtle and my fine new shoon, old John Bush made 'em, that was uncle to him keeps the shop now. And what was my grief to hers?”
“You might, though. It was in the first year of us living together. Eli hadn't discovered my weak spots yet, nor I his, so we had a disagreement. I ended up running, crying, to tell some jabbering idiot like myself things I shouldn't have shared outside except with the saints. And there was one of our precious canals in the way; do they think we're fools? Oh, how tempting it looked! I thought to myself, 'Since he let me leave in a quarrel, he will see me drown next, and then he will change his tune. He'll be really upset, and I'll look down from heaven' (I forgot I would be in the other place), 'and see him grieving, and oh, that will be sweet!' I was all set to go in, but then I thought I wouldn't. I had a new dress being made, for one thing, and it was almost finished. So I went home instead, and Eli's first words were, 'Let that flea stick to the wall, my girl.' He said, 'Not a word of what I said to upset you was true, except this: “I love you.”' Those were his exact words; I remembered them, being the first argument. So I threw my arms around his neck and sobbed a bit, thinking about the canal; and he wasn't any colder to me than I was to him, being a man and a young one; and that was better than lying in the water and ruining my wedding dress and my nice new shoes, made by old John Bush, who is the uncle that runs the shop now. And what was my grief compared to hers?”
Little Kate hoped that Margaret loved her father too much to think of leaving him so at his age. “He is father and mother and all to her, you know.”
Little Kate hoped that Margaret loved her father too much to consider leaving him at his age. “He is both her father and mother and everything to her, you know.”
“Nay, Kate, they do forget all these things in a moment o' despair when the very sky seems black above them. I place more faith in him that is unborn, than on him that is ripe for the grave, to keep her out o' mischief. For certes it do go sore against us to die when there's a little innocent a pulling at our hearts to let 'un live, and feeding at our very veins.”
“Nah, Kate, people forget all these things in a moment of despair when the sky seems dark above them. I trust more in the unborn than in someone who's close to death to protect her from trouble. It's really hard for us to die when there's a little innocent one tugging at our hearts to let them live, and feeding off our very life.”
“Well, then, keep up a good heart, mother.” She added, that very likely all these fears were exaggerated. She ended by solemnly entreating her mother at all events not to persist in naming the sex of Margaret's infant. It was so unlucky, all the gossips told her; “dear heart, as if there were not as many girls born as boys.”
“Well, then, stay positive, Mom.” She mentioned that these fears were probably blown out of proportion. She concluded by earnestly asking her mother not to keep referring to the sex of Margaret's baby. It was considered bad luck, according to all the gossipers; “oh dear, as if there aren’t just as many girls born as boys.”
This reflection, though not unreasonable, was met with clamour.
This reflection, while not unreasonable, was met with uproar.
“Have you the cruelty to threaten me with a girl!!? I want no more girls, while I have you. What use would a lass be to me? Can I set her on my knee and see my Gerard again as I can a boy? I tell thee 'tis all settled.
“Do you really have the heart to threaten me with a girl? I don’t want any more girls while I have you. What would I do with a girl? Can I sit her on my lap and see my Gerard again like I can with a boy? I’m telling you it’s all decided.”
“How may that be?”
"How can that be?"
“In my mind. And if I am to be disappointed i' the end, 'tisn't for you to disappoint me beforehand, telling me it is not to be a child, but only a girl.”
“In my mind. And if I'm going to be let down in the end, it's not your place to let me down early by saying I won't be a child, but just a girl.”
CHAPTER XLIX
MARGARET BRANDT had always held herself apart from Sevenbergen; and her reserve had passed for pride; this had come to her ears, and she knew many hearts were swelling with jealousy and malevolence. How would they triumph over her when her condition could no longer be concealed! This thought gnawed her night and day. For some time it had made her bury herself in the house, and shun daylight even on those rare occasions when she went abroad.
MARGARET BRANDT had always kept her distance from Sevenbergen; her aloofness was mistaken for pride. She had heard that many people were filled with jealousy and spite. How would they celebrate her downfall when her situation could no longer be hidden? This thought tormented her day and night. For a while, it had made her isolate herself at home and avoid going out, even on the rare occasions when she did.
Not that in her secret heart and conscience she mistook her moral situation, as my unlearned readers have done perhaps. Though not acquainted with the nice distinctions of the contemporary law, she knew that betrothal was a marriage contract, and could no more be legally broken on either side than any other compact written and witnessed; and that marriage with another party than the betrothed had been formerly annulled both by Church and State and that betrothed couples often came together without any further ceremony, and their children were legitimate.
Not that in her secret heart and conscience did she misunderstand her moral situation, as my less knowledgeable readers might have. Although she wasn't familiar with the intricate details of modern law, she knew that engagement was a marriage contract and could not be legally broken by either side any more than any other written and witnessed agreement. She also understood that marrying someone else while still engaged had previously been annulled by both the Church and the State, and that engaged couples often came together without any additional ceremony, and their children were considered legitimate.
But what weighed down her simple mediaeval mind was this: that very contract of betrothal was not forthcoming. Instead of her keeping it, Gerard had got it, and Gerard was far, far away. She hated and despised herself for the miserable oversight which had placed her at the mercy of false opinion.
But what burdened her simple medieval mind was this: that very contract of betrothal was not presented. Instead of her holding onto it, Gerard had obtained it, and Gerard was far, far away. She loathed and looked down on herself for the wretched mistake that had left her vulnerable to false judgment.
For though she had never heard Horace's famous couplet, Segnius irritant, etc., she was Horatian by the plain, hard, positive intelligence, which, strange to say, characterizes the judgment of her sex, when feeling happens not to blind it altogether. She gauged the understanding of the world to a T. Her marriage lines being out of sight, and in Italy, would never prevail to balance her visible pregnancy, and the sight of her child when born. What sort of a tale was this to stop slanderous tongues? “I have got my marriage lines, but I cannot show them you.” What woman would believe her? or even pretend to believe her? And as she was in reality one of the most modest girls in Holland, it was women's good opinion she wanted, not men's.
For even though she had never heard Horace's famous couplet, Segnius irritant, etc., she was Horatian in the straightforward, clear-minded intelligence that, oddly enough, defines the judgment of her gender when emotions don’t completely cloud it. She understood the world perfectly. Her marriage documents being hidden away, and in Italy, wouldn’t be enough to outweigh her visible pregnancy and the sight of her child when born. What kind of story would stop the gossip? “I have my marriage papers, but I can’t show them to you.” What woman would believe her? Or even pretend to believe her? And since she was truly one of the most modest girls in Holland, it was the approval of women she sought, not men’s.
Even barefaced slander attacks her sex at a great advantage; but here was slander with a face of truth. “The strong-minded woman” had not yet been invented; and Margaret, though by nature and by having been early made mistress of a family, she was resolute in some respects, was weak as water in others, and weakest of all in this. Like all the elite of her sex, she was a poor little leaf, trembling at each gust of the world's opinion, true or false. Much misery may be contained in few words. I doubt if pages of description from any man's pen could make any human creature, except virtuous women (and these need no such aid), realize the anguish of a virtuous woman foreseeing herself paraded as a frail one. Had she been frail at heart, she might have brazened it out. But she had not that advantage. She was really pure as snow, and saw the pitch coming nearer her and nearer. The poor girl sat listless hours at a time, and moaned with inner anguish. And often, when her father was talking to her, and she giving mechanical replies, suddenly her cheek would burn like fire, and the old man would wonder what he had said to discompose her. Nothing. His words were less than air to her. It was the ever-present dread sent the colour of shame into her burning cheek, no matter what she seemed to be talking and thinking about. But both shame and fear rose to a climax when she came back that night from Margaret Van Eyck's. Her condition was discovered, and by persons of her own sex. The old artist, secluded like herself, might not betray her; but Catherine, a gossip in the centre of a family, and a thick neighbourhood? One spark of hope remained. Catherine had spoken kindly, even lovingly. The situation admitted no half course. Gerard's mother thus roused must either be her best friend or worst enemy. She waited then in racking anxiety to hear more. No word came. She gave up hope. Catherine was not going to be her friend. Then she would expose her, since she had no strong and kindly feeling to balance the natural love of babbling.
Even blatant slander attacks her gender at a big advantage; but here was slander disguised as truth. "The strong-minded woman" hadn’t been invented yet; and Margaret, although she was naturally strong-willed and had been made head of a household at an early age, was firm in some ways but weak as water in others, and weakest of all in this. Like many women of her class, she was a fragile little leaf, trembling at every gust of public opinion, true or false. A lot of misery can be contained in just a few words. I doubt that pages of description from any man could help anyone, except virtuous women (who don't need any help), understand the pain of a virtuous woman who fears being portrayed as a loose woman. If she had been weak at heart, she might have faced it boldly. But she didn’t have that advantage. She was genuinely pure, and she could see the darkness getting closer and closer. The poor girl spent endless hours sitting listlessly, moaning with inner trauma. Often, when her father talked to her and she replied mechanically, suddenly her cheek would flush bright red, and the old man would wonder what he had said to upset her. It was nothing. His words were meaningless to her. It was the constant fear that brought the color of shame to her burning cheeks, no matter what it seemed like she was discussing or thinking about. But both shame and fear peaked when she returned that night from Margaret Van Eyck's. Her condition was revealed, and by other women. The old artist, secluded like her, might not betray her, but Catherine, a gossip entrenched in family and neighborhood? There was one glimmer of hope left. Catherine had spoken kindly, even affectionately. The situation couldn’t allow for anything indecisive. Gerard's mother, stirred from her routine, would either become her best ally or her worst enemy. She then waited in excruciating anxiety to hear more. No word came. She lost hope. Catherine was not going to be her ally. Then she would expose her, as she had no strong and caring feeling to counteract her natural tendency to gossip.
Then it was the wish to fly from this neighbourhood began to grow and gnaw upon her, till it became a wild and passionate desire. But how persuade her father to this? Old people cling to places. He was very old and infirm to change his abode. There was no course but to make him her confidant; better so than to run away from him; and she felt that would be the alternative. And now between her uncontrollable desire to fly and hide, and her invincible aversion to speak out to a man, even to her father, she vibrated in a suspense full of lively torture. And presently betwixt these two came in one day the fatal thought, “end all!” Things foolishly worded are not always foolish; one of poor Catherine's bugbears, these numerous canals, did sorely tempt this poor fluctuating girl. She stood on the bank one afternoon, and eyed the calm deep water. It seemed an image of repose, and she was so harassed. No more trouble. No more fear of shame. If Gerard had not loved her, I doubt she had ended there.
Then her desire to escape from this neighborhood started to grow and eat away at her until it turned into an overwhelming passion. But how could she convince her father to agree? Older people tend to hold on to their homes. He was very old and frail to change his surroundings. The only option was to confide in him; it was better than running away, and she sensed that would be the alternative. Now, caught between her uncontrollable urge to flee and hide and her strong reluctance to speak openly to a man, even her father, she was in a state of painful tension. Then, one day, amid these two feelings, came the desperate thought, “end it all!” Things that seem foolishly expressed aren't always silly; one of Catherine's fears, those numerous canals, really tempted this troubled girl. One afternoon, she stood by the water, looking at the calm, deep surface. It seemed like a symbol of peace, and she was so worn out. No more trouble. No more fear of shame. If Gerard hadn't loved her, I doubt she would have continued from that point.
As it was, she kneeled by the water side, and prayed fervently to God to keep such wicked thoughts from her. “Oh! selfish wretch,” said she, “to leave thy father. Oh, wicked wretch, to kill thy child, and make thy poor Gerard lose all his pain and peril undertaken for thy sight. I will tell father all, ay, ere this sun shall set.” And she went home with eager haste, lest her good resolution should ooze out ere she got there.
As she knelt by the water, she prayed passionately to God to keep those awful thoughts away from her. “Oh! self-centered fool,” she said, “to abandon your father. Oh, terrible wretch, to harm your child and make your poor Gerard lose all the pain and danger he faced just to see you. I will tell father everything, yes, before this sun sets.” And she hurried home, eager to make sure her good intention didn’t fade before she got there.
Now, in matters domestic the learned Peter was simple as a child, and Margaret, from the age of sixteen, had governed the house gently but absolutely. It was therefore a strange thing in this house, the faltering, irresolute way in which its young but despotic mistress addressed that person, who in a domestic sense was less important than Martin Wittenhaagen, or even than the little girl who came in the morning and for a pittance washed the vessels, etc., and went home at night.
Now, in home matters, the knowledgeable Peter was as naive as a child, and Margaret, since she was sixteen, had managed the household with gentle yet total authority. It was, therefore, quite odd in this household to see the hesitant, uncertain way in which its young but authoritative mistress spoke to someone who, in a domestic sense, was less significant than Martin Wittenhaagen, or even the little girl who came in the morning, washed the dishes for a small payment, and went home at night.
“Father, I would speak to thee.”
“Dad, I want to talk to you.”
“Speak on, girl.”
"Go ahead, girl."
“Wilt listen to me? And—and—not—and try to excuse my faults?”
“Will you listen to me? And—and—not—and try to overlook my faults?”
“We have all our faults, Margaret, thou no more than the rest of us; but fewer, unless parental feeling blinds me.”
“We all have our faults, Margaret, just like everyone else; but you have fewer, unless my parental feelings are clouding my judgment.”
“Alas, no, father: I am a poor foolish girl, that would fain do well, but have done ill, most ill, most unwisely; and now must bear the shame. But, father, I love you, with all my faults, and will not you forgive my folly, and still love your motherless girl?”
“Unfortunately, no, dad: I’m just a foolish girl who wants to do the right thing, but I’ve messed up, really messed up, in the worst way; and now I have to deal with the shame. But, dad, I love you, despite all my faults, so won't you forgive my mistakes and continue to love your motherless girl?”
“That ye may count on,” said Peter cheerfully.
“That you can count on,” said Peter cheerfully.
“Oh, well, smile not. For then how can I speak and make you sad?”
“Oh, well, don’t smile. Because how can I talk and make you feel sad?”
“Why, what is the matter?”
"What's the matter?"
“Father, disgrace is coming on this house: it is at the door. And I the culprit. Oh, father, turn your head away. I—I—father, I have let Gerard take away my marriage lines.”
“Dad, shame is coming to this house: it’s right at the door. And I’m the one to blame. Oh, Dad, please look away. I—I—Dad, I let Gerard take my marriage certificate.”
“Is that all? 'Twas an oversight.”
“Is that it? That was just a mistake.”
“'Twas the deed of a mad woman. But woe is me! that is not the worst.”
“It's the action of a crazy woman. But oh no! that's not even the worst part.”
Peter interrupted her. “The youth is honest, and loves you dear. You are young. What is a year or two to you? Gerard will assuredly come back and keep troth.”
Peter interrupted her. “The kid is genuine and truly loves you. You’re young. What’s a year or two to you? Gerard will definitely come back and keep his promise.”
“And meantime know you what is coming?”
“And in the meantime, do you know what's coming?”
“Not I, except that I shall be gone first for one.”
“Not me, except that I'll be leaving first for one.”
“Worse than that. There is worse pain than death. Nay, for pity's sake turn away your head, father.”
“Worse than that. There’s pain worse than death. Please, for the sake of compassion, look away, Dad.”
“Foolish wench!” muttered Peter, but turned his head.
“Foolish girl!” muttered Peter, but turned his head.
She trembled violently, and with her cheeks on fire began to falter out, “I did look on Gerard as my husband—we being betrothed-and he was in so sore danger, and I thought I had killed him, and I-oh, if you were but my mother I might find courage: you would question me. But you say not a word.”
She shook uncontrollably, her cheeks burning as she started to say, “I did see Gerard as my husband—we were engaged—and he was in such grave danger, and I thought I had killed him, and I—oh, if only you were my mother, I might find the courage: you would ask me questions. But you’re saying nothing.”
“Why, Margaret, what is all this coil about? and why are thy cheeks crimson, speaking to no stranger', but to thy old father?”
“Why, Margaret, what’s all this fuss about? And why are your cheeks red, talking to no stranger, but to your old father?”
“Why are my cheeks on fire? Because—because—father kill me; send me to heaven! bid Martin shoot me with his arrow! And then the gossips will come and tell you why I blush so this day. And then, when I am dead, I hope you will love your girl again for her mother's sake.”
“Why are my cheeks burning? Because—because—dad, just end me; send me to heaven! Tell Martin to shoot me with his arrow! Then the gossipers will come and explain why I'm blushing so much today. And once I'm gone, I hope you’ll love your girl again for her mother's sake.”
“Give me thy hand, mistress,” said Peter, a little sternly.
"Give me your hand, miss," said Peter, a bit sternly.
She put it out to him trembling. He took it gently and began with some anxiety in his face to feel her pulse.
She reached out to him, shaking. He took it carefully and, with a hint of worry on his face, started to check her pulse.
“Alas, nay,” said she. “'Tis my soul that burns, not my body, with fever. I cannot, will not, bide in Sevenbergen.” And she wrung her hands impatiently.
“Alas, no,” she said. “It’s my soul that’s on fire, not my body, with fever. I cannot, I will not, stay in Sevenbergen.” And she wrung her hands impatiently.
“Be calm now,” said the old man soothingly, “nor torment thyself for nought. Not bide in Sevenbergen? What need to bide a day, as it vexes thee, and puts thee in a fever: for fevered thou art, deny it not.”
“Calm down now,” the old man said gently, “and don’t torture yourself over nothing. You don’t have to stay in Sevenbergen? Why stick around for a day if it annoys you and gets you worked up? You’re agitated, don’t deny it.”
“What!” cried Margaret, “would you yield to go hence, and—and ask no reason but my longing to be gone?” and suddenly throwing herself on her knees beside him, in a fervour of supplication she clutched his sleeve, and then his arm, and then his shoulder, while imploring him to quit this place, and not ask her why. “Alas! what needs it? You will soon see it. And I could never say it. I would liever die.”
“What!” Margaret exclaimed, “would you really leave without asking me why I want to go?” Suddenly, she dropped to her knees beside him and, in a burst of desperation, gripped his sleeve, then his arm, and finally his shoulder, pleading with him to leave this place and not question her. “Oh! What’s the point? You'll understand soon. And I could never explain it. I’d rather die.”
“Foolish child, who seeks thy girlish secrets? Is it I, whose life hath been spent in searching Nature's? And for leaving Sevenbergen, what is there to keep me in it, thee unwilling? Is there respect for me here, or gratitude? Am I not yclept quacksalver by those that come not near me, and wizard by those I heal? And give they not the guerdon and the honour they deny me to the empirics that slaughter them? Besides, what is't to me where we sojourn? Choose thou that, as did thy mother before thee.”
“Foolish child, who is interested in your girlhood secrets? Is it I, who has spent my life searching for the truths of nature? And why should I stay in Sevenbergen if you don't want me here? Is there any respect for me here, or gratitude? Am I not called a quack by those who don’t come near me and a wizard by those I help? Don’t they give the rewards and respect they deny me to the charlatans who harm them? Besides, what difference does it make to me where we live? You can choose that, just like your mother did before you.”
Margaret embraced him tenderly, and wept upon his shoulder.
Margaret hugged him closely and cried on his shoulder.
She was respited.
She got a break.
Yet as she wept, respited, she almost wished she had had the courage to tell him.
Yet as she cried, taking a break, she almost wished she had the courage to tell him.
After a while nothing would content him but her taking a medicament he went and brought her. She took it submissively, to please him. It was the least she could do. It was a composing draught, and though administered under an error, and a common one, did her more good than harm: she awoke calmed by a long sleep, and that very day began her preparations.
After some time, nothing would satisfy him except for her taking a medication he went and got for her. She took it willingly, to make him happy. It was the least she could do. It was a calming remedy, and although it was given mistakenly, which is a common occurrence, it did her more good than harm: she woke up feeling relaxed from a long sleep, and that very day she started her preparations.
Next week they went to Rotterdam, bag and baggage, and lodged above a tailor's shop in the Brede-Kirk Straet.
Next week, they went to Rotterdam with all their belongings and stayed above a tailor's shop on Brede-Kirk Street.
Only one person in Tergou knew whither they were gone.
Only one person in Tergou knew where they had gone.
The Burgomaster.
The Mayor.
He locked the information in his own breast.
He kept the information to himself.
The use he made of it ere long, my reader will not easily divine: for he did not divine it himself.
The way he used it soon will be hard for you to guess, my reader: because he didn't figure it out himself.
But time will show.
But time will tell.
CHAPTER L
Among strangers Margaret Brandt was comparatively happy. And soon a new and unexpected cause of content arose. A civic dignitary being ill, and fanciful in proportion, went from doctor to doctor; and having arrived at death's door, sent for Peter. Peter found him bled and purged to nothing. He flung a battalion of bottles out of window, and left it open; beat up yolks of eggs in neat Schiedam, and administered it in small doses; followed this up by meat stewed in red wine and water, shredding into both mild febrifugal herbs, that did no harm. Finally, his patient got about again, looking something between a man and a pillow-case, and being a voluble dignitary, spread Peter's fame in every street; and that artist, who had long merited a reputation in vain, made one rapidly by luck. Things looked bright. The old man's pride was cheered at last, and his purse began to fill. He spent much of his gain, however, in sovereign herbs and choice drugs, and would have so invested them all, but Margaret white-mailed a part. The victory came too late. Its happy excitement was fatal.
Among strangers, Margaret Brandt was fairly happy. And soon, an unexpected reason for her contentment appeared. A civic official, who was ill and somewhat melodramatic, went from doctor to doctor, and when he was close to death, he called for Peter. Peter found him drained and on the verge of collapse. He threw a bunch of bottles out of the window and left it open; mixed egg yolks with good Schiedam, and gave it in small doses; followed that up with meat cooked in red wine and water, adding gentle herbs that wouldn't cause any harm. In the end, his patient recovered, looking somewhere between a person and a pillowcase, and since he was a talkative dignitary, he spread Peter's name in every street; and that artist, who had long deserved a reputation without getting one, suddenly gained it by chance. Things started to look up. The old man's pride was finally lifted, and his finances began to improve. However, he spent much of his earnings on rare herbs and special medicines, and would have invested all of it, but Margaret took a portion for herself. The victory arrived too late. Its joyous thrill turned out to be deadly.
One evening, in bidding her good-night, his voice seemed rather inarticulate.
One evening, as he said goodnight to her, his voice sounded a bit unclear.
The next morning he was found speechless, and only just sensible.
The next morning, he was found unable to speak and barely conscious.
Margaret, who had been for years her father's attentive pupil, saw at once that he had had a paralytic stroke. But not trusting to herself, she ran for a doctor. One of those who, obstructed by Peter, had not killed the civic dignitary, came, and cheerfully confirmed her views. He was for bleeding the patient. She declined. “He was always against blooding,” said she, “especially the old.” Peter lived, but was never the same man again. His memory became much affected, and of course he was not to be trusted to prescribe; and several patients had come, and one or two, that were bent on being cured by the new doctor and no other, awaited his convalescence. Misery stared her in the face. She resolved to go for advice and comfort to her cousin William Johnson, from whom she had hitherto kept aloof out of pride and poverty. She found him and his servant sitting in the same room, and neither of them the better for liquor. Mastering all signs of surprise, she gave her greetings, and presently told him she had come to talk on a family matter, and with this glanced quietly at the servant by way of hint. The woman took it, but not as expected.
Margaret, who had been her father’s devoted student for years, immediately recognized that he had suffered a stroke. Unsure of herself, she hurried to find a doctor. One of those who, blocked by Peter, hadn’t harmed the local official, arrived and cheerfully confirmed her suspicions. He suggested bleeding the patient. She refused. “He was always against bloodletting,” she said, “especially for the elderly.” Peter survived, but he was never the same again. His memory was significantly affected, and naturally, he couldn’t be relied upon to give medical advice; several patients had come, and a couple of them, determined to be treated by the new doctor and no one else, were waiting for his recovery. Misery confronted her. She decided to seek advice and support from her cousin William Johnson, from whom she had previously distanced herself out of pride and financial issues. She found him and his servant in the same room, neither of them better for drinking. Suppressing her surprise, she greeted him and soon mentioned that she wanted to discuss a family issue, subtly glancing at the servant as a hint. The woman picked up on it, but not in the way she expected.
“Oh, you can speak before me, can she not, my old man?”
“Oh, she can speak in front of me, right, my old man?”
At this familiarity Margaret turned very red, and said—
At this familiarity, Margaret blushed deeply and said—
“I cry you mercy, mistress. I knew not my cousin had fallen into the custom of this town. Well, I must take a fitter opportunity;” and she rose to go.
“I beg your forgiveness, ma'am. I didn't realize my cousin had gotten caught up in this town's ways. I guess I'll have to find a better time;” and she stood up to leave.
“I wot not what ye mean by custom o' the town,” said the woman, bouncing up. “But this I know; 'tis the part of a faithful servant to keep her master from being preyed on by his beggarly kin.”
“I don’t know what you mean by the customs of the town,” said the woman, jumping up. “But I do know this; it’s the duty of a loyal servant to protect her master from being taken advantage of by his greedy relatives.”
Margaret retorted: “Ye are too modest, mistress. Ye are no servant. Your speech betrays you. 'Tis not till the ape hath mounted the tree that she, shows her tail so plain. Nay, there sits the servant; God help him! And while so it is, fear not thou his kin will ever be so poor in spirit as come where the likes of you can flout their dole.” And casting one look of mute reproach at her cousin for being so little of a man as to sit passive and silent all this time, she turned and went haughtily out; nor would she shed a single tear till she got home and thought of it. And now here were two men to be lodged and fed by one pregnant girl; and another mouth coming into the world.
Margaret shot back, “You’re way too humble, lady. You’re not a servant. The way you talk gives you away. It’s not until the monkey climbs the tree that she shows her tail so clearly. No, there sits the servant; God help him! And as long as that’s the case, don’t worry that his kind will ever be so low-spirited as to come where someone like you can look down on their struggles.” With one last look of silent disapproval at her cousin for being such a weak man by sitting quietly and doing nothing, she turned and left with her head held high; she wouldn’t shed a single tear until she got home and thought about it. And now there were two men to be housed and fed by one pregnant girl, with another mouth on the way.
But this last, though the most helpless of all, was their best friend.
But this last one, though the most vulnerable of all, was their greatest ally.
Nature was strong in Margaret Brandt; that same nature which makes the brutes, the birds, and the insects, so cunning at providing food and shelter for their progeny yet to come.
Nature was powerful in Margaret Brandt; that same nature that makes animals, birds, and insects so clever at providing food and shelter for their future young.
Stimulated by nature she sat and brooded, and brooded, and thought, and thought, how to be beforehand with destitution. Ay, though she had still five gold pieces left, she saw starvation coming with inevitable foot.
Stimulated by nature, she sat and reflected, and reflected, and thought, and thought, about how to get ahead of poverty. Yes, even though she still had five gold coins left, she could see hunger approaching with inevitable certainty.
Her sex, when, deviating from custom, it thinks with male intensity, thinks just as much to the purpose as we do. She rose, bade Martin move Peter to another room, made her own very neat and clean, polished the glass globe, and suspended it from the ceiling, dusted the crocodile and nailed him to the outside wall; and after duly instructing Martin, set him to play the lounging sentinel about the street door, and tell the crocodile-bitten that a great, and aged, and learned alchymist abode there, who in his moments of recreation would sometimes amuse himself by curing mortal diseases.
Her gender, when it breaks from tradition, thinks with male intensity, and is just as purposeful as we are. She stood up, told Martin to move Peter to another room, cleaned up her own space very neatly, polished the glass globe, and hung it from the ceiling, dusted the crocodile, and nailed it to the outside wall; after properly instructing Martin, she had him act as the casual guard by the street door and inform those bitten by the crocodile that a great, old, and knowledgeable alchemist lived there, who would sometimes entertain himself by curing diseases.
Patients soon came, and were received by Margaret, and demanded to see the leech. “That might not be. He was deep in his studies, searching for the grand elixir, and not princes could have speech of him. They must tell her their symptoms, and return in two hours.” And oh! mysterious powers! when they did return, the drug or draught was always ready for them. Sometimes, when it was a worshipful patient, she would carefully scan his face, and feeling both pulse and skin, as well as hearing his story, would go softly with it to Peter's room; and there think and ask herself how her father, whose system she had long quietly observed, would have treated the case. Then she would write an illegible scrawl with a cabalistic letter, and bring it down reverently, and show it the patient, and “Could he read that?” Then it would be either, “I am no reader,” or, with admiration, “Nay, mistress, nought can I make on't.”
Patients soon arrived, and Margaret greeted them, insisting they needed to see the doctor. “That’s not possible. He’s deep in his work, trying to find the ultimate cure, and no one can interrupt him. You’ll need to share your symptoms and come back in two hours.” And oh! mysterious forces! When they returned, the medicine or potion was always ready for them. Sometimes, when it was a particularly important patient, she would carefully examine his face, check his pulse and skin, and listen to his story before quietly going to Peter's room; there she would think and reflect on how her father, whom she had observed for a long time, would have dealt with the situation. Then she would write an unintelligible note with a cryptic symbol, bring it down with great respect, show it to the patient, asking, “Can you read this?” The response would either be, “I can’t read,” or, with admiration, “No, my lady, I can’t make sense of it.”
“Ay, but I can. 'Tis sovereign. Look on thyself as cured!” If she had the materials by her, and she was too good an economist not to favour somewhat those medicines she had in her own stock, she would sometimes let the patient see her compound it, often and anxiously consulting the sacred prescription lest great Science should suffer in her hands. And so she would send them away relieved of cash, but with their pockets full of medicine, and minds full of faith, and humbugged to their hearts' content. Populus vult decipi. And when they were gone, she would take down two little boxes Gerard had made her; and on one of these she had written To-day, and on the other To-morrow, and put the smaller coins into “To-day,” and the larger into “To-morrow,” along with such of her gold pieces as had survived the journey from Sevenbergen, and the expenses of housekeeping in a strange place, and so she met current expenses, and laid by for the rainy day she saw coming, and mixed drugs with simples, and vice with virtue. On this last score her conscience pricked her sore, and after each day's comedy, she knelt down and prayed God to forgive her “for the sake of her child.” But lo and behold, cure and cure was reported to her; so then her conscience began to harden. Martin Wittenhaagen had of late been a dead weight on her hands. Like most men who had endured great hardships, he had stiffened rather suddenly. But though less supple, he was as strong as ever, and at his own pace could have carried the doctor herself round Rotterdam city. He carried her slops instead.
"Yes, but I can. It’s guaranteed. Look at yourself, you’re cured!” If she had the materials on hand, and she was too good at managing her resources not to favor the medicines she had in stock, she would sometimes let the patient watch her mix it, often and anxiously checking the sacred prescription to make sure great Science didn’t suffer in her hands. So she would send them away lighter in cash but with their pockets full of medicine and their minds full of faith, completely fooled to their hearts' content. The public wants to be deceived. And once they left, she would take down two little boxes that Gerard had made for her; on one she had written Today, and on the other Tomorrow, putting the smaller coins into “Today,” and the larger ones into “Tomorrow,” along with any gold pieces that made it through the trip from Sevenbergen and the costs of living in a strange place. This was how she managed her expenses and saved for the rainy day she sensed was coming, mixing drugs with simple remedies, and vice with virtue. Her conscience bothered her about this, and after each day’s charade, she would kneel and pray to God to forgive her “for the sake of her child.” But lo and behold, she kept hearing reports of cures; and then her conscience began to harden. Martin Wittenhaagen had lately become a burden for her. Like most men who had faced great hardships, he had grown somewhat rigid. But even though he was less flexible, he was as strong as ever, and at his own pace, he could have carried the doctor herself around the city of Rotterdam. Instead, he was stuck carrying her waste.
In this new business he showed the qualities of a soldier: unreasoning obedience, punctuality, accuracy, despatch, and drunkenness.
In this new business, he demonstrated qualities like a soldier: blind obedience, being on time, precision, efficiency, and a tendency to drink too much.
He fell among “good fellows;” the blackguards plied him with Schiedam; he babbled, he bragged.
He fell in with some "good buddies;" the jerks poured him shots of Schiedam; he chattered and boasted.
Doctor Margaret had risen very high in his estimation. All this brandishing of a crocodile for a standard, and setting a dotard in ambush, and getting rid of slops, and taking good money in exchange, struck him not as Science but something far superior, Strategy. And he boasted in his cups and before a mixed company how “me and my General we are a biting of the burghers.”
Doctor Margaret had risen very high in his respect. All this flaunting of a crocodile as a standard, and setting an old fool in ambush, and getting rid of waste, and taking good money in return struck him not as Science but something much better, Strategy. And he bragged while drinking and in front of a mixed group how “me and my General, we're getting a bite out of the townspeople.”
When this revelation had had time to leaven the city, his General, Doctor Margaret, received a call from the constables; they took her, trembling and begging subordinate machines to forgive her, before the burgomaster; and by his side stood real physicians, a terrible row, in long robes and square caps, accusing her of practising unlawfully on the bodies of the duke's lieges. At first she was too frightened to say a word. Novice like, the very name of “Law” paralyzed her. But being questioned closely, but not so harshly as if she had been ugly, she told the truth; she had long been her father's pupil, and had but followed his system, and she had cured many; “and it is not for myself in very deed, sirs, but I have two poor helpless honest men at home upon my hands, and how else can I keep them? Ah, good sirs, let a poor girl make her bread honestly; ye hinder them not to make it idly and shamefully; and oh, sirs, ye are husbands, ye are fathers; ye cannot but see I have reason to work and provide as best I may;” and ere this woman's appeal had left her lips, she would have given the world to recall it, and stood with one hand upon her heart and one before her face, hiding it, but not the tears that trickled underneath it. All which went to the wrong address. Perhaps a female bailiff might have yielded to such arguments, and bade her practise medicine, and break law, till such time as her child should be weaned, and no longer.
When this revelation had settled in the city, her General, Doctor Margaret, received a call from the constables. They brought her in, trembling and pleading for her fellow officers to forgive her, before the mayor; and by his side stood real doctors in long robes and square caps, accusing her of practicing unlawfully on the bodies of the duke's subjects. At first, she was too scared to speak. Like a novice, the very mention of “Law” left her paralyzed. But when they asked her questions, not as harshly as if she had been ugly, she told the truth; she had long been her father's student and had simply followed his method, and she had cured many people. “It’s not for myself, gentlemen, but I have two poor, helpless, honest men at home, and how else can I support them? Please, let a poor girl earn her living honestly; you don’t stop others from making it idly and shamefully; and oh, gentlemen, you are husbands, you are fathers; you can’t help but see that I have every reason to work and provide as best I can.” And before this woman’s plea had fully left her lips, she would have given anything to take it back, standing with one hand over her heart and the other over her face, hiding it, though not the tears that ran beneath it. All this was lost on the wrong audience. Maybe a female bailiff would have been swayed by such arguments and allowed her to practice medicine and break the law until her child was weaned, but not beyond that.
“What have we to do with that,” said the burgomaster, “save and except that if thou wilt pledge thyself to break the law no more, I will remit the imprisonment, and exact but the fine?”
“What do we have to do with that,” said the mayor, “except that if you promise to obey the law from now on, I will cancel the imprisonment and only require the fine?”
On this Doctor Margaret clasped her hands together, and vowed most penitently never, never, never to cure body or beast again; and being dismissed with the constables to pay the fine, she turned at the door, and curtsied, poor soul, and thanked the gentlemen for their forbearance.
On this, Doctor Margaret brought her hands together and sincerely vowed never, ever, ever to treat another person or animal again. After being escorted by the police to pay her fine, she turned at the door, curtsied—poor thing—and thanked the men for their patience.
And to pay the fine the “To-morrow box” must be opened on the instant; and with excess of caution she had gone and nailed it up, that no slight temptation might prevail to open it. And now she could not draw the nails, and the constables grew impatient, and doubted its contents, and said, “Let us break it for you.” But she would not let them. “Ye will break it worse than I shall.” And she took a hammer, and struck too faintly, and lost all strength for a minute, and wept hysterically; and at last she broke it, and a little cry bubbled from her when it broke; and she paid the fine, and it took all her unlawful gains and two gold pieces to boot; and when the men were gone, she drew the broken pieces of the box, and what little money they had left her, all together on the table, and her arms went round them, and her rich hair escaped, and fell down all loose, and she bowed her forehead on the wreck, and sobbed, “My love's box it is broken, and my heart withal;” and so remained. And Martin Wittenhaagen came in, and she could not lift her head, but sighed out to him what had befallen her, ending, “My love his box is broken, and so mine heart is broken.”
And to pay the fine, the “Tomorrow box” had to be opened immediately; she had gone and nailed it shut to avoid any temptation to open it. Now, she couldn’t pull out the nails, and the officers grew impatient, doubting what was inside. They said, “Let us break it for you.” But she refused. “You’ll break it worse than I will.” She took a hammer and struck too lightly, losing all her strength for a moment, then wept hysterically. Finally, she managed to break it, letting out a little cry when it did. She paid the fine, which wiped out all her illegal earnings and two gold pieces on top. When the men left, she gathered the broken pieces of the box and whatever little money they had left on the table, wrapping her arms around them. Her rich hair fell loose, and she bowed her forehead on the wreck, sobbing, “My love's box is broken, and my heart is broken too.” And she stayed like that. Then Martin Wittenhaagen came in, and she couldn’t lift her head but sighed to him about what had happened, finishing with, “My love's box is broken, and so my heart is broken.”
And Martin was not so sad as wroth. Some traitor had betrayed him. What stony heart had told and brought her to this pass? Whoever it was should feel his arrow's point. The curious attitude in which he must deliver the shaft never occurred to him.
And Martin wasn't so much sad as angry. Some traitor had let him down. What cold-hearted person had told her and put her in this situation? Whoever it was would feel the sting of his arrow. He didn't even think about the strange position he would have to be in to shoot it.
“Idle chat! idle chat!” moaned Margaret, without lifting her brow from the table. “When you have slain all the gossips in this town, can we eat them? Tell me how to keep you all, or prithee hold thy peace, and let the saints get leave to whisper me.” Martin held his tongue, and cast uneasy glances at his defeated General.
“Useless chatter! Useless chatter!” Margaret groaned, keeping her head on the table. “Once you’ve taken care of all the gossips in this town, can we eat them? Just tell me how to keep you all, or please be quiet and let the saints have a chance to whisper to me.” Martin stayed silent and shot nervous looks at his defeated General.
Towards evening she rose, and washed her face and did up her hair, and doggedly bade Martin take down the crocodile, and put out a basket instead.
Towards evening, she got up, washed her face, fixed her hair, and stubbornly told Martin to take down the crocodile and put a basket in its place instead.
“I can get up linen better than they seem to do it in this street,” said she, “and you must carry it in the basket.”
“I can fold linen better than they seem to do it on this street,” she said, “and you need to carry it in the basket.”
“That will I for thy sake,” said the soldier.
"That's what I'll do for you," said the soldier.
“Good Martin! forgive me that I spake shrewishly to thee.”
“Good Martin! forgive me for speaking harshly to you.”
Even while they were talking came a male for advice. Margaret told it the mayor had interfered and forbidden her to sell drugs. “But,” said she, “I will gladly iron and starch your linen for you, and I will come and fetch it from your house.”
Even while they were talking, a man came for advice. Margaret told him that the mayor had intervened and forbidden her from selling drugs. “But,” she said, “I would be happy to iron and starch your linens for you, and I’ll come and pick them up from your house.”
“Are ye mad, young woman?” said the male. “I come for a leech, and ye proffer me a washerwoman;” and it went out in dudgeon.
“Are you crazy, young woman?” said the man. “I came for a doctor, and you’re offering me a laundry lady;” and he stormed out in anger.
“There is a stupid creature,” said Margaret sadly.
“There is a foolish creature,” said Margaret sadly.
Presently came a female to tell the symptoms of her sick child. Margaret stopped it.
Presently, a woman arrived to report the symptoms of her sick child. Margaret stopped her.
“We are forbidden by the bailiff to sell drugs. But I will gladly wash, iron, and starch your linen for you-and-I will come and fetch it from your house.”
“We’re not allowed to sell drugs because of the bailiff. But I’d be happy to wash, iron, and starch your linens for you—and I can come pick them up from your house.”
“Oh, ay,” said the female. “Well, I have some smocks and ruffs foul. Come for them; and when you are there, you can look at the boy;” and it told her where it lived, and when its husband would be out; yet it was rather fond of its husband than not.
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “Well, I have some dirty smocks and ruffs. Come pick them up; and when you’re there, you can check on the boy;” and it told her where it lived, and when its husband would be out; still, it liked its husband more than not.
An introduction is an introduction. And two or three patients out of all those who came and were denied medicine made Doctor Margaret their washerwoman.
An introduction is just an introduction. And a couple of patients out of all those who came and were denied medicine made Doctor Margaret their laundry lady.
“Now, Martin, you must help. I'll no more cats than can slay mice.”
“Now, Martin, you have to help. I’ll have no more cats than can catch mice.”
“Mistress, the stomach is not awanting for't, but the headpiece, worst luck.”
“Ma'am, it’s not my stomach that’s lacking, but my head, unfortunately.”
“Oh! I mean not the starching and ironing; that takes a woman and a handy one. But the bare washing; a man can surely contrive that. Why, a mule has wit enough in's head to do't with his hoofs, an' ye could drive him into the tub. Come, off doublet, and try.”
“Oh! I don’t mean the starching and ironing; that requires a woman who knows what she’s doing. But just the basic washing; a man can definitely manage that. A mule is smart enough to do it with his hooves, and you could just push him into the tub. Come on, take off your doublet and give it a try.”
“I am your man,” said the brave old soldier, stripping for the unwonted toil. “I'll risk my arm in soapsuds, an you will risk your glory.”
“I’m your guy,” said the brave old soldier, getting ready for the unusual work. “I’ll put my arm on the line in soapy water, if you’re willing to put your glory at stake.”
“My what?”
"My what now?"
“Your glory and honour as a—washerwoman.”
“Your glory and honor as a—washerwoman.”
“Gramercy! if you are man enough to bring me half-washed linen t' iron, I am woman enough to fling't back i' the suds.”
“Thanks! If you’re brave enough to bring me half-washed linen to iron, I’m strong enough to toss it back in the soapy water.”
And so the brave girl and the brave soldier worked with a will, and kept the wolf from the door. More they could not do. Margaret had repaired the “To-morrow box,” and as she leaned over the glue, her tears mixed with it, and she cemented her exiled lover's box with them, at which a smile is allowable, but an intelligent smile tipped with pity, please, and not the empty guffaw of the nineteenth-century-jackass, burlesquing Bibles, and making fun of all things except fun. But when mended it stood unreplenished. They kept the weekly rent paid, and the pot boiling, but no more.
And so the brave girl and the brave soldier worked hard and kept the wolf at bay. They couldn’t do any more than that. Margaret had fixed up the “Tomorrow box,” and as she leaned over the glue, her tears mixed in with it, sealing her exiled lover’s box with them—a situation that allows for a smile, but it should be an understanding smile tinged with pity, not the silly laughter of the 19th-century fool, mocking Bibles and all things except for joy. But once it was fixed, it stood empty. They managed to keep up with the weekly rent and keep food on the table, but that was it.
And now came a concatenation. Recommended from one to another, Margaret washed for the mayor. And bringing home the clean linen one day she heard in the kitchen that his worship's only daughter was stricken with disease, and not like to live, Poor Margaret could not help cross-questioning, and a female servant gave her such of the symptoms as she had observed. But they were too general. However, one gossip would add one fact, and another another. And Margaret pondered them all.
And now a chain of events unfolded. Recommended from one person to another, Margaret did laundry for the mayor. One day, while bringing home the clean linens, she overheard in the kitchen that his only daughter was seriously ill and not expected to survive. Poor Margaret couldn't help but ask questions, and a female servant shared the symptoms she had noticed. But they were too vague. However, one neighbor would add one detail, and another would offer another. And Margaret reflected on all of them.
At last one day she met the mayor himself. He recognized her directly. “Why, you are the unlicensed doctor.” “I was,” said she, “but now I'm your worship's washerwoman.” The dignitary coloured, and said that was rather a come down. “Nay, I bear no malice; for your worship might have been harder. Rather would I do you a good turn. Sir, you have a sick daughter. Let me see her.”
At last one day she met the mayor himself. He recognized her right away. “Oh, you’re the unlicensed doctor.” “I was,” she replied, “but now I’m your worship’s washerwoman.” The dignitary blushed and said that was quite a downgrade. “No, I hold no grudges; your worship could have been tougher. I’d actually prefer to do you a favor. Sir, you have a sick daughter. Let me take a look at her.”
The mayor shook his head. “That cannot be. The law I do enforce on others I may not break myself.” Margaret opened her eyes. “Alack, sir, I seek no guerdon now for curing folk; why, I am a washerwoman. I trow one may heal all the world, an if one will but let the world starve one in return.” “That is no more than just,” said the mayor: he added, “an' ye make no trade on't, there is no offence.” “Then let me see her.”
The mayor shook his head. “That can't be. The law I enforce on others, I can't break myself.” Margaret opened her eyes. “Oh, sir, I don’t want anything for helping people; I’m just a washerwoman. I guess you can heal everyone if you’re willing to let the world starve you in return.” “That’s only fair,” said the mayor. He added, “And if you don’t make a profit from it, there’s no offense.” “Then let me see her.”
“What avails it? The learnedest leeches in Rotterdam have all seen her, and bettered her nought. Her ill is inscrutable. One skilled wight saith spleen; another, liver; another, blood; another, stomach; and another, that she is possessed; and in very truth, she seems to have a demon; shunneth all company; pineth alone; eateth no more victuals than might diet a sparrow. Speaketh seldom, nor hearkens them that speak, and weareth thinner and paler and nearer and nearer the grave, well-a-day.” “Sir,” said Margaret, “an if you take your velvet doublet to half-a-dozen of shops in Rotterdam, and speer is this fine or sorry velvet, and worth how much the ell, those six traders will eye it and feel it, and all be in one story to a letter. And why? Because they know their trade. And your leeches are all in different stories. Why? Because they know not their trade. I have heard my father say each is enamoured of some one evil, and seeth it with his bat's eye in every patient. Had they stayed at home, and never seen your daughter, they had answered all the same, spleen, blood, stomach, lungs, liver, lunacy, or as they call it possession. Let me see her. We are of a sex, and that is much.” And when he still hesitated, “Saints of heaven!” cried she, giving way to the irritability of a breeding woman, “is this how men love their own flesh and blood? Her mother had ta'en me in her arms ere this, and carried me to the sick room.” And two violet eyes flashed fire.
“What’s the point? The smartest doctors in Rotterdam have all examined her, and none have improved her condition. Her illness is a mystery. One expert says it’s her spleen; another says her liver; another claims it’s her blood; someone else thinks it’s her stomach; and yet another believes she’s possessed. Honestly, it does seem like she has a demon; she avoids all company, pines away alone, and eats hardly more than a sparrow. She speaks rarely, doesn’t listen to those who do, and she’s getting thinner and paler, closer and closer to death, alas.” “Sir,” said Margaret, “if you take your velvet doublet to half a dozen shops in Rotterdam and ask whether this is fine or poor quality velvet, and how much it costs per ell, those six traders will all give the same answer. And why? Because they know their business. But your doctors all have different opinions. Why? Because they don’t know their business. I’ve heard my father say each one is fixated on a particular ailment and sees it everywhere in their patients. If they had just stayed home and never seen your daughter, they would have given the same answers: spleen, blood, stomach, lungs, liver, madness, or what they call possession. Let me see her. We’re both women, and that matters.” And when he hesitated again, “Heavens!” she exclaimed, losing the patience of a worried woman, “is this how men love their own flesh and blood? Her mother would have taken me in her arms by now and brought me to the sickroom.” And two violet eyes flashed with intensity.
“Come with me,” said the mayor hastily.
“Come with me,” said the mayor quickly.
“Mistress, I have brought thee a new doctor.”
“Ma'am, I have brought you a new doctor.”
The person addressed, a pale young girl of eighteen, gave a contemptuous wrench of her shoulder, and turned more decidedly to the fire she was sitting over.
The person being talked to, a pale eighteen-year-old girl, shrugged her shoulder dismissively and turned even more pointedly toward the fire she was sitting by.
Margaret came softly and sat beside her. “But 'tis one that will not torment you.
Margaret came quietly and sat next to her. “But it's one that won't torment you.
“A woman!” exclaimed the young lady, with surprise and some contempt.
“A woman!” the young lady exclaimed, surprised and a bit disdainful.
“Tell her your symptoms.”
“Tell her your symptoms.”
“What for? you will be no wiser.”
“What for? You won’t gain any insight.”
“You will be none the worse.”
“You won’t be any worse off.”
“Well, I have no stomach for food, and no heart for any thing. Now cure me, and go.”
“Well, I have no appetite for food, and no passion for anything. Just fix me and leave.”
“Patience awhile! Your food, is it tasteless like in your mouth?”
“Just wait a bit! Is your food flavorless like in your mouth?”
“Ay. How knew you that?”
"Yeah. How did you know that?"
“Nay, I knew it not till you did tell me. I trow you would be better for a little good company.”
“Nah, I didn't know it until you told me. I think you'd be better off with a little good company.”
“I trow not. What is their silly chat to me?”
“I don't think so. What’s their ridiculous talk to me?”
Here Margaret requested the father to leave them alone; and in his absence put some practical questions. Then she reflected.
Here, Margaret asked her father to leave them alone; and in his absence, she posed some practical questions. Then she thought.
“When you wake i' the morning you find yourself quiver, as one may say?”
“When you wake up in the morning, don’t you feel a bit shaky, so to speak?”
“Nay. Ay. How knew you that?”
“Nah. Yeah. How did you know that?”
“Shall I dose you, or shall I but tease you a bit with my silly chat?”
“Should I give you a dose, or should I just tease you a little with my silly talk?”
“Which you will.”
“You will.”
“Then I will tell you a story. 'Tis about two true lovers.”
“Then I’ll tell you a story. It's about two true lovers.”
“I hate to hear of lovers,” said the girl; “nevertheless canst tell me, 'twill be less nauseous than your physic—maybe.”
“I hate to hear about lovers,” said the girl; “but you can still tell me, it’ll be less sickening than your medicine—maybe.”
Margaret then told her a love story. The maiden was a girl called Ursel, and the youth one Conrad; she an old physician's daughter, he the son of a hosier at Tergou. She told their adventures, their troubles, their sad condition. She told it from the female point of view, and in a sweet and winning and earnest voice, that by degrees soon laid hold of this sullen heart, and held it breathless; and when she broke it off her patient was much disappointed.
Margaret then told her a love story. The girl was named Ursel, and the young man was called Conrad; she was the daughter of an old physician, and he was the son of a hosier from Tergou. She recounted their adventures, their struggles, and their unfortunate situation. She expressed it from a woman's perspective, with a sweet, charming, and sincere voice that gradually captured the attention of this gloomy heart, leaving it breathless; and when she ended the story, her listener was quite disappointed.
“Nay, nay, I must hear the end. I will hear it.”
“Nah, nah, I need to hear the end. I’m going to hear it.”
“Ye cannot, for I know it not; none knoweth that but God.”
“You can’t, because I don’t know; only God knows that.”
“Ah, your Ursel was a jewel of worth,” said the girl earnestly. “Would she were here.”
“Ah, your Ursel was a precious gem,” the girl said sincerely. “I wish she were here.”
“Instead of her that is here?”
“Instead of her who is here?”
“I say not that;” and she blushed a little.
“I’m not saying that,” she replied, blushing slightly.
“You do but think it.”
"You just think it."
“Thought is free. Whether or no, an she were here, I'd give her a buss, poor thing.”
“Thought is free. Whether she’s here or not, I’d give her a kiss, poor thing.”
“Then give it me, for I am she.”
“Then give it to me, because I am her.”
“Nay, nay, that I'll be sworn y' are not.”
“Nah, nah, I swear you’re not.”
“Say not so; in very truth I am she. And prithee, sweet mistress, go not from your word, but give me the buss ye promised me, and with a good heart, for oh, my own heart lies heavy: heavy as thine, sweet mistress.”
“Don't say that; I truly am her. And please, dear mistress, don’t break your promise, but give me the kiss you promised me, and do it sincerely, because oh, my heart is so heavy: as heavy as yours, dear mistress.”
The young gentlewoman rose and put her arms round Margaret's neck and kissed her. “I am woe for you,” she sighed. “You are a good soul; you have done me good—a little.” (A gulp came in her throat.) “Come again! come again!”
The young lady stood up, wrapped her arms around Margaret's neck, and kissed her. “I’m so sorry for you,” she said with a sigh. “You’re a good person; you’ve helped me—just a bit.” (A lump formed in her throat.) “Come back! Come back!”
Margaret did come again, and talked with her, and gently, but keenly watched what topics interested her, and found there was but one. Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's trouble, and 'tis curable.”
Margaret came back again and talked with her, gently but attentively noting what topics caught her interest, and discovered there was only one. Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's problem, and it can be fixed.”
“What is't? the blood?”
“What is it? The blood?”
“Nay.”
“No.”
“The stomach?”
“Your stomach?”
“Nay.”
"No."
“The liver?”
"The liver?"
“Nay.”
"No."
“The foul fiend?”
"The awful spirit?"
“Nay.”
"No."
“What then?”
"What's next?"
“Love.”
"Love."
“Love? stuff, impossible! She is but a child; she never stirs abroad unguarded. She never hath from a child.”
“Love? That’s nonsense! She’s just a kid; she never goes out without protection. She never has since she was a child.”
“All the better; then we shall not have far to look for him.”
“All the better; then we won’t have to look far for him.”
“I vow not. I shall but command her to tell me the caitiff's name, that hath by magic arts ensnared her young affections.”
“I won't do that. I'll just tell her to reveal the name of the scoundrel who has trapped her young heart with magic.”
“Oh, how foolish be the wise!” said Margaret; “what, would ye go and put her on her guard? Nay, let us work by art first; and if that fails, then 'twill still be time for violence and folly.”
“Oh, how foolish are the wise!” said Margaret; “what, are you going to warn her? No, let’s use our skills first; and if that doesn’t work, then there will still be time for violence and madness.”
Margaret then with some difficulty prevailed on the mayor to take advantage of its being Saturday, and pay all his people their salaries in his daughter's presence and hers.
Margaret then, with some effort, convinced the mayor to make the most of it being Saturday and pay all his staff their salaries in front of his daughter and hers.
It was done: some fifteen people entered the room, and received their pay with a kind word from their employer. Then Margaret, who had sat close to the patient all the time, rose and went out. The mayor followed her.
It was done: about fifteen people walked into the room and got their pay along with a friendly word from their boss. Then Margaret, who had been sitting close to the patient the whole time, stood up and left. The mayor followed her.
“Sir, how call you yon black-haired lad?”
“Sir, what do you call that black-haired boy over there?”
“That is Ulrich, my clerk.”
"That’s Ulrich, my assistant."
“Well then, 'tis he.”
“Well then, it’s him.”
“Now Heaven forbid a lad I took out of the streets.”
“Now God forbid a guy I picked up from the streets.”
“Well, but your worship is an understanding man. You took him not up without some merit of his?”
“Well, but you're an understanding person. You didn't take him in without some reason, did you?”
“Merit? not a jot! I liked the looks of the brat, that was all.”
“Merit? Not even a little! I just liked how the kid looked, that’s all.”
“Was that no merit? He pleased the father's eye. And now who had pleased the daughter's. That has oft been seen since Adam.”
“Was that not impressive? He caught the father's attention. And now who has caught the daughter's? That’s been the case since Adam.”
“How know ye 'tis he?”
"How do you know it's him?"
“I held her hand, and with my finger did lightly touch her wrist; and when the others came and went, 'twas as if dogs and cats had fared in and out. But at this Ulrich's coming her pulse did leap, and her eye shine; and when he went, she did sink back and sigh; and 'twas to be seen the sun had gone out of the room for her. Nay, burgomaster, look not on me so scared: no witch or magician I, but a poor girl that hath been docile, and so bettered herself by a great neglected leech's art and learning. I tell ye all this hath been done before, thousands of years ere we were born. Now bide thou there till I come to thee, and prithee, prithee, spoil not good work wi' meddling.” She then went back and asked her patient for a lock of her hair.
“I held her hand and lightly touched her wrist with my finger; and when the others came and went, it felt like dogs and cats were running in and out. But when Ulrich arrived, her pulse quickened and her eyes sparkled; and when he left, she sank back and sighed, as if the sun had gone out of the room for her. No, burgomaster, don’t look at me so scared: I'm no witch or magician, just a poor girl who has been obedient and improved herself through the neglected skills and knowledge of a great healer. I tell you, all this has been done before, thousands of years before we were born. Now stay there until I come to you, and please, please don’t mess up the good work by interfering.” She then went back and asked her patient for a lock of her hair.
“Take it,” said she, more listlessly than ever.
“Take it,” she said, sounding more indifferent than ever.
“Why, 'tis a lass of marble. How long do you count to be like that, mistress?”
“Why, it's a girl made of marble. How long do you expect to stay like that, ma'am?”
“Till I am in my grave, sweet Peggy.”
“Until I'm in my grave, sweet Peggy.”
“Who knows? maybe in ten minutes you will be altogether as hot.”
“Who knows? Maybe in ten minutes you’ll be just as hot.”
She ran into the shop, but speedily returned to the mayor and said, “Good news! He fancies her and more than a little. Now how is't to be? Will you marry your child, or bury her, for there is no third way, for shame and love they do rend her virgin heart to death.”
She rushed into the shop, then quickly came back to the mayor and said, “Good news! He likes her and really likes her a lot. So what’s it going to be? Will you marry off your daughter, or let her suffer, because there’s no other option—shame and love are tearing her heart apart.”
The dignitary decided for the more cheerful rite, but not without a struggle; and with its marks on his face he accompanied Margaret to his daughter. But as men are seldom in a hurry to drink their wormwood, he stood silent. So Doctor Margaret said cheerfully, “Mistress, your lock is gone; I have sold it.”
The official chose the happier ceremony, but not without a fight; and with the signs of that struggle on his face, he went with Margaret to see his daughter. However, since men aren't usually quick to face their bitterness, he stayed quiet. So Doctor Margaret said cheerfully, “Mistress, your lock is gone; I sold it.”
“And who was so mad as to buy such a thing?” inquired the young lady scornfully.
“And who was crazy enough to buy something like that?” the young lady asked scornfully.
“Oh, a black-haired laddie wi' white teeth. They call him Ulrich.”
“Oh, a black-haired kid with white teeth. They call him Ulrich.”
The pale face reddened directly, brow and all.
The pale face turned red instantly, including the forehead.
“Says he, 'Oh, sweet mistress, give it me.' I had told them all whose 'twas. 'Nay,' said I, 'selling is my livelihood, not giving.' So he offered me this, he offered me that, but nought less would I take than his next quarter's wages.
“Says he, 'Oh, sweet mistress, give it to me.' I had told them all whose it was. 'No,' I said, 'selling is my livelihood, not giving.' So he offered me this, he offered me that, but nothing less would I take than his next quarter's wages.”
“Cruel,” murmured the girl, scarce audibly.
“Cruel,” the girl murmured, hardly audible.
“Why, you are in one tale with your father. Says he to me when I told him, 'Oh, an he loves her hair so well, 'tis odd but he loves the rest of her. Well,' quoth he, ''tis an honest lad, and a shall have her, gien she will but leave her sulks and consent.' So, what say ye, mistress, will you be married to Ulrich, or buried i' the kirkyard?”
“Why, you’re in the same story as your father. He said to me when I told him, 'Oh, if he loves her hair so much, it’s strange that he loves everything else about her too. Well,' he said, 'he's a good guy, and he will have her if she just stops being moody and agrees.' So, what do you say, miss? Will you marry Ulrich, or be buried in the graveyard?”
“Father! father!”
“Dad! Dad!”
“'Tis so, girl, speak thy mind.”
"Yes, girl, say what you're thinking."
“I will obey my father—in all things,” stammered the poor girl, trying hard to maintain the advantageous position in which Margaret had placed her. But nature, and the joy and surprise, were too strong even for a virgin's bashful cunning. She cast an eloquent look on them both, and sank at her father's knees, and begged his pardon, with many sobs for having doubted his tenderness.
“I will obey my father—in everything,” the poor girl stammered, struggling to hold onto the favorable position that Margaret had given her. But her emotions, along with the joy and surprise, were too overwhelming even for a shy girl’s cleverness. She gave them both a meaningful glance, sank to her father's knees, and begged for his forgiveness, sobbing about how she had doubted his love.
He raised her in his arms, and took her, radiant through her tears with joy, and returning life, and filial love, to his breast; and the pair passed a truly sacred moment, and the dignitary was as happy as he thought to be miserable; so hard is it for mortals to foresee. And they looked round for Margaret, but she had stolen away softly.
He lifted her up in his arms, and took her, glowing with joy, relief, and love for him, to his chest; and they shared a genuinely sacred moment, while the dignitary was as happy as he thought he would be miserable; it's so hard for people to predict. They looked around for Margaret, but she had quietly slipped away.
The young girl searched the house for her.
The young girl looked around the house for her.
“Where is she hid? Where on earth is she?”
“Where is she hiding? Where in the world is she?”
Where was she? why, in her own house, dressing meat for her two old children, and crying bitterly the while at the living picture of happiness she had just created.
Where was she? Well, she was in her own house, preparing meat for her two older kids, and crying tearfully at the happy scene she had just made.
“Well-a-day, the odds between her lot and mine; well-a-day!”
“Well, look at that, the difference between her situation and mine; well, look at that!”
Next time she met the dignitary he hemm'd and hawed, and remarked what a pity it was the law forbade him to pay her who had cured his daughter. “However, when all is done, 'twas not art, 'twas but woman's wit.”
Next time she met the dignitary, he stammered and said how unfortunate it was that the law prevented him from paying her for curing his daughter. “But when it comes down to it, it wasn’t skill, just a woman’s cleverness.”
“Nought but that, burgomaster,” said Margaret bitterly. “Pay the men of art for not curing her: all the guerdon I seek, that cured her, is this: go not and give your foul linen away from me by way of thanks.”
“Nobody but that, burgomaster,” said Margaret bitterly. “Pay the artists for not curing her: all the reward I’m looking for, that cured her, is this: don’t go and give your dirty laundry away from me as a thank you.”
“Why should I?” inquired he.
“Why should I?” he asked.
“Marry, because there be fools about ye will tell ye she that hath wit to cure dark diseases, cannot have wit to take dirt out o' rags; so pledge me your faith.”
“Seriously, just because there are fools around you who will say that someone who has the smarts to cure serious illnesses can’t have the sense to clean dirt out of rags; so promise me your loyalty.”
The dignitary promised pompously, and felt all the patron.
The dignitary promised grandly and felt all the authority.
Something must be done to fill “To-morrow's” box. She hawked her initial letters and her illuminated vellums all about the town. Printing had by this time dealt caligraphy in black and white a terrible blow in Holland and Germany. But some copies of the printed books were usually illuminated and fettered. The printers offered Margaret prices for work in these two kinds.
Something needs to be done to fill "Tomorrow's" box. She sold her initial letters and her beautifully decorated vellums all around town. By this time, printing had dealt a serious blow to calligraphy in black and white in Holland and Germany. But some printed books were often still decorated and bound. The printers offered Margaret prices for her work in these two styles.
“I'll think on't,” said she.
“I'll think about it,” she said.
She took down her diurnal book, and calculated that the price of an hour's work on those arts would be about one-fifth what she got for an hour at the tub and mangle. “I'll starve first,” said she; “what, pay a craft and a mystery five times less than a handicraft!”
She grabbed her daily planner and figured that the pay for an hour's work in those arts would be about one-fifth of what she earned for an hour at the washer and dryer. “I’d rather starve,” she said; “what, pay a craft and a skill five times less than a trade!”
Martin, carrying the dry clothes-basket, got treated, and drunk. This time he babbled her whole story. The girls got hold of it and gibed her at the fountain.
Martin, carrying the basket of dry clothes, got treated and drunk. This time he spilled her entire story. The girls caught wind of it and teased her at the fountain.
All she had gone through was light to her, compared with the pins and bodkins her own sex drove into her heart, whenever she came near the merry crew with her pitcher, and that was every day. Each sex has its form of cruelty; man's is more brutal and terrible; but shallow women, that have neither read nor suffered, have an unmuscular barbarity of their own (where no feeling of sex steps in to overpower it). This defect, intellectual perhaps rather than moral, has been mitigated in our day by books, especially by able works of fiction; for there are two roads to the highest effort of intelligence, Pity; Experience of sorrows, and Imagination, by which alone we realize the grief we never felt. In the fifteenth century girls with pitchers had but one; Experience; and at sixteen years of age or so, that road had scarce been trodden. These girls persisted that Margaret was deserted by her lover. And to be deserted was a crime (They had not been deserted yet.) Not a word against the Gerard they had created out of their own heads. For the imaginary crime they fell foul of the supposed victim. Sometimes they affronted her to her face. Oftener they talked at her backwards and forwards with a subtle skill, and a perseverance which, “oh, that they had bestowed on the arts,” as poor Aguecheek says.
All she had been through felt pretty minor compared to the emotional pain her own gender inflicted on her, especially whenever she was around the lively group with her pitcher, which was every day. Each gender has its own way of being cruel; men are often more brutal and terrifying, but superficial women, who have neither read nor suffered, have their own type of unthinking barbarity (where no feelings of gender intervene). This issue, which is possibly more intellectual than moral, has lessened in our time thanks to literature, particularly strong works of fiction. There are two paths to the greatest development of intelligence: empathy through experiencing sorrows, and imagination, which allows us to understand grief we’ve never actually experienced. In the fifteenth century, girls with pitchers had only one option: experience. By the age of sixteen, that path had hardly been traveled. These girls insisted that Margaret had been abandoned by her lover. Being abandoned was seen as a crime (They hadn’t been abandoned yet). Not a word was said against the Gerard they had imagined. For the imagined crime, they turned against the supposed victim. Sometimes they confronted her directly. More often, they talked about her skillfully and persistently, “oh, if only they had focused that effort on the arts,” as poor Aguecheek would say.
Now Margaret was brave, and a coward; brave to battle difficulties and ill fortune; brave to shed her own blood for those she loved. Fortitude she had. But she had no true fighting courage. She was a powerful young woman, rather tall, full, and symmetrical; yet had one of those slips of girls slapped her face, the poor fool's hands would have dropped powerless, or gone to her own eyes instead of her adversary's. Nor was she even a match for so many tongues; and besides, what could she say? She knew nothing of these girls, except that somehow they had found out her sorrows, and hated her; only she thought to herself they must be very happy, or they would not be so hard on her.
Now Margaret was both brave and a coward; brave enough to face challenges and bad luck; brave enough to sacrifice for those she loved. She had resilience. But she lacked true fighting spirit. She was a strong young woman, tall, curvy, and well-proportioned; yet if one of those girls had slapped her, the poor thing would have just stood there helpless, or maybe even turned her hands on herself instead of her attacker. She wasn't even a match for all those gossiping voices; plus, what could she say? She knew nothing about those girls, except that somehow they had discovered her pain and despised her; she just thought to herself that they must be really happy, or else they wouldn't be so cruel to her.
So she took their taunts in silence; and all her struggle was not to let them see their power to make her writhe within.
So she endured their teasing in silence; and all her effort was to keep them from realizing they could make her squirm inside.
Here came in her fortitude; and she received their blows with well-feigned, icy hauteur. They slapped a statue.
Here was where her strength showed; she took their hits with a fake, cold confidence. They struck a statue.
But one day, when her spirits were weak, as happens at times to females in her condition, a dozen assailants followed suit so admirably, that her whole sex seemed to the dispirited one to be against her, and she lost heart, and the tears began to run silently at each fresh stab.
But one day, when she was feeling down, as it sometimes happens to women in her situation, a dozen attackers joined in so perfectly that it felt to her, in her despair, like all women were against her. She lost hope, and tears started to flow silently with each new blow.
On this their triumph knew no bounds, and they followed her half way home casting barbed speeches.
On this, their victory knew no limits, and they followed her halfway home, throwing sharp remarks.
After that exposure of weakness the statue could be assumed no more. So then she would stand timidly aloof out of tongue-shot, till her young tyrants' pitchers were all filled, and they gone; and then creep up with hers. And one day she waited so long that the fount had ceased to flow. So the next day she was obliged to face the phalanx, or her house go dry. She drew near slowly, but with the less tremor, that she saw a man at the well talking to them. He would distract their attention, and besides, they would keep their foul tongues quiet if only to blind the male to their real character. This conjecture, though shrewd, was erroneous. They could not all flirt with that one man; so the outsiders indemnified themselves by talking at her the very moment she came up.
After revealing her weakness, she could no longer approach the fountain. So, she would stand back, shy and out of earshot, until the pitchers of her young bullies were filled and they left; then she would sneak up to fill hers. One day, she waited so long that the fountain stopped running. The next day, she had no choice but to confront them, or her house would go dry. She approached slowly, feeling less anxious when she noticed a man at the well talking to them. He would distract their attention, and besides, they would keep their nasty comments to themselves just to hide their true nature from him. This assumption, though clever, was wrong. They couldn't all flirt with that one man, so the others took the chance to insult her the moment she arrived.
“Any news from foreign parts, Jacqueline?”
"Any updates from abroad, Jacqueline?"
“None for me, Martha. My lad goes no farther from me than the town wall.”
“None for me, Martha. My son doesn't go any farther from me than the town wall.”
“I can't say as much,” says a third.
“I can’t say that much,” says a third.
“But if he goes t' Italy I have got another ready to take the fool's place.”
“But if he goes to Italy, I have someone else ready to take the fool's place.”
“He'll not go thither, lass. They go not so far till they are sick of us that bide in Holland.”
“He's not going there, girl. They won't go that far until they're tired of us who stay in Holland.”
Surprise and indignation, and the presence of a man, gave Margaret a moment's fighting courage.
Surprise and anger, along with the presence of a man, gave Margaret a brief surge of fighting spirit.
“Oh, flout me not, and show your ill nature before the very soldier. In Heaven's name, what ill did I ever to ye? what harsh word cast back, for all you have flung on me, a desolate stranger in your cruel town, that ye flout me for my bereavement and my poor lad's most unwilling banishment? Hearts of flesh would surely pity us both, for that ye cast in my teeth these many days, ye brows of brass, ye bosoms of stone.”
“Oh, don't mock me, and reveal your bad nature in front of the soldier. In Heaven's name, what wrong have I ever done to you? What harsh word have I thrown back at you, for all that you've said to me, a lonely stranger in your cruel town, that you mock me for my grief and my poor boy's unwilling banishment? Real hearts would surely feel sorry for us both, for the way you've thrown these things in my face all these many days, you with your hard brows and stone-like hearts.”
They stared at this novelty, resistance; and ere they could recover and make mincement of her, she put her pitcher quietly down, and threw her coarse apron over her head, and stood there grieving, her short-lived spirit oozing fast. “Hallo!” cried the soldier, “why, what is your ill?” She made no reply. But a little girl, who had long secretly hated the big ones, squeaked out, “They did flout her, they are aye flouting her; she may not come nigh the fountain for fear o' them, and 'tis a black shame.”
They stared at this unusual situation, feeling resistant; and before they could recover and tear her apart, she quietly set down her pitcher, threw her rough apron over her head, and stood there, grieving, her spirit quickly fading. “Hey!” called the soldier, “What’s wrong with you?” She didn’t respond. But a little girl, who had secretly despised the bigger kids for a long time, piped up, “They made fun of her; they’re always making fun of her. She can’t even go near the fountain because of them, and it’s really shameful.”
“Who spoke to her! Not I for one.”
“Who talked to her! Not me for sure.”
“Nor I. I would not bemean myself so far.”
“Me neither. I wouldn’t lower myself like that.”
The man laughed heartily at this display of dignity. “Come, wife,” said he, “never lower thy flag to such light skirmishers as these. Hast a tongue i' thy head as well as they.”
The man laughed loudly at this display of dignity. “Come on, wife,” he said, “don’t lower your standards for such trivial opponents. You’ve got a sharp tongue just like they do.”
“Alack, good soldier, I was not bred to bandy foul terms.”
“Unfortunately, good soldier, I wasn't raised to exchange rude insults.”
“Well, but hast a better arm than these. Why not take 'em by twos across thy knee, and skelp 'em till they cry Meculpee?”
“Well, you have a better arm than these. Why not take them two at a time across your knee and spank them until they cry Meculpee?”
“Nay, I would not hurt their bodies for all their cruel hearts.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t hurt them physically for all their cruel hearts.”
“Then ye must e'en laugh at them, wife. What! a woman grown, and not see why mesdames give tongue? You are a buxom wife; they are a bundle of thread-papers. You are fair and fresh; they have all the Dutch rim under their bright eyes, that comes of dwelling in eternal swamps. There lies your crime. Come, gie me thy pitcher, and if they flout me, shalt see me scrub 'em all wi' my beard till they squeak holy mother.” The pitcher was soon filled, and the soldier put it in Margaret's hand. She murmured, “Thank you kindly, brave soldier.”
“Then you really have to laugh at them, wife. What! A grown woman who doesn’t see why those ladies are gossiping? You are a healthy wife; they’re a bunch of skinny sticks. You are beautiful and vibrant; they have dark circles under their eyes from living in miserable conditions. That’s your offense. Come on, give me your pitcher, and if they make fun of me, you’ll see me scrub them all with my beard until they scream ‘holy mother.’” The pitcher was soon filled, and the soldier handed it to Margaret. She murmured, “Thank you kindly, brave soldier.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Come, courage, brave wife; the divell is dead!” She let the heavy pitcher fall on his foot directly. He cursed horribly, and hopped in a circle, saying, “No, the Thief's alive and has broken my great toe.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “Come on, stay strong, brave wife; the devil is dead!” She let the heavy pitcher drop right on his foot. He cursed loudly and hopped in a circle, saying, “No, the Thief is alive and has broken my big toe.”
The apron came down, and there was a lovely face all flushed with' emotion, and two beaming eyes in front of him, and two hands held out clasped.
The apron came down, revealing a lovely face flushed with emotion, two beaming eyes looking at him, and two hands held out and clasped.
“Nay, nay, 'tis nought,” said he good-humouredly, mistaking.
“Nah, it’s nothing,” he said with a good-natured smile, misunderstanding.
“Denys?”
"Denys?"
“Well?—But—Hallo! How know you my name is—”
“Well?—But—Hey! How do you know my name is—”
“Denys of Burgundy!”
“Denys from Burgundy!”
“Why, ods bodikins! I know you not, and you know me.”
“Why, goodness! I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”
“By Gerard's letter. Crossbow! beard! handsome! The divell is dead.”
“By Gerard's letter. Crossbow! Beard! Attractive! The devil is dead.”
“Sword of Goliah! this must be she. Red hair, violet eyes, lovely face. But I took ye for a married wife, seeing ye—-”
“Sword of Goliah! This has to be her. Red hair, violet eyes, beautiful face. But I thought you were a married woman, seeing you—-”
“Tell me my name,” said she quickly.
“Tell me my name,” she said quickly.
“Margaret Brandt.”
“Margaret Brandt.”
“Gerard? Where is he? Is he in life? Is he well? Is he coming? Is he come? Why is he not here? Where have ye left him? Oh tell me! prithee, prithee, prithee, tell me!”
“Gerard? Where is he? Is he alive? Is he okay? Is he on his way? Has he arrived? Why isn't he here? Where did you leave him? Oh, please! Please, please, tell me!”
“Ay, ay, but not here. Oh, ye are all curiosity now, mesdames, eh? Lass, I have been three months a-foot travelling all Holland to find ye, and here you are. Oh, be joyful!” and he flung his cap in the air, and seizing both her hands kissed them ardently. “Ah, my pretty she-comrade, I have found thee at last. I knew I should. Shall be flouted no more. I'll twist your necks at the first word, ye little trollops. And I have got fifteen gold angels left for thee, and our Gerard will soon be here. Shalt wet thy purple eyes no more.”
“Ay, ay, but not here. Oh, you’re all curious now, ladies, right? I’ve been traveling all over Holland for three months to find you, and here you are. Oh, be joyful!” He tossed his cap in the air, grabbed both her hands, and kissed them passionately. “Ah, my lovely companion, I’ve finally found you. I knew I would. No more being brushed aside. I’ll twist your necks at the first word, you little troublemakers. And I’ve got fifteen gold coins left for you, and our Gerard will be here soon. No more shedding tears, my dear.”
But the fair eyes were wet even now, looking kindly and gratefully at the friend that had dropped among her foes as if from heaven; Gerard's comrade. “Prithee come home with me good, kind Denys. I cannot speak of him before these.” They went off together, followed by a chorus. “She has gotten a man. She has gotten a man at last. Boo! boo! boo!”
But her beautiful eyes were teary even now, looking at the friend who had come down to her from above, among her enemies; Gerard’s buddy. “Please come home with me, dear, kind Denys. I can’t talk about him in front of them.” They left together, followed by a chant. “She has gotten a man. She has gotten a man at last. Boo! boo! boo!”
Margaret quickened her steps; but Denys took down his crossbow and pretended to shoot them all dead: they fled quadrivious, shrieking.
Margaret picked up her pace; but Denys grabbed his crossbow and pretended to shoot them all dead: they ran away in all directions, screaming.
CHAPTER LI
The reader already knows how much these two had to tell one another. It was a sweet yet bitter day for Margaret, since it brought her a true friend, and ill news; for now first she learned that Gerard was all alone in that strange land. She could not think with Denys that he would come home; indeed he would have arrived before this.
The reader already knows how much these two had to share with each other. It was a bittersweet day for Margaret, as it brought her a true friend and some bad news; for the first time, she learned that Gerard was all alone in that strange land. She couldn’t believe, like Denys, that he would come home; in fact, he should have arrived by now.
Denys was a balm. He called her his she-comrade, and was always cheering her up with his formula and hilarities, and she petted him and made much of him, and feebly hectored it over him as well as over Martin, and would not let him eat a single meal out of her house, and forbade him to use naughty words. “It spoils you, Denys. Good lack, to hear such ugly words come forth so comely a head: forbear, or I shall be angry: so be civil.” Whereupon Denys was upon his good behaviour, and ludicrous the struggle between his native politeness and his acquired ruffianism. And as it never rains but it pours, other persons now solicited Margaret's friendship. She had written to Margaret Van Eyck a humble letter telling her she knew she was no longer the favourite she had been, and would keep her distance; but could not forget her benefactress's past kindness. She then told her briefly how many ways she had battled for a living, and in conclusion, begged earnestly that her residence might not be betrayed, “least of all to his people. I do hate them, they drove him from me. And even when he was gone, their hearts turned not to me as they would an if they had repented their cruelty to him.”
Denys was a comfort. He called her his she-comrade and was always lifting her spirits with his jokes and antics. She doted on him and playfully bossed him around, just like she did with Martin, refusing to let him eat a single meal outside her home and forbidding him to use bad language. “It ruins you, Denys. Goodness, to hear such ugly words come from such a nice person: stop it, or I’ll be upset: so be polite.” At this, Denys would behave himself, and it was comical to see him struggle between his natural politeness and his learned tough-guy persona. Just as things seemed steady, other people started seeking Margaret’s friendship. She had written a humble letter to Margaret Van Eyck, admitting she knew she was no longer the favorite she once was and promised to keep her distance, but couldn’t forget her past kindness. She briefly explained the many ways she had fought for survival and ended by earnestly requesting that her location not be revealed, “especially to his family. I truly despise them; they drove him away from me. And even after he was gone, their hearts didn’t turn back to me as they would have if they had regretted their cruelty towards him.”
The Van Eyck was perplexed. At last she made a confidante of Reicht. The secret ran through Reicht, as through a cylinder, to Catherine.
The Van Eyck was confused. Finally, she confided in Reicht. The secret flowed through Reicht, like it was traveling through a tube, to Catherine.
“Ay, and is she turned that bitter against us?” said that good woman. “She stole our son from us, and now she hates us for not running into her arms. Natheless it is a blessing she is alive and no farther away than Rotterdam.”
“Wow, has she really turned that bitter against us?” said that kind woman. “She took our son away from us, and now she resents us for not rushing to her. Still, it’s a relief that she’s alive and only as far away as Rotterdam.”
The English princess, now Countess Charolois, made a stately progress through the northern states of the duchy, accompanied by her stepdaughter the young heiress of Burgundy, Marie de Bourgogne. Then the old duke, the most magnificent prince in Europe, put out his splendour. Troops of dazzling knights, and bevies of fair ladies gorgeously attired, attended the two princesses; and minstrels, jongleurs, or story-tellers, bards, musicians, actors, tumblers followed in the train; and there was fencing, dancing, and joy in every town they shone on. Richart invited all his people to meet him at Rotterdam and view the pageant.
The English princess, now Countess Charolois, made a grand journey through the northern states of the duchy, accompanied by her stepdaughter, the young heiress of Burgundy, Marie de Bourgogne. Then the old duke, the most impressive prince in Europe, showcased his splendor. Crowds of dazzling knights and groups of beautiful ladies in elegant dresses surrounded the two princesses, while minstrels, jongleurs, storytellers, bards, musicians, actors, and tumblers followed behind; there was fencing, dancing, and celebration in every town they visited. Richart invited everyone to meet him at Rotterdam to witness the spectacle.
They had been in Rotterdam some days, when Denys met Catherine accidentally in the street, and after a warm greeting on both sides, bade her rejoice, for he had found the she-comrade, and crowed; but Catherine cooled him by showing him how much earlier he would have found her by staying quietly at Tergou, than by vagabondizing it all over Holland. “And being found, what the better are we? her heart is set dead against us now.”
They had been in Rotterdam for a few days when Denys ran into Catherine by chance on the street. After a warm greeting from both of them, he told her to celebrate because he had found the female companion and was excited about it. However, Catherine brought him back to reality by pointing out that he would have discovered her much sooner if he had simply stayed in Tergou instead of wandering all over Holland. “And now that we’ve been found, what good does it do us? Her heart is completely against us now.”
“Oh, let that flea stick; come you with me to her house.”
“Oh, let that flea stay; come with me to her house.”
No, she would not go where she was sure of an ill welcome. “Them that come unbidden sit unseated.” No, let Denys be mediator, and bring the parties to a good understanding. He undertook the office at once, and with great pomp and confidence. He trotted off to Margaret and said, “She-comrade, I met this day a friend of thine.”
No, she wouldn’t go where she was sure she wouldn’t be welcomed. “Those who come uninvited don't have a seat.” No, let Denys be the mediator and help everyone reach a good understanding. He took on the task right away, with a lot of confidence and flair. He went over to Margaret and said, “Hey, I met a friend of yours today.”
“Thou didst look into the Rotter then, and see thyself.”
“You looked into the Rotter then, and saw yourself.”
“Nay, 'twas a female, and one that seeks thy regard; 'twas Catherine, Gerard's mother.”
“Nah, it was a woman, and one who wants your attention; it was Catherine, Gerard's mother.”
“Oh, was it?” said Margaret; “then you may tell her she comes too late. There was a time I longed and longed for her; but she held aloof in my hour of most need, so now we will be as we ha' been.”
“Oh, was it?” said Margaret; “then you can tell her she’s too late. There was a time I really wanted her around, but she kept her distance when I needed her the most, so now we’ll just be as we were.”
Denys tried to shake this resolution. He coaxed her, but she was bitter and sullen, and not to be coaxed. Then he scolded her well; then, at that she went into hysterics.
Denys tried to change her mind. He tried to persuade her, but she was resentful and withdrawn, and not easily persuaded. Then he scolded her thoroughly; at that, she burst into hysterics.
He was frightened at this result of his eloquence, and being off his guard, allowed himself to be entrapped into a solemn promise never to recur to the subject. He went back to Catherine crestfallen, and told her. She fired up and told the family how his overtures had been received. Then they fired up; it became a feud and burned fiercer every day. Little Kate alone made some excuses for Margaret.
He was scared by this outcome of his smooth talking, and, letting his guard down, he found himself caught in a serious promise to never bring it up again. He returned to Catherine feeling defeated and told her what happened. She got angry and informed the family about how he had been treated. Then they all got riled up; it turned into a feud and heated up more each day. Only little Kate made some excuses for Margaret.
The very next day another visitor came to Margaret, and found the military enslaved and degraded, Martin up to his elbows in soapsuds, and Denys ironing very clumsily, and Margaret plaiting ruffs, but with a mistress's eye on her raw levies. To these there entered an old man, venerable at first sight, but on nearer view keen and wizened.
The next day, another visitor arrived to see Margaret and found the soldiers in a sorry state, with Martin elbow-deep in soapy water and Denys awkwardly doing the ironing, while Margaret was making ruffs but keeping a watchful eye on her inexperienced helpers. An old man walked in, looking dignified at first glance, but upon closer inspection, he was sharp-eyed and frail.
“Ah,” cried Margaret. Then swiftly turned her back on him and hid her face with invincible repugnance. “Oh, that man! that man!”
“Ah,” Margaret exclaimed. Then she quickly turned her back to him and covered her face with undeniable disgust. “Oh, that guy! that guy!”
“Nay, fear me not,” said Ghysbrecht; “I come on a friend's errand. I bring ye a letter from foreign parts.”
“Nah, don’t be afraid of me,” said Ghysbrecht; “I’m here on a friend’s mission. I bring you a letter from overseas.”
“Mock me not, old man,” and she turned slowly round.
“Don’t mock me, old man,” she said as she slowly turned around.
“Nay, see;” and he held out an enormous letter.
“Nah, look;” and he held out a huge letter.
Margaret darted on it, and held it with trembling hands and glistening eyes. It was Gerard's handwriting.
Margaret quickly grabbed it, holding it with shaky hands and shining eyes. It was Gerard's handwriting.
“Oh, thank you, sir, bless you for this, I forgive you all the ill you ever wrought me.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, bless you for this. I forgive you for all the wrongs you ever did to me.”
And she pressed the letter to her bosom with one hand, and glided swiftly from the room with it.
And she held the letter close to her chest with one hand and quickly slipped out of the room with it.
As she did not come back, Ghysbrecht went away, but not without a scowl at Martha. Margaret was hours alone with her letter.
As she didn't return, Ghysbrecht left, but not before casting a glare at Martha. Margaret spent hours alone with her letter.
CHAPTER LI
When she came down again she was a changed woman. Her eyes were wet, but calm, and all her bitterness and excitement charmed away.
When she came down again, she was a different woman. Her eyes were moist but calm, and all her bitterness and excitement had faded away.
“Denys,” said she softly, “I have got my orders. I am to read my lover's letter to his folk.”
“Denys,” she said softly, “I’ve got my orders. I need to read my lover's letter to his family.”
“Ye will never do that?”
"You will never do that?"
“Ay will I.”
"Yeah, I will."
“I see there is something in the letter has softened ye towards them.”
“I see there’s something in the letter that has softened you towards them.”
“Not a jot, Denys, not a jot. But an I hated them like poison I would not disobey my love. Denys, 'tis so sweet to obey, and sweetest of all to obey one who is far, far away, and cannot enforce my duty, but must trust my love for my obedience. Ah, Gerard, my darling, at hand I might have slighted thy commands, misliking thy folk as I have cause to do; but now, didst bid me go into the raging sea and read thy sweet letter to the sharks, there I'd go. Therefore, Denys, tell his mother I have got a letter, and if she and hers would hear it, I am their servant; let them say their hour, and I'll seat them as best I can, and welcome them as best I may.”
“Not at all, Denys, not at all. But even if I hated them like poison, I wouldn’t disobey my love. Denys, it’s so delightful to obey, and it’s even sweeter to obey someone who is far away and can’t enforce my duty, but must trust my love for my obedience. Ah, Gerard, my darling, if you were here, I might have disregarded your commands, resenting your people as I have reason to do; but now, if you asked me to go into the raging sea and read your sweet letter to the sharks, I would do it. So, Denys, tell his mother I’ve received a letter, and if she and her family want to hear it, I’m at their service; they can tell me the time, and I’ll seat them as best I can and welcome them as best I may.”
Denys went off to Catherine with this good news. He found the family at dinner, and told them there was a long letter from Gerard. Then in the midst of the joy this caused, he said, “And her heart is softened, and she will read it to you herself; you are to choose your own time.”
Denys went to Catherine with this great news. He found the family at dinner and told them there was a long letter from Gerard. Then, in the middle of their happiness, he said, “And her heart is softened, and she will read it to you herself; you can choose your own time.”
“What does she think there are none can read but her?” asked Catherine. “Let her send the letter and we will read it.”
“What does she think, that no one can read except for her?” asked Catherine. “Let her send the letter, and we’ll read it.”
“Nay, but, mother,” objected little Kate; “mayhap she cannot bear to part it from her hand; she loves him dearly.”
“Nah, but, Mom,” argued little Kate; “maybe she just can't stand to let it go; she loves him a lot.”
“What, thinks she we shall steal it?”
“What, does she think we’re going to steal it?”
Cornelis suggested that she would fain wedge herself into the family by means of this letter.
Cornelis suggested that she would gladly try to insert herself into the family through this letter.
Denys cast a look of scorn on the speaker. “There spoke a bad heart,” said he. “La camarade hates you all like poison. Oh, mistake me not, dame; I defend her not, but so 'tis; yet maugre her spleen at a word from Gerard she proffers to read you his letter with her own pretty mouth, and hath a voice like honey—sure 'tis a fair proffer.”
Denys looked at the speaker with disdain. “That’s someone with a bad heart,” he said. “La camarade hates all of you like poison. Oh, don’t get me wrong, lady; I’m not defending her, but it's true. Yet, despite her anger, when it comes to Gerard, she offers to read you his letter with her sweet voice, and she has a voice like honey—it's definitely a tempting offer.”
“'Tis so, mine honest soldier,” said the father of the family, “and merits a civil reply, therefore hold your whisht ye that be women, and I shall answer her. Tell her I, his father, setting aside all past grudges, do for this grace thank her, and would she have double thanks, let her send my son's letter by thy faithful hand, the which will I read to his flesh and blood, and will then to her so surely and faithful return, as I am Eli a Dierich a William a Luke, free burgher of Tergou, like my forbears, and like them, a man of my word.”
“It's true, my honest soldier,” said the father of the family, “and it deserves a polite response. So, you women be quiet, and I will answer her. Tell her that I, his father, putting aside all past grievances, thank her for this kindness. If she wants double thanks, let her send my son's letter by your trustworthy hand, which I will read to his family, and then I will return it to her as surely and faithfully as I am Eli a Dierich a William a Luke, a free citizen of Tergou, just like my ancestors, and like them, a man of my word.”
“Ay, and a man who is better than his word,” cried Catherine; “the only one I ever did foregather.”
“Aye, and a man who is better than his word,” shouted Catherine; “the only one I ever came across.”
“Hold thy peace, wife.”
"Be quiet, wife."
“Art a man of sense, Eli, a dirk, a chose, a chose(1),”' shouted Denys. “The she-comrade will be right glad to obey Gerard and yet not face you all, whom she hates as wormwood, saving your presence. Bless ye, the world hath changed, she is all submission to-day: 'obedience is honey,' quoth she; and in sooth 'tis a sweetmeat she cannot but savour, eating so little on't, for what with her fair face, and her mellow tongue; and what wi' flying in fits and terrifying us that be soldiers to death, an we thwart her; and what wi' chiding us one while, and petting us like lambs t' other, she hath made two of the crawlingest slaves ever you saw out of two honest swashbucklers. I be the ironing ruffian, t' other washes.”
“Be a man of reason, Eli, a dagger, a thing, a thing(1),” shouted Denys. “The lady will be more than happy to obey Gerard and still avoid facing all of you, whom she despises like poison, except for you. Honestly, the world has changed; she is all about submission today: 'obedience is sweet,' she says; and truly, it's a treat she can't help but enjoy, considering she has so little of it, for with her pretty face and her smooth talk; and with her flying into fits and scaring us soldiers to death if we oppose her; and with her scolding us sometimes, then cuddling us like lambs at other times, she has turned two honest fighters into the most pathetic slaves you’ve ever seen. I'm the one who fights, the other one just cleans.”
“What next?
"What's next?"
“What next? why, whenever the brat is in the world I shall rock cradle, and t' other knave will wash tucker and bib. So, then, I'll go fetch the letter on the instant. Ye will let me bide and hear it read, will ye not?”
“What’s next? Well, as long as that kid is around, I’ll rock the cradle, and the other guy will handle the feeding and diaper changes. So, I’ll go grab the letter right away. You’ll let me stay and listen to it being read, won’t you?”
“Else our hearts were black as coal,” said Catherine.
“Otherwise, our hearts would be as black as coal,” Catherine said.
So Denys went for the letter. He came back crestfallen. “She will not let it out of her hand neither to me nor you, nor any he or she that lives.”
So Denys went for the letter. He came back disappointed. “She won't give it up to me, you, or anyone else, no matter who they are.”
“I knew she would not,” said Cornelis.
“I knew she wouldn’t,” said Cornelis.
“Whisht! whisht!” said Eli, “and let Denys tell his story.”
“Shh! Shh!” said Eli, “and let Denys share his story.”
“'Nay,' said I, 'but be ruled by me.' 'Not I,' quoth she. 'Well, but,' quoth I, 'that same honey Obedience ye spake of.' 'You are a fool,' says she; 'obedience to Gerard is sweet, but obedience to any other body, who ever said that was sweet?'
“'No,' I said, 'but just listen to me.' 'Not a chance,' she replied. 'Well, but,' I said, 'that same sweet Obedience you mentioned.' 'You're foolish,' she said; 'obedience to Gerard is sweet, but who ever claimed obedience to anyone else is sweet?'”
“At last she seemed to soften a bit, and did give me a written paper for you, mademoiselle. Here 'tis.”
“At last, she seemed to lighten up a bit and gave me a written note for you, mademoiselle. Here it is.”
“For me?” said little Kate, colouring.
“For me?” said little Kate, blushing.
“Give that here!” said Eli, and he scanned the writing, and said almost in a whisper, “These be words from the letter Hearken!
“Give that here!” said Eli, and he looked over the writing, then said almost in a whisper, “These are words from the letter Hearken!
“'And, sweetheart, an if these lines should travel safe to thee, make thou trial of my people's hearts withal. Maybe they are somewhat turned towards me, being far away. If 'tis so they will show it to thee, since now to me they may not. Read, then, this letter! But I do strictly forbid thee to let it from thy hand; and if they still hold aloof from thee, why, then say nought, but let them think me dead. Obey me in this; for, if thou dost disrespect my judgment and my will in this, thou lovest me not.'”
“'And, sweetheart, if these lines reach you safely, test my people's feelings for me. Maybe they've started to feel more towards me since I’m far away. If that’s the case, they’ll show it to you, since they won’t express it to me now. So read this letter! But I strictly forbid you to let it out of your hands; and if they still stay distant from you, then say nothing, and let them think I’m dead. Please follow my wishes on this; because if you disregard my judgment and my will here, then you don’t truly love me.'”
There was a silence, and Gerard's words copied by Margaret here handed round and inspected.
There was a silence, and Gerard's words, repeated by Margaret, were passed around and examined.
“Well,” said Catherine, “that is another matter. But methinks 'tis for her to come to us, not we to her.”
“Well,” said Catherine, “that’s a different issue. But I think it’s her responsibility to come to us, not the other way around.”
“Alas, mother! what odds does that make?”
“Come on, mom! What difference does that make?”
“Much,” said Eli. “Tell her we are over many to come to her, and bid her hither, the sooner the better.”
“Very much,” said Eli. “Tell her we have a lot of people coming to see her, and ask her to come here as soon as possible.”
When Denys was gone, Eli owned it was a bitter pill to him.
When Denys was gone, Eli admitted it was a tough situation for him.
“When that lass shall cross my threshold, all the mischief and misery she hath made here will seem to come in adoors in one heap. But what could I do, wife? We must hear the news of Gerard. I saw that in thine eyes, and felt it in my own heart. And she is backed by our undutiful but still beloved son, and so is she stronger than we, and brings our noses down to the grindstone, the sly, cruel jade. But never heed. We will hear the letter; and then let her go unblessed as she came unwelcome.”
“When that girl crosses my threshold, all the trouble and pain she's caused here will seem to come rushing in all at once. But what could I do, my dear? We need to hear the news about Gerard. I saw that in your eyes, and I felt it in my own heart. And she has the support of our disrespectful but still beloved son, so she’s stronger than we are and keeps us on our toes, the sneaky, heartless one. But never mind. We’ll hear the letter; and then let her leave unblessed just as she arrived unwelcome.”
“Make your mind easy,” said Catherine. “She will not come at all.” And a tone of regret was visible.
“Don't worry,” Catherine said. “She won’t come at all.” There was a hint of regret in her voice.
Shortly after Richart, who had been hourly expected, arrived from Amsterdam grave and dignified in his burgher's robe and gold chain, ruff, and furred cap, and was received not with affection only, but respect; for he had risen a step higher than his parents, and such steps were marked in mediaeval society almost as visibly as those in their staircases.
Shortly after Richart, who had been expected every hour, arrived from Amsterdam looking serious and dignified in his mayor's robe, gold chain, ruff, and fur hat. He was received not only with affection but also with respect; for he had climbed a step higher than his parents, and such advancements were marked in medieval society almost as visibly as the steps in their staircases.
Admitted in due course to the family council, he showed plainly, though not discourteously, that his pride was deeply wounded by their having deigned to treat with Margaret Brandt. “I see the temptation,” said he. “But which of us hath not at times to wish one way and do another?” This threw a considerable chill over the old people. So little Kate put in a word. “Vex not thyself, dear Richart. Mother says she will not come.
Admitted in due course to the family council, he clearly showed, though not rudely, that his pride was deeply hurt by their decision to engage with Margaret Brandt. “I see the temptation,” he said. “But which of us hasn’t sometimes wished for one thing and done another?” This created a significant tension among the older folks. Little Kate chimed in. “Don’t worry about it, dear Richart. Mom says she won’t come.
“All the better, sweetheart. I fear me, if she do, I shall hie me back to Amsterdam.”
“All the better, sweetheart. I’m afraid that if she does, I’ll head back to Amsterdam.”
Here Denys popped his head in at the door, and said—
Here Denys poked his head in through the door and said—
“She will be here at three on the great dial.”
“She will be here at three on the big clock.”
They all looked at one another in silence.
They all stared at each other in silence.
(1) Anglice, a Thing-em-bob.
(1) In English, a thingamajig.
CHAPTER LIII
“Nay, Richart,” said Catherine at last, “for Heaven's sake let not this one sorry wench set us all by the ears: hath she not made ill blood enough already?”
“Nah, Richart,” Catherine finally said, “for heaven's sake, let’s not allow this one troublesome woman to stir up trouble for all of us: hasn’t she caused enough bad feelings already?”
“In very deed she hath. Fear me not, good mother. Let her come and read the letter of the poor boy she hath by devilish arts bewitched and then let her go. Give me your words to show her no countenance beyond decent and constrained civility: less we may not, being in our own house; and I will say no more.” On this understanding they waited the foe. She, for her part, prepared for the interview in a spirit little less hostile. When Denys brought word they would not come to her, but would receive her, her lip curled, and she bade him observe how in them every feeling, however small, was larger than the love for Gerard. “Well,” said she, “I have not that excuse; so why mimic the pretty burgher's pride, the pride of all unlettered folk? I will go to them for Gerard's sake. Oh, how I loathe them!”
“Absolutely, she has. Don’t be afraid, good mother. Let her come and read the letter from the poor boy she has bewitched with her dark magic, and then let her leave. Just make sure to show her nothing more than basic courtesy: we can’t do less in our own house; I won’t say anything more.” With that understanding, they waited for the enemy. As for her, she got ready for the meeting with a mindset that was hardly less hostile. When Denys informed her they wouldn’t come to her but would receive her, her lip curled, and she told him to notice how every feeling in them, no matter how small, was bigger than their love for Gerard. “Well,” she said, “I don’t have that excuse; so why imitate the silly pride of the townsfolk, the pride of all uneducated people? I’ll go to them for Gerard’s sake. Oh, how I despise them!”
Thus poor good-natured Denys was bringing into one house the materials of an explosion.
Thus, poor good-natured Denys was bringing the ingredients for an explosion into one house.
Margaret made her toilet in the same spirit that a knight of her day dressed for battle—he to parry blows, and she to parry glances—glances of contempt at her poverty, or of irony at her extravagance. Her kirtle was of English cloth, dark blue, and her farthingale and hose of the same material, but a glossy roan, or claret colour. Not an inch of pretentious fur about her, but plain snowy linen wristbands, and curiously plaited linen from the bosom of the kirtle up to the commencement of the throat; it did not encircle her throat, but framed it, being square, not round. Her front hair still peeped in two waves much after the fashion which Mary Queen of Scots revived a century later; but instead of the silver net, which would have ill become her present condition, the rest of her head was covered with a very small tight-fitting hood of dark blue cloth, hemmed with silver. Her shoes were red; but the roan petticoat and hose prepared the spectator's mind for the shock, and they set off the arched instep and shapely foot.
Margaret got ready in the same way a knight of her time suited up for battle—he to deflect blows, and she to fend off glances—glances of disdain for her poverty or sarcasm for her extravagance. Her dress was made of dark blue English cloth, and her petticoat and stockings were the same material but in a shiny reddish-brown or burgundy color. There wasn’t an inch of flashy fur on her; instead, she wore simple white linen wristbands and intricately braided linen from the bodice of her dress up to the start of her throat; it didn’t wrap around her neck but framed it, being square rather than round. Her front hair still peeked out in two waves, reminiscent of the style Mary Queen of Scots would revive a century later; but instead of the silver net that wouldn’t suit her current situation, the rest of her head was covered with a very small, tight-fitting hood of dark blue cloth, edged in silver. Her shoes were red; however, the reddish-brown petticoat and stockings prepared the onlooker for the surprise, accentuating her arched instep and elegant foot.
Beauty knew its business then as now.
Beauty understood its purpose then as it does now.
And with all this she kept her enemies waiting, though it was three by the dial.
And with all of this, she made her enemies wait, even though it was three o'clock.
At last she started, attended by her he-comrade. And when they were halfway, she stopped and said thoughtfully, “Denys!”
At last she set off, accompanied by her male companion. And when they were halfway, she paused and said thoughtfully, “Denys!”
“Well, she-general?”
“Well, she’s the general?”
“I must go home” (piteously).
"I have to go home."
“What, have ye left somewhat behind?”
“What, have you left something behind?”
“What?”
“What?”
“My courage. Oh! oh! oh!”
"My bravery. Oh! oh! oh!"
“Nay, nay, be brave, she-general. I shall be with you.”
“Don’t worry, be brave, she-general. I’ll be with you.”
“Ay, but wilt keep close to me when I be there?”
“Ay, but will you stay close to me when I'm there?”
Denys promised, and she resumed her march, but gingerly.
Denys promised, and she continued on her way, but carefully.
Meantime they were all assembled, and waiting for her with a strange mixture of feelings.
Meanwhile, they were all gathered and waiting for her with a strange mix of emotions.
Mortification, curiosity, panting affection, aversion to her who came to gratify those feelings, yet another curiosity to see what she was like, and what there was in her to bewitch Gerard and make so much mischief.
Mortification, curiosity, breathless affection, a dislike for her who came to satisfy those feelings, and yet another curiosity to see what she was like and what it was about her that enchanted Gerard and caused so much trouble.
At last Denys came alone, and whispered, “The she-comrade is without.”
At last, Denys came alone and whispered, “The woman is outside.”
“Fetch her in,” said Eli. “Now whisht, all of ye. None speak to her but I.”
“Bring her in,” said Eli. “Now hush, all of you. No one speaks to her except me.”
They all turned their eyes to the door in dead silence.
They all stared at the door in complete silence.
A little muttering was heard outside; Denys's rough organ and a woman's soft and mellow voice.
A bit of murmuring was heard outside; Denys's deep voice and a woman's gentle and warm tone.
Presently that stopped; and then the door opened slowly, and Margaret Brandt, dressed as I have described, and somewhat pale, but calm and lovely, stood on the threshold, looking straight before her.
Presently that stopped; and then the door opened slowly, and Margaret Brandt, dressed as I have described, and somewhat pale, but calm and beautiful, stood on the threshold, looking straight ahead.
They all rose but Kate, and remained mute and staring.
They all got up except for Kate and stayed silent, staring.
“Be seated, mistress,” said Eli gravely, and motioned to a seat that had been set apart for her.
“Please, take a seat, ma’am,” Eli said seriously, and gestured to a chair that had been set aside for her.
She inclined her head, and crossed the apartment; and in so doing her condition was very visible, not only in her shape, but in her languor.
She tilted her head and walked across the apartment; doing so made her condition very obvious, not just in her figure, but in her sluggishness.
Cornelis and Sybrandt hated her for it. Richart thought it spoiled her beauty.
Cornelis and Sybrandt hated her for it. Richart believed it ruined her beauty.
It softened the women somewhat.
It softened the women a bit.
She took her letter out of her bosom, and kissed it as if she had been alone; then disposed herself to read it, with the air of one who knew she was there for that single purpose.
She took the letter out of her shirt and kissed it as if she were alone; then she got ready to read it, looking like someone who knew she was there for that one reason.
But as she began, she noticed they had seated her all by herself like a leper. She looked at Denys, and putting her hand down by her side, made him a swift furtive motion to come by her.
But as she started, she saw they had left her sitting all alone like an outcast. She glanced at Denys, and with her hand down by her side, made a quick, secretive gesture for him to come over to her.
He went with an obedient start as if she had cried “March!” and stood at her shoulder like a sentinel; but this zealous manner of doing it revealed to the company that he had been ordered thither; and at that she coloured. And now she began to read her Gerard, their Gerard, to their eager ears, in a mellow, clear voice, so soft, so earnest, so thrilling, her very soul seemed to cling about each precious sound. It was a voice as of a woman's bosom set speaking by Heaven itself.
He began with an eager start as if she had shouted “Go!” and stood at her side like a guard; but this enthusiastic way of acting made it clear to everyone that he had been told to be there, and that caused her to blush. Now she started reading her Gerard, their Gerard, to their attentive listeners, with a warm, clear voice that was so gentle, so sincere, and so exciting that it felt like her very soul was wrapping around each precious word. It was a voice that felt like it was coming straight from Heaven itself.
“I do nothing doubt, my Margaret, that long ere this shall meet thy beloved eyes, Denys, my most dear friend, will have sought thee out, and told thee the manner of our unlooked for and most tearful parting. Therefore I will e'en begin at that most doleful day. What befell him after, poor faithful soul, fain, fain would I hear, but may not. But I pray for him day and night next after thee, dearest. Friend more stanch and loving had not David in Jonathan, than I in him. Be good to him, for poor Gerard's sake.”
“I have no doubt, my Margaret, that by now you will have seen your beloved Denys, my dear friend, who will have found you and told you about our unexpected and sorrowful farewell. So, I'll begin with that most tragic day. What happened to him afterward, that poor faithful soul, I would love to know, but I can't. But I pray for him day and night right after you, my dearest. No friend was more devoted and loving than David was to Jonathan than I am to him. Please be kind to him, for poor Gerard’s sake.”
At these words, which came quite unexpectedly to him, Denys leaned his head on Margaret's high chair, and groaned aloud.
At these words, which surprised him, Denys rested his head on Margaret's high chair and groaned loudly.
She turned quickly as she sat, and found his hand, and pressed it.
She turned quickly as she sat and found his hand, then pressed it.
And so the sweetheart and the friend held hands while the sweetheart read.
And so the partner and the friend held hands while the partner read.
“I went forward all dizzied, like one in an ill dream; and presently a gentleman came up with his servants, all on horseback, and had liked to have rid o'er me. And he drew rein at the brow of the hill, and sent his armed men back to rob me. They robbed me civilly enough and took my purse and the last copper, and rid gaily away. I wandered stupid on, a friendless pauper.”
“I walked on, feeling dazed, like someone trapped in a bad dream; then a guy showed up with his servants, all on horseback, and almost ran me over. He stopped at the top of the hill and sent his goons back to rob me. They took my things politely enough, grabbing my wallet and the last bit of change, and rode off happily. I stumbled on, feeling lost and broke.”
There was a general sigh, followed by an oath from Denys.
There was a collective sigh, followed by a curse from Denys.
“Presently a strange dimness came o'er me; I lay down to sleep on the snow. 'Twas ill done, and with store of wolves hard by. Had I loved thee as thou dost deserve, I had shown more manhood. But oh, sweet love, the drowsiness that did crawl o'er me desolate, and benumb me, was more than nature. And so I slept; and but that God was better to us, than I to thee or to myself, from that sleep I ne'er had waked; so all do say. I had slept an hour or two, as I suppose, but no more, when a hand did shake me rudely. I awoke to my troubles. And there stood a servant girl in her holiday suit. 'Are ye mad,' quoth she, in seeming choler, 'to sleep in snow, and under wolves' nosen? Art weary o' life, and not long weaned? Come, now, said she, more kindly, 'get up like a good lad;' so I did rise up. 'Are ye rich, or are ye poor?' But I stared at her as one amazed. 'Why, 'tis easy of reply,' quoth she. 'Are ye rich, or are ye poor?' Then I gave a great, loud cry; that she did start back. 'Am I rich, or am I poor? Had ye asked me an hour agone, I had said I am rich. But now I am so poor as sure earth beareth on her bosom none poorer. An hour agone I was rich in a friend, rich in money, rich in hope and spirits of youth; but now the Bastard of Burgundy hath taken my friend, and another gentleman my purse; and I can neither go forward to Rome nor back to her I left in Holland. I am poorest of the poor.' 'Alack!' said the wench. 'Natheless, an ye had been rich ye might ha' lain down again in the snow for any use I had for ye; and then I trow ye had soon fared out o' this world as bare as ye came into it. But, being poor, you are our man: so come wi' me.' Then I went because she bade me, and because I recked not now whither I went. And she took me to a fine house hard by, and into a noble dining-hall hung with black; and there was set a table with many dishes, and but one plate and one chair. 'Fall to!' said she, in a whisper. 'What, alone?' said I. 'Alone? And which of us, think ye, would eat out of the same dish with ye? Are we robbers o' the dead?' Then she speered where I was born. 'At Tergou,' said I. Says she, 'And when a gentleman dies in that country, serve they not the dead man's dinner up as usual, till he be in the ground, and set some poor man to it?' I told her, 'nay.' She blushed for us then. Here they were better Christians.' So I behoved to sit down. But small was my heart for meat. Then this kind lass sat by me and poured me out wine; and tasting it, it cut me to the heart Denys was not there to drink with me. He doth so love good wine, and women good, bad, or indifferent. The rich, strong wine curled round my sick heart; and that day first I did seem to glimpse why folk in trouble run to drink so. She made me eat of every dish. ''Twas unlucky to pass one. Nought was here but her master's daily dinner.' 'He had a good stomach, then,' said I. 'Ay, lad, and a good heart. Leastways, so we all say now he is dead; but, being alive, no word on't e'er heard I.' So I did eat as a bird, nibbling of every dish. And she hearing me sigh, and seeing me like to choke at the food, took pity and bade me be of good cheer. I should sup and lie there that night. And she went to the hind, and he gave me a right good bed; and I told him all, and asked him would the law give me back my purse. 'Law!' quoth he; 'law there was none for the poor in Burgundy. Why, 'twas the cousin of the Lady of the Manor, he that had robbed me. He knew the wild spark. The matter must be judged before the lady; and she was quite young, and far more like to hang me for slandering her cousin, and a gentleman, and a handsome man, than to make him give me back my own. Inside the liberties of a town a poor man might now and then see the face of justice; but out among the grand seigneurs and dames—never.' So I said, 'I'll sit down robbed rather than seek justice and find gallows.' They were all most kind to me next day; and the girl proffered me money from her small wage to help me towards Rhine.”
“Right now, a strange dimness came over me; I lay down to sleep on the snow. This was a bad idea, especially with a bunch of wolves nearby. If I had loved you as you deserved, I would have shown more courage. But oh, sweet love, the drowsiness that crept over me, leaving me desolate and numb, was more than I could bear. And so I slept; and had God not been kinder to us than I was to you or to myself, I might never have woken from that sleep; or so everyone says. I had been asleep for an hour or two, I suppose, but no more, when a hand shook me roughly. I woke up to my troubles. There stood a servant girl in her holiday clothes. 'Are you crazy?' she said, seeming angry. 'Sleeping in the snow, and with wolves nearby? Are you tired of living, or just inexperienced? Come on,' she said more kindly, 'get up like a good lad;' so I got up. 'Are you rich, or are you poor?' But I stared at her in shock. 'Well, that's an easy question,' she said. 'Are you rich, or are you poor?' Then I let out a loud cry that startled her. 'Am I rich or poor? If you had asked me an hour ago, I would have said I was rich. But now I am as poor as anyone could be. An hour ago, I had a friend, money, hope, and the spirits of youth; but now the Bastard of Burgundy has taken my friend, and another man has taken my purse; and I can't get to Rome or back to the one I left in Holland. I am the poorest of the poor.' 'Oh dear!' said the girl. 'But if you had been rich, you might have just lain down again in the snow, for I wouldn't have needed you; and then I guess you would have quickly left this world as bare as you came into it. But since you're poor, you're our man: come with me.' So I went because she asked me to, and because I didn’t care where I was going. She took me to a nice house nearby and into a grand dining hall draped in black; and there was a table set with many dishes, but only one plate and one chair. 'Dig in!' she said quietly. 'What, alone?' I asked. 'Alone? And who do you think would eat from the same dish as you? Are we grave robbers?' Then she asked where I was from. 'From Tergou,' I said. She said, 'And when a gentleman dies in that country, don’t they serve his dinner until he’s buried, setting some poor man to it?' I told her, 'no.' She blushed for us then. Here, they were better Christians.' So I had to sit down. But I had little appetite for food. Then this kind girl sat by me and poured me some wine; and tasting it, it struck me hard that Denys was not there to drink with me. He loves good wine and women, no matter their quality. The rich, strong wine curled around my aching heart; and that day I finally understood why people in trouble turn to drink. She made me eat from every dish. 'It’s unlucky to skip one. Nothing here was more than her master's daily dinner.' 'He had a good appetite, then,' I said. 'Yeah, lad, and a good heart. At least, that's what we all say now that he’s dead; but when he was alive, I never heard that from anyone.' So I ate like a bird, nibbling on every dish. And when she heard me sigh and saw me nearly choke on my food, she took pity on me and told me to cheer up. I should have dinner and stay there that night. She went to the servant, and he gave me a comfortable bed; and I told him everything, asking if the law would help me get my purse back. 'Law!' he said; 'there's no law for the poor in Burgundy. It was the cousin of the Lady of the Manor who robbed me. He knew the troublemaker. The matter had to be judged by the lady; and she was quite young, far more likely to hang me for slandering her cousin—a gentleman and a handsome man—than to make him give me back what was mine. Inside the town, a poor man might sometimes find justice; but out among the grand lords and ladies—never.' So I said, 'I’ll sit here robbed rather than seek justice and find the gallows.' They were all very kind to me the next day; and the girl offered me money from her small wages to help me toward the Rhine.”
“Oh, then, he is coming home! he is coming home!” shouted Denys, interrupting the reader. She shook her head gently at him, by way of reproof.
“Oh, then, he’s coming home! he’s coming home!” shouted Denys, interrupting the reader. She shook her head gently at him, as a way of reproof.
“I beg pardon, all the company,” said he stiffly.
“I’m sorry, everyone,” he said stiffly.
“'Twas a sore temptation; but being a servant, my stomach rose against it. 'Nay, nay,' said I. She told me I was wrong. ''Twas pride out o' place; poor folk should help one another; or who on earth would?' I said if I could do aught in return 'twere well; but for a free gift, nay: I was overmuch beholden already. Should I write a letter for her? 'Nay, he is in the house at present,' said she. 'Should I draw her picture, and so earn my money?' 'What, can ye?' said she. I told her I could try; and her habit would well become a picture. So she was agog to be limned, and give it her lad. And I set her to stand in a good light, and soon made sketches two, whereof I send thee one, coloured at odd hours. The other I did most hastily, and with little conscience daub, for which may Heaven forgive me; but time was short. They, poor things, knew no better, and were most proud and joyous; and both kissing me after their country fashion, 'twas the hind that was her sweetheart, they did bid me God-speed; and I towards Rhine.”
"It was a tough temptation, but being a servant, I rejected it. 'No, no,' I said. She told me I was wrong. 'It’s pride that doesn't belong; poor people should help each other; otherwise, who will?' I said if I could do anything in return, that would be great; but as for a free gift, no: I already owed too much. Should I write a letter for her? 'No, he’s in the house right now,' she said. 'Should I draw her picture and earn my money that way?' 'What, can you?' she asked. I told her I could try; her outfit would make a great picture. So she was excited to be painted and give it to her guy. I had her stand in good light and soon made a couple of sketches, one of which I’m sending you, colored in my spare time. The other I made very quickly and without much care, for which may Heaven forgive me; but time was running out. They, poor souls, didn’t know any better, and were very proud and happy; and both kissed me in their country way, since he was her boyfriend, and they wished me well as I headed towards Rhine."
Margaret paused here, and gave Denys the coloured drawing to hand round. It was eagerly examined by the females on account of the costume, which differed in some respects from that of the Dutch domestic: the hair was in a tight linen bag, a yellow half kerchief crossed her head from ear to ear, but threw out a rectangular point that descended the centre of her forehead, and it met in two more points over her bosom. She wore a red kirtle with long sleeves, kilted very high in front, and showing a green farthingale and a great red leather purse hanging down over it; red stockings, yellow leathern shoes, ahead of her age; for they were low-quartered and square-toed, secured by a strap buckling over the instep, which was not uncommon, and was perhaps the rude germ of the diamond buckle to come.
Margaret paused here and handed Denys the colored drawing to pass around. It was eagerly looked at by the women because of the costume, which was different in some ways from that of the Dutch domestic: her hair was in a tight linen bag, a yellow half kerchief crossed her head from ear to ear, with a rectangular point that came down the center of her forehead, meeting in two more points over her chest. She wore a red kirtle with long sleeves, gathered very high in front, and showing a green farthingale with a large red leather purse hanging down over it; red stockings, yellow leather shoes that were ahead of her time; they were low-quartered and square-toed, secured by a strap buckling over the instep, which wasn't uncommon and might have been the rough start of the diamond buckle to come.
Margaret continued:—
Margaret continued:—
“But oh! how I missed my Denys at every step! often I sat down on the road and groaned. And in the afternoon it chanced that I did so set me down where two roads met, and with heavy head in hand, and heavy heart, did think of thee, my poor sweetheart, and of my lost friend, and of the little house at Tergou, where they all loved me once; though now it is turned to hate.”
“But oh! how I missed my Denys at every step! Often I sat down on the road and groaned. And in the afternoon, it happened that I sat down at the crossroads, with my heavy head in my hands and a heavy heart, thinking of you, my poor sweetheart, and my lost friend, and of the little house at Tergou, where they all loved me once; though now it has turned to hate.”
Catherine. “Alas! that he will think so.”
Catherine. “Oh no! I can't believe he thinks that.”
Eli. “Whisht, wife!”
Eli. “Hush, wife!”
“And I did sigh loud, and often. And me sighing so, one came carolling like a bird adown t' other road. 'Ay, chirp and chirp,' cried I bitterly. 'Thou has not lost sweetheart, and friend, thy father's hearth, thy mother's smile, and every penny in the world.' And at last he did so carol, and carol, I jumped up in ire to get away from his most jarring mirth. But ere I lied from it, I looked down the path to see what could make a man so lighthearted in this weary world; and lo! the songster was a humpbacked cripple, with a bloody bandage o'er his eye, and both legs gone at the knee.”
“And I sighed loudly and often. While I was sighing, someone came singing like a bird down the other road. ‘Yeah, chirp and chirp,’ I said bitterly. ‘You haven’t lost a sweetheart, a friend, your father’s home, your mother’s smile, or every penny in the world.’ Finally, he kept singing and singing, and I jumped up in anger to get away from his annoying happiness. But just before I left, I looked down the path to see what could make someone so cheerful in this tough world; and there was the singer, a hunchbacked cripple, with a bloody bandage over his eye, and both legs gone at the knee.”
“He! he! he! he! he!” went Sybrandt, laughing and cackling.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” went Sybrandt, laughing and cackling.
Margaret's eyes flashed: she began to fold the letter up.
Margaret's eyes sparkled as she started to fold the letter.
“Nay, lass,” said Eli, “heed him not! Thou unmannerly cur, offer't but again and I put thee to the door.”
“Nah, girl,” said Eli, “don’t listen to him! You rude dog, if you do that again, I’ll throw you out.”
“Why, what was there to gibe at, Sybrandt?” remonstrated Catherine more mildly. “Is not our Kate afflicted? and is she not the most content of us all, and singeth like a merle at times between her pains? But I am as bad as thou; prithee read on, lass, and stop our gabble wi' somewhat worth the hearkening.”
“Why, what is there to mock, Sybrandt?” Catherine replied more gently. “Isn’t our Kate suffering? And isn’t she the happiest of us all, singing like a blackbird sometimes despite her pain? But I’m just as bad as you; please read on, girl, and stop our chatter with something worth listening to.”
“'Then,' said I, 'may this thing be?' And I took myself to task. 'Gerard, son of Eli, dost thou well to bemoan thy lot, thou hast youth and health; and here comes the wreck of nature on crutches, praising God's goodness with singing like a mavis?'”
“'Then,' I said, 'can this really be?' And I held myself accountable. 'Gerard, son of Eli, is it right for you to complain about your situation? You have youth and health; and here comes someone who's fallen apart, using crutches, singing praises to God like a songbird?'”
Catherine. “There you see.”
Catherine. "See that?"
Eli. “Whisht, dame, whisht!”
Eli. “Hush, lady, hush!”
“And whenever he saw me, he left carolling and presently hobbled up and chanted, 'Charity, for love of Heaven, sweet master, charity,' with a whine as piteous as wind at keyhole. 'Alack, poor soul,' said I, 'charity is in my heart, but not my purse; I am poor as thou.' Then he believed me none, and to melt me undid his sleeve, and showed a sore wound on his arm, and said he, 'Poor cripple though I be, I am like to lose this eye to boot, look else.' I saw and groaned for him, and to excuse myself let him wot how I had been robbed of my last copper. Thereat he left whining all in a moment, and said, in a big manly voice, 'Then I'll e'en take a rest. Here, youngster, pull thou this strap: nay, fear not!' I pulled, and down came a stout pair of legs out of his back; and half his hump had melted away, and the wound in his eye no deeper than the bandage.
“And whenever he saw me, he stopped singing and quickly hobbled over, chanting, 'Please, for the love of Heaven, kind master, spare some charity,' with a whine as pitiful as wind whistling through a keyhole. 'Oh dear, poor soul,' I said, 'charity is in my heart, but not in my wallet; I’m as broke as you are.' Then he didn't believe me at all, and to try to convince me, he undid his sleeve, revealing a sore wound on his arm, saying, 'Even though I’m a poor cripple, I might lose this eye too, just look.' I saw it and groaned for him, and to excuse myself, I let him know that I had been robbed of my last penny. At that, he stopped whining in an instant and said, in a strong, manly voice, 'Then I guess I’ll take a break. Here, young man, pull this strap: don't worry!' I pulled, and down came a strong pair of legs from his back; half his hump had disappeared, and the wound on his eye was no deeper than the bandage.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Margaret's hearers in a body.
“Oh!” exclaimed Margaret's listeners all at once.
“Whereat, seeing me astounded, he laughed in my face, and told me I was not worth gulling, and offered me his protection. 'My face was prophetic,' he said. 'Of what?' said I. 'Marry,' said he, 'that its owner will starve in this thievish land.' Travel teaches e'en the young wisdom. Time was I had turned and fled this impostor as a pestilence; but now I listened patiently to pick up crumbs of counsel. And well I did: for nature and his adventurous life had crammed the poor knave with shrewdness and knowledge of the homelier sort—a child was I beside him. When he had turned me inside out, said he, 'Didst well to leave France and make for Germany; but think not of Holland again. Nay, on to Augsburg and Nurnberg, the Paradise of craftsmen: thence to Venice, an thou wilt. But thou wilt never bide in Italy nor any other land, having once tasted the great German cities. Why, there is but one honest country in Europe, and that is Germany; and since thou art honest, and since I am a vagabone, Germany was made for us twain.' I bade him make that good: how might one country fit true men and knaves! 'Why, thou novice,' said he, 'because in an honest land are fewer knaves to bite the honest man, and many honest men for the knave to bite. I was in luck, being honest, to have fallen in with a friendly sharp. Be my pal,' said he; 'I go to Nurnberg; we will reach it with full pouches. I'll learn ye the cul de bois, and the cul de jatte, and how to maund, and chaunt, and patter, and to raise swellings, and paint sores and ulcers on thy body would take in the divell.' I told him shivering, I'd liever die than shame myself and my folk so.”
“Seeing me shocked, he laughed in my face and told me I wasn’t worth fooling, and offered me his protection. 'My face was prophetic,' he said. 'Of what?' I asked. 'Well,' he said, 'that its owner will starve in this thieving land.' Travel teaches even the young wisdom. There was a time I would have turned and run from this con man like he was the plague; but now I listened patiently to pick up bits of advice. And I did well: for nature and his adventurous life had filled the poor guy with cleverness and practical knowledge—I was like a child next to him. Once he had turned me inside out, he said, 'You did well to leave France and head for Germany; but don’t even think about going back to Holland. No, head on to Augsburg and Nuremberg, the paradise of craftsmen: then to Venice, if you want. But you won’t stay in Italy or any other place once you’ve tasted the great German cities. There’s only one honest country in Europe, and that’s Germany; since you’re honest, and I’m a vagabond, Germany was made for both of us.' I challenged him on that: how could one country be right for both honest men and rogues? 'Well, you novice,' he said, 'because in an honest land there are fewer rogues to prey on honest men, and many honest men for the rogue to prey on. I was lucky, being honest, to have met a friendly hustler. Be my buddy,' he said; 'I’m heading to Nuremberg; we’ll get there with full pockets. I’ll teach you the tricks of the trade, and how to con, and chant, and mumble, and how to create fake injuries, and paint sores and ulcers on your body to fool the devil.' I shivered and told him I’d rather die than shame myself and my family like that.”
Eli. “Good lad! good lad!”
Eli. "Good guy! Good guy!"
“Why, what shame was it for such as I to turn beggar? Beggary was an ancient and most honourable mystery. What did holy monks, and bishops, and kings, when they would win Heaven's smile? why, wash the feet of beggars, those favourites of the saints. 'The saints were no fools,' he told me. Then he did put out his foot. 'Look at that, that was washed by the greatest king alive, Louis, of France, the last Holy Thursday that was. And the next day, Friday, clapped in the stocks by the warden of a petty hamlet.' So I told him my foot should walk between such high honour and such low disgrace, on the same path of honesty, please God. Well then, since I had not spirit to beg, he would indulge my perversity. I should work under him, he be the head, I the fingers. And with that he set himself up like a judge, on a heap of dust by the road's side, and questioned me strictly what I could do. I began to say I was strong and willing. 'Ba!' said he, 'so is an ox. Say, what canst do that Sir Ox cannot?' I could write; I had won a prize for it. 'Canst write as fast as the printers?' quo' he, jeering. 'What else?' I could paint. 'That was better.' I was like to tear my hair to hear him say so, and me going to Rome to write. I could twang the psaltery a bit. 'That was well. Could I tell stories?' Ay, by the score. 'Then,' said he, 'I hire you from this moment.' 'What to do?' said I. 'Nought crooked, Sir Candour,' says he. 'I will feed thee all the way and find thee work; and take half thine earnings, no more.' 'Agreed,' said I, and gave my hand on it, 'Now, servant,' said he, 'we will dine. But ye need not stand behind my chair, for two reasons—first I ha' got no chair; and next, good fellowship likes me better than state.' And out of his wallet he brought flesh, fowl, and pastry, a good dozen of spices lapped in flax paper, and wine fit for a king. Ne'er feasted I better than out of this beggar's wallet, now my master. When we had well eaten I was for going on. 'But,' said he, 'servants should not drive their masters too hard, especially after feeding, for then the body is for repose, and the mind turns to contemplation;' and he lay on his back gazing calmly at the sky, and presently wondered whether there were any beggars up there. I told him I knew but of one, called Lazarus. 'Could he do the cul de jatte better than I?' said he, and looked quite jealous like. I told him nay; Lazarus was honest, though a beggar, and fed daily of the crumbs fal'n from a rich man's table, and the dogs licked his sores. 'Servant,' quo' he, 'I spy a foul fault in thee. Thou liest without discretion: now the end of lying being to gull, this is no better than fumbling with the divell's tail. I pray Heaven thou mayest prove to paint better than thou cuttest whids, or I am done out of a dinner. No beggar eats crumbs, but only the fat of the land; and dogs lick not a beggar's sores, being made with spearwort, or ratsbane, or biting acids, from all which dogs, and even pigs, abhor. My sores are made after my proper receipt; but no dog would lick e'en them twice. I have made a scurvy bargain: art a cozening knave, I doubt, as well as a nincompoop.' I deigned no reply to this bundle of lies, which did accuse heavenly truth of falsehood for not being in a tale with him. He rose and we took the road; and presently we came to a place where were two little wayside inns, scarce a furlong apart. 'Halt,' said my master. 'Their armories are sore faded—all the better. Go thou in; shun the master; board the wife; and flatter her inn sky high, all but the armories, and offer to colour them dirt cheap.' So I went in and told the wife I was a painter, and would revive her armories cheap; but she sent me away with a rebuff. I to my master. He groaned. 'Ye are all fingers and no tongue,' said he; 'I have made a scurvy bargain. Come and hear me patter and flatter.' Between the two inns was a high hedge. He goes behind it a minute and comes out a decent tradesman. We went on to the other inn, and then I heard him praise it so fulsome as the very wife did blush. 'But,' says he, 'there is one little, little fault; your armories are dull and faded. Say but the word, and for a silver franc my apprentice here, the cunningest e'er I had, shall make them bright as ever. Whilst she hesitated, the rogue told her he had done it to a little inn hard by, and now the inn's face was like the starry firmament. 'D'ye hear that, my man?' cries she, '“The Three Frogs” have been and painted up their armories; shall “The Four Hedgehogs” be outshone by them?' So I painted, and my master stood by like a lord, advising me how to do, and winking to me to heed him none, and I got a silver franc. And he took me back to 'The Three Frogs,' and on the way put me on a beard and disguised me, and flattered 'The Three Frogs,' and told them how he had adorned 'The Four Hedgehogs,' and into the net jumped the three poor simple frogs, and I earned another silver franc. Then we went on and he found his crutches, and sent me forward, and showed his “cicatrices d'emprunt,” as he called them, and all his infirmities, at 'The Four Hedgehogs,' and got both food and money. 'Come, share and share,' quoth he: so I gave him one franc. 'I have made a good bargain,' said he. 'Art a master limner, but takest too much time.' So I let him know that in matters of honest craft things could not be done quick and well. 'Then do them quick,' quoth he. And he told me my name was Bon Bec; and I might call him Cul de Jatte, because that was his lay at our first meeting. And at the next town my master, Cul de Jatte, bought me a psaltery, and set himself up again by the roadside in state like him that erst judged Marsyas and Apollo, piping for vain glory. So I played a strain. 'Indifferent well, harmonious Bon Bec,' said he haughtily. 'Now tune thy pipes.' So I did sing a sweet strain the good monks taught me; and singing it reminded poor Bon Bec, Gerard erst, of his young days and home, and brought the water to my een. But looking up, my master's visage was as the face of a little boy whipt soundly, or sipping foulest medicine. 'Zounds, stop that bellyache blether,' quoth he, 'that will ne'er wile a stiver out o' peasants' purses; 'twill but sour the nurses' milk, and gar the kine jump into rivers to be out of earshot on't. What, false knave, did I buy thee a fine new psaltery to be minded o' my latter end withal? Hearken! these be the songs that glad the heart, and fill the minstrel's purse.' And he sung so blasphemous a stave, and eke so obscene, as I drew away from him a space that the lightning might not spoil the new psaltery. However, none came, being winter, and then I said, 'Master, the Lord is debonair. Held I the thunder, yon ribaldry had been thy last, thou foul-mouthed wretch.'
“Why was it so shameful for someone like me to become a beggar? Begging has a long history and is a respected mystery. What did holy monks, bishops, and kings do to earn Heaven’s favor? They would wash the feet of beggars, who are favorites of the saints. 'The saints weren't fools,' he told me. Then he stuck out his foot. 'Look at this, it was washed by the greatest king alive, Louis of France, last Holy Thursday. And the next day, Friday, I was put in the stocks by the warden of a small village.' So I said my foot would walk between such high honor and such low disgrace, on the same honest path, God willing. Since I lacked the spirit to beg, he decided to tolerate my inclination. I would work under him; he would be the head, and I the hands. With that, he sat himself down like a judge on a pile of dirt by the roadside and rigorously questioned me about what I could do. I started to say I was strong and willing. 'Bah!' he said, 'so is an ox. What can you do that Sir Ox cannot?' I could write; I had won a prize for it. 'Can you write as fast as the printers?' he mocked. 'What else?' I could paint. 'That’s better.' I almost tore my hair out to hear him say that, with me going to Rome to write. I could play the psaltery a bit. 'That’s good. Can you tell stories?' Yes, by the dozens. 'Then,' he said, 'I hire you from this moment.' 'What for?' I asked. 'Nothing crooked, Sir Candour,' he replied. 'I will feed you all the way and find you work, and take half your earnings, no more.' 'Agreed,' I said, and shook on it. 'Now, servant,' he said, 'let’s eat. But you don’t need to stand behind my chair, for two reasons—first, I don’t have a chair; and second, I prefer good company over formalities.' From his wallet, he took out meat, fowl, pastries, a good dozen spices wrapped in flax paper, and wine fit for a king. I’ve never feasted better than from this beggar's wallet, now my master. After we ate well, I was ready to go. 'But,' he said, 'servants shouldn’t rush their masters too much, especially after eating, for then the body needs rest, and the mind turns to contemplation;' and he lay back, calmly gazing at the sky, and soon wondered if there were any beggars up there. I told him I knew of one named Lazarus. 'Can he do the cul de jatte better than I?' he asked, looking quite jealous. I told him no; Lazarus was honest even as a beggar, fed daily with the crumbs that fell from a rich man's table, while dogs licked his sores. 'Servant,' he said, 'I see a foul fault in you. You lie without discretion: now the end of lying is to deceive, which is no better than fiddling with the devil's tail. I pray Heaven that you may prove to paint better than you spin tales, or else I’ll be done out of a dinner. No beggar eats crumbs; they only eat the best of the land; and dogs don’t lick a beggar's sores, which are made with spearwort, or rat poison, or biting acids, all of which dogs and even pigs abhor. My sores are made according to my own recipe; but no dog would lick even them twice. I’ve made a lousy deal: are you a conniving rogue, I wonder, as well as a simpleton?' I deigned no reply to this bundle of lies that accused heavenly truth of falsehood for not being in agreement with him. He got up, and we hit the road. Soon we came to a place with two small inns, hardly a furlong apart. 'Stop,' said my master. 'Their signs are badly faded—all the better. Go in; avoid the master; charm the wife; flatter her inn to the sky, except for the signs, and offer to repaint them for cheap.' So I went in and told the wife I was a painter and would brighten her signs at a low price; but she turned me away. I returned to my master. He groaned. 'You’re all hands and no words,' he said; 'I’ve struck a lousy deal. Come and listen to how I flatter.' There was a tall hedge between the two inns. He went behind it for a moment and came out as a respectable tradesman. We went to the other inn, and I heard him praise it so excessively that the wife turned red. 'But,' he said, 'there’s one tiny little fault; your signs are dull and faded. Just say the word, and for a silver franc, my apprentice here, the cleverest I’ve ever had, will make them bright again.' While she hesitated, the trickster told her he had done the same for a little inn nearby, and now that inn’s signs were bright as the starry sky. 'Do you hear that, my man?' she exclaimed, '“The Three Frogs” have painted up their signs; shall “The Four Hedgehogs” be outshone by them?' So I painted while my master stood by like a lord, advising me how to do it, and winking at me to ignore him, and I earned a silver franc. He took me back to 'The Three Frogs,' and on the way, he disguised me with a fake beard and flattered 'The Three Frogs,' boasting about how he adorned 'The Four Hedgehogs,' and the three gullible frogs fell for it, and I earned another silver franc. After that, we moved on, and he found some crutches, sent me ahead, and showed off his “Cicatrices d'emprunt,” as he called them, and all his ailments, at 'The Four Hedgehogs,' where he got both food and money. 'Come on, let’s split it,' he said: so I gave him one franc. 'I’ve made a good deal,' he said. 'You’re a master painter, but you take too long.' So I let him know that in honest work, things can’t be done both quickly and well. 'Then do them fast,' he replied. He told me my name was Bon Bec; and I could call him Cul de Jatte, because that was his nickname when we first met. In the next town, my master, Cul de Jatte, bought me a psaltery, and set himself up again by the roadside like the one who once judged Marsyas and Apollo, playing for vain glory. So I played a tune. 'Fairly well, harmonious Bon Bec,' he said haughtily. 'Now tune your pipes.' So I sang a sweet melody the good monks taught me; and singing it reminded poor Bon Bec, Gerard once, of his youth and home, bringing tears to my eyes. But looking up, my master’s face was like that of a little boy who had been soundly whipped, or was sipping the worst medicine. 'Damn, stop that pitiful nonsense,' he exclaimed, 'that will never coax a penny from peasant wallets; it’ll only sour the nurses' milk and make the cows jump into rivers to avoid hearing it. What, false rogue, did I buy you a fine new psaltery to remind me of my miserable end? Listen! These are the songs that cheer the heart and fill the minstrel's purse.' And he sang such blasphemous and obscene verses that I moved away from him a bit, lest the lightning strike and spoil the new psaltery. However, nothing happened since it was winter, and I said, 'Master, the Lord is merciful. If I had thunder, that ribaldry would have been your last, you foul-mouthed wretch.'”
“'Why, Bon Bec, what is to do?' quoth he. 'I have made an ill bargain. Oh, perverse heart, that turneth from doctrine.' So I bade him keep his breath to cool his broth, ne'er would I shame my folk with singing ribald songs. 'Then,' says he sulkily, 'the first fire we light by the wayside, clap thou on the music box! so 'twill make our pot boil for the nonce; but with your,
“'Why, Bon Bec, what's going on?' he said. 'I've made a bad deal. Oh, stubborn heart, that strays from the teachings.' So I told him to save his breath to cool his soup; I would never embarrass my people by singing vulgar songs. 'Then,' he said sulkily, 'the first fire we light by the roadside, you should turn on the music box! It’ll make our pot boil for now; but with your,”
Good people, let us peak and pine,
Cut tristful mugs, and miaul and whine
Thorough our nosen chaunts divine,
Good people, let us speak and complain,
Make sad faces, and meow and whine
Through our blessed songs divine,never, never, never. Ye might as well go through Lorraine crying, Mulleygrubs, Mulleygrubs, who'll buy my Mulleygrubs!' So we fared on, bad friends. But I took a thought, and prayed him hum me one of his naughty ditties again. Then he brightened, and broke forth into ribaldry like a nightingale. Finger in ears stuffed I. 'No words; naught but the bare melody.' For oh, Margaret, note the sly malice of the Evil One! Still to the scurviest matter he wedded the tunablest ditties.”
never, never, never. You might as well walk through Lorraine crying, "Mulleygrubs, Mulleygrubs, who'll buy my Mulleygrubs!" So we carried on, not the best of friends. But I had a thought and asked him to sing one of his naughty songs again. Then he perked up and launched into a raunchy tune like a nightingale. I stuffed my fingers in my ears. "No words; just the pure melody." For oh, Margaret, notice the sly trickery of the Evil One! He still managed to pair the dirtiest topics with the catchiest melodies.
Catherine. “That is true as Holy Writ.”
Catherine. “That is as true as scripture.”
Sybrandt. “How know you that, mother?”
Sybrandt. “How do you know that, mom?”
Cornelis. “He! he! he!”
Cornelis. “Haha!”
Eli. “Whisht, ye uneasy wights, and let me hear the boy. He is wiser than ye; wiser than his years.”
Eli. “Quiet down, you restless people, and let me hear the boy. He’s smarter than you; smarter than his age.”
“'What tomfoolery is this,' said he; yet he yielded to me, and soon I garnered three of his melodies; but I would not let Cul de Jatte wot the thing I meditated. 'Show not fools nor bairns unfinished work,' saith the byword. And by this time 'twas night, and a little town at hand, where we went each to his inn; for my master would not yield to put off his rags and other sores till morning; nor I to enter an inn with a tatterdemalion. So we were to meet on the road at peep of day, and indeed, we still lodged apart, meeting at morn and parting at eve outside each town we lay at. And waking at midnight and cogitating, good thoughts came down to me, and sudden my heart was enlightened. I called to mind that my Margaret had withstood the taking of the burgomaster's purse. ''Tis theft,' said you; 'disguise it how ye will.' But I must be wiser than my betters; and now that which I had as good as stolen, others had stolen from me. As it came so it was gone. Then I said, 'Heaven is not cruel, but just;' and I vowed a vow, to repay our burgomaster every shilling an' I could. And I went forth in the morning sad, but hopeful. I felt lighter for the purse being gone. My master was at the gate becrutched. I told him I'd liever have seen him in another disguise. 'Beggars must not be choosers,' said he. However, soon he bade me untruss him, for he felt sadly. His head swam. I told him forcefully to deform nature thus could scarce be wholesome. He answered none; but looked scared, and hand on head. By-and-by he gave a groan, and rolled on the ground like a ball, and writhed sore. I was scared, and wist not what to do, but went to lift him; but his trouble rose higher and higher, he gnashed his teeth fearfully, and the foam did fly from his lips; and presently his body bended itself like a bow, and jerked and bounded many times into the air. I exorcised him; it but made him worse. There was water in a ditch hard by, not very clear; but the poor creature struggling between life and death, I filled my hat withal, and came flying to souse him. Then my lord laughed in my face. 'Come, Bon Bec, by thy white gills, I have not forgotten my trade.' I stood with watery hat in hand, glaring. 'Could this be feigning?' 'What else?' said he. 'Why, a real fit is the sorriest thing; but a stroke with a feather compared with mine. Art still betters nature.' 'But look, e'en now blood trickleth from your nose,' said I. 'Ay, ay, pricked my nostrils with a straw.' 'But ye foamed at the lips.' 'Oh, a little soap makes a mickle foam.' And he drew out a morsel like a bean from his mouth. 'Thank thy stars, Bon Bec,' says he, 'for leading thee to a worthy master. Each day his lesson. To-morrow we will study the cul de bois and other branches. To-day, own me prince of demoniacs, and indeed of all good fellows.' Then, being puffed up, he forgot yesterday's grudge, and discoursed me freely of beggars; and gave me, who eftsoons thought a beggar was a beggar, and there an end, the names and qualities of full thirty sorts of masterful and crafty mendicants in France and Germany and England; his three provinces; for so the poor, proud knave yclept those kingdoms three; wherein his throne it was the stocks I ween. And outside the next village one had gone to dinner, and left his wheelbarrow. So says he, 'I'll tie myself in a knot, and shalt wheel me through; and what with my crippledom and thy piety, a-wheeling of thy poor old dad, we'll bleed the bumpkins of a dacha-saltee.' I did refuse. I would work for him; but no hand would have in begging. 'And wheeling an “asker” in a barrow, is not that work?' said he; 'then fling yon muckle stone in to boot: stay, I'll soil it a bit, and swear it is a chip of the holy sepulchre; and you wheeled us both from Jerusalem.' Said I, 'Wheeling a pair o' lies, one stony, one fleshy, may be work, and hard work, but honest work 'tis not. 'Tis fumbling with his tail you wot of. And,' said I, 'master, next time you go to tempt me to knavery, speak not to me of my poor old dad.' Said I, 'You have minded me of my real father's face, the truest man in Holland. He and I are ill friends now, worse luck. But though I offend him shame him I never will.' Dear Margaret, with this knave' saying, 'your poor old dad,' it had gone to my heart like a knife. ''Tis well,' said my master gloomily; 'I have made a bad bargain.' Presently he halts, and eyes a tree by the wayside. 'Go spell me what is writ on yon tree.' So I went, and there was nought but a long square drawn in outline. I told him so. 'So much for thy monkish lore,' quoth he. A little farther, and he sent me to read a wall. There was nought but a circle scratched on the stone with a point of nail or knife, and in the circle two dots. I said so Then said he, 'Bon Bec, that square was a warning. Some good Truand left it, that came through this village faring west; that means “dangerous.” The circle with the two dots was writ by another of our brotherhood; and it signifies as how the writer, soit Rollin Trapu, soit Triboulet, soit Catin Cul de Bois, or what not, was becked for asking here, and lay two months in Starabin.' Then he broke forth. 'Talk: of your little snivelling books that go in pouch. Three books have I, France, England, and Germany; and they are writ all over in one tongue, that my brethren of all countries understand; and that is what I call learning. So sith here they whip sores, and imprison infirmities, I to my tiring room.' And he popped behind the hedge, and came back worshipful. We passed through the village, and I sat me down on the stocks, and even the barber's apprentice whets his razor on a block, so did I flesh my psaltery on this village, fearing great cities. I tuned it, and coursed up and down the wires nimbly with my two wooden strikers; and then chanted loud and clear, as I had heard the minstrels of the country,
“'What nonsense is this?' he said; yet he gave in to me, and soon I gathered three of his tunes; but I would not let Cul de Jatte know my plans. 'Don’t show unfinished work to fools or children,' as the saying goes. By this time it was night, and a small town was nearby, where we went to our separate inns; for my master wouldn’t change out of his rags and other troubles until morning; nor would I enter an inn with a ragamuffin. So we agreed to meet on the road at dawn, and indeed, we continued to stay apart, meeting in the morning and parting in the evening outside each town we stayed in. Waking at midnight and thinking deeply, good thoughts came to me, and suddenly my heart was uplifted. I remembered that my Margaret had resisted taking the burgomaster's purse. 'That’s theft,' you said; 'call it whatever you want.' But I had to be wiser than my superiors; and now what I had nearly stolen was also stolen from me. It came and then it was gone. Then I said, 'Heaven is not cruel, but just;' and I vowed to repay our burgomaster every penny if I could. The next morning I set out feeling sad, but hopeful. I felt lighter now that the purse was gone. My master was at the gate, looking bedraggled. I told him I'd rather see him in another disguise. 'Beggars can’t be choosers,' he said. However, he soon asked me to help him get out of it, as he felt awful. He was dizzy. I firmly told him that deforming oneself like this could hardly be good for him. He said nothing, but looked scared, holding his head. After a while, he groaned and rolled on the ground like a ball, writhing painfully. I was scared and didn’t know what to do, but went to help him; however, his troubles escalated, he gnashed his teeth in agony, and foam flew from his lips; and soon his body bent like a bow, jerking and bouncing into the air multiple times. I tried to help him; it only made him worse. There was water in a nearby ditch, not very clear; but the poor creature was struggling between life and death, so I filled my hat with it and rushed to pour it over him. Then my lord laughed in my face. 'Come on, Bon Bec, with your white face; I haven’t forgotten my trade.' I stood there with a wet hat in hand, glaring. 'Could this be fake?' 'What else?' he said. 'Well, a real fit is the saddest thing; but a little feather is nothing compared to mine. You still surpass nature.' 'But look, blood is dripping from your nose,' I said. 'Oh, I pricked my nostrils with a straw.' 'But you were foaming at the mouth.' 'Oh, a little soap makes a lot of foam.' And he pulled out a little piece like a bean from his mouth. 'Thank your stars, Bon Bec,' he says, 'for leading you to a worthy master. Each day a lesson. Tomorrow we will study the cul de bois and other branches. Today, call me the prince of demoniacs, and indeed of all good fellows.' Then, feeling proud, he forgot yesterday's grudge and spoke freely to me about beggars; and gave me, who once thought a beggar was just a beggar, the names and qualities of over thirty types of clever and crafty mendicants in France, Germany, and England; his three provinces; for that’s what the proud knave called those three kingdoms; where his throne was, I suppose, the stocks. And outside the next village, someone had gone to dinner and left his wheelbarrow. So he says, 'I’ll tie myself up, and you can wheel me around; and with my disability and your kindness, wheeling your poor old dad, we’ll squeeze the peasants for a bit of money.' I refused. I would work for him; but I wouldn’t beg. 'Wheeling an “asker” in a barrow, isn’t that work?' he said; 'then why not throw that big stone in too: wait, I’ll dirty it a bit and swear it’s a chip from the holy sepulchre; and you wheeled us both away from Jerusalem.' I said, 'Wheeling a pair of lies, one stony, one fleshy, might be work, and hard work, but it’s not honest work. It’s fumbling with his tail you know of. And,' I said, 'master, next time you try to tempt me to wrongdoing, don’t mention my poor old dad.' I said, 'You’ve reminded me of my real father's face, the most honest man in Holland. He and I are not on good terms now, unfortunate as it is. But although I annoy him, I’ll never shame him.' Dear Margaret, with this knave saying, 'your poor old dad,' it went to my heart like a knife. 'Well,' said my master gloomily; 'I’ve made a bad deal.' Soon he stops and looks at a tree by the roadside. 'Go read what’s written on that tree.' So I went, and there was nothing but a long square drawn in outline. I told him so. 'So much for your monkish knowledge,' he quipped. A little further, and he sent me to read a wall. There was only a circle scratched on the stone with a nail or knife, and in the circle, two dots. I said so. Then he said, 'Bon Bec, that square was a warning. Some good Truand left it, who passed through this village heading west; it means “dangerous.” The circle with the two dots was written by another of our brotherhood; and it signifies that the writer, soit Rollin Trapu, soit Triboulet, soit Catin Cul de Bois, or whatnot, was caught asking here and spent two months in Starabin.' Then he broke out. 'Talk about your little books that fit in a pouch. I have three books, France, England, and Germany; and they’re all written in one language that my brothers from all countries can understand; and that’s what I call learning. Since here they whip wounds and imprison weaknesses, I’m off to my resting place.' And he ducked behind the hedge, and came back looking respectable. We passed through the village, and I sat down on the stocks, and even the barber’s apprentice sharpens his razor on a block, so did I hone my psaltery on this village, fearing big cities. I tuned it, and played up and down the strings nimbly with my two wooden strikers; and then sang loudly and clearly, as I had heard the minstrels of the countryside.
'Qui veut ouir qui veut Savoir,'
'Who wants to hear who wants to know,'
some trash, I mind not what. And soon the villagers, male and female, thronged about me; thereat I left singing, and recited them to the psaltery a short but right merry tale out of 'the lives of the saints,' which it is my handbook of pleasant figments and this ended, instantly struck up and whistled one of Cul de Jatte's devil's ditties, and played it on the psaltery to boot. Thou knowest Heaven hath bestowed on me a rare whistle, both for compass and tune. And with me whistling bright and full this sprightly air, and making the wires slow when the tune did gallop, and tripping when the tune did amble, or I did stop and shake on one note like a lark i' the air, they were like to eat me; but looking round, lo! my master had given way to his itch, and there was his hat on the ground, and copper pouring in. I deemed it cruel to whistle the bread out of poverty's pouch; so broke off and away; yet could not get clear so swift, but both men and women did slobber me sore, and smelled all of garlic. 'There, master,' said I, 'I call that cleaving the divell in twain and keeping his white half.' Said he, 'Bon Bec, I have made a good bargain.' Then he bade me stay where I was while he went to the Holy Land. I stayed, and he leaped the churchyard dike, and the sexton was digging a grave, and my master chaffered with him, and came back with a knuckle bone. But why he clept a churchyard Holy Land, that I learned not then, but after dinner. I was colouring the armories of a little inn; and he sat by me most peaceable, a cutting, and filing, and polishing bones, sedately; so I speered was not honest work sweet? 'As rain water,' said he, mocking. 'What was he a making?' 'A pair of bones to play on with thee; and with the refuse a St. Anthony's thumb and a St. Martin's little finger, for the devout.' The vagabone! And now, sweet Margaret, thou seest our manner of life faring Rhineward. I with the two arts I had least prized or counted on for bread was welcome everywhere; too poor now to fear robbers, yet able to keep both master and man on the road. For at night I often made a portraiture of the innkeeper or his dame, and so went richer from an inn; the which it is the lot of few. But my master despised this even way of life. 'I love ups and downs,' said he. And certes he lacked them not. One day he would gather more than I in three; another, to hear his tale, it had rained kicks all day in lieu of 'saltees,' and that is pennies. Yet even then at heart he despised me for a poor mechanical soul, and scorned my arts, extolling his own, the art of feigning.
some trash, I don't care what. Soon the villagers, both men and women, gathered around me. I stopped singing and played a short but cheerful tale from 'the lives of the saints' on my psaltery, which is my go-to for fun stories. Once I finished, I immediately started whistling one of Cul de Jatte's catchy tunes and played it on the psaltery too. You know Heaven has given me an amazing whistle, both for range and melody. As I whistled this lively tune, making the strings slow down when the tune sped up, and dancing when the melody relaxed, or stopping to hold on one note like a lark in the sky, the crowd was so eager they looked like they might eat me. But then I noticed my master had given in to his craving; there was his hat on the ground, and money was pouring in. I thought it was cruel to whistle food out of poverty's pocket, so I stopped and tried to leave, but I couldn't get away quickly; both men and women grabbed at me and smelled strongly of garlic. 'There, master,' I said, 'I think that’s splitting the devil in half and keeping the nice part.' He replied, 'Bon Bec, I made a good deal.' Then he told me to stay put while he went to the Holy Land. I stayed, and he jumped over the churchyard fence; the sexton was digging a grave, and my master made a deal with him and returned with a knuckle bone. But why he called a churchyard Holy Land, I didn’t find out until later, after dinner. I was painting the signs for a small inn, and he sat next to me calmly, cutting, filing, and polishing bones. I asked him if he didn’t think honest work was nice. 'Like rainwater,' he said, mocking me. 'What were you making?' 'A pair of bones to play with you; and with the scraps, a St. Anthony's thumb and a St. Martin's little finger for the devout.' The rascal! And now, sweet Margaret, you see how we lived as we traveled towards the Rhine. With the two skills I had least valued for a living, I was welcomed everywhere; too poor now to fear thieves, yet able to keep both master and servant on the road. At night, I often painted the innkeeper or his wife, and left the inns richer than most do. But my master looked down on this simple way of life. 'I love ups and downs,' he said. And indeed, he had plenty of them. One day he’d earn more than I would in three; another day, to hear his story, he’d gotten nothing but kicks instead of 'saltees,' which means coins. Yet even then, deep down, he looked down on me for being a poor, mechanical soul and scorned my skills, praising his own, the art of deception.
“Natheless, at odd times was he ill at his ease. Going through the town of Aix, we came upon a beggar walking, fast by one hand to a cart-tail, and the hangman a lashing his bare bloody back. He, stout knave, so whipt, did not a jot relent; but I did wince at every stroke; and my master hung his head.
“Still, there were times when he felt uncomfortable. While walking through the town of Aix, we saw a beggar tied by one hand to the back of a cart, and the executioner was whipping his bare, bloody back. The strong fellow didn’t flinch at all; but I winced with every stroke, and my master lowered his head.
“'Soon or late, Bon Bec,' quoth he. 'Soon or late.' I, seeing his haggard face, knew what he meaned. And at a town whose name hath slipped me, but 'twas on a fair river, as we came to the foot of the bridge he halted, and shuddered. 'Why what is the coil?' said I. 'Oh, blind,' said he, 'they are justifying there.' So nought would serve him but take a boat, and cross the river by water. But 'twas out of the frying-pan, as the word goeth. For the boatman had scarce told us the matter, and that it was a man and a woman for stealing glazed windows out of housen, and that the man was hanged at daybreak, and the quean to be drowned, when lo! they did fling her off the bridge, and fell in the water not far from us. And oh! Margaret, the deadly splash! It ringeth in mine ears even now. But worse was coming; for, though tied, she came up and cried 'Help! help!' and I, forgetting all, and hearing a woman's voice cry 'Help!' was for leaping in to save her; and had surely done it, but the boatman and Cul de Jatte clung round me, and in a moment the bourreau's man, that waited in a boat, came and entangled his hooked pole in her long hair, and so thrust her down and ended her. Oh! if the saints answered so our cries for help! And poor Cul de Jatte groaned; and I sat sobbing, and beat my breast, and cried, 'Of what hath God made men's hearts?'”
“'Soon or later, Bon Bec,' he said. 'Soon or later.' I could see his worn-out face and understood what he meant. In a town whose name I can't remember, but it was by a nice river, when we reached the foot of the bridge, he stopped and shivered. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Oh, blind,' he said, 'they're carrying out justice there.' So nothing would do but that we take a boat and cross the river. But that was jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. The boatman barely told us what was happening—that a man and a woman were being punished for stealing glazed windows from houses, that the man was hanged at dawn, and the woman was to be drowned—when suddenly they threw her off the bridge, and she fell into the water not far from us. And oh! Margaret, the terrible splash! It echoes in my ears even now. But worse was yet to come; for, though she was tied up, she surfaced and screamed 'Help! help!' and I, forgetting everything, hearing a woman's voice cry 'Help!' was about to jump in to save her; I would have definitely done it, but the boatman and Cul de Jatte held onto me, and in a moment the executioner’s man, waiting in a boat, came and snagged her long hair with his hooked pole, forcing her down and ending her life. Oh! if only the saints answered our cries for help like that! And poor Cul de Jatte groaned; I sat there sobbing, beating my chest, and cried, 'What has God made men's hearts out of?'”
The reader stopped, and the tears trickled down her cheeks. Gerard crying in Lorraine, made her cry at Rotterdam. The leagues were no more to her heart than the breadth of a room.
The reader paused, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Gerard crying in Lorraine made her cry in Rotterdam. The distance felt no greater to her heart than the width of a room.
Eli, softened by many touches in the letter, and by the reader's womanly graces, said kindly enough, “Take thy time, lass. And methinks some of ye might find her a creepie to rest her foot, and she so near her own trouble.”
Eli, moved by the gentle words in the letter and by the reader's feminine charm, said kindly, “Take your time, girl. I think some of you might find her a little stool to rest her foot, especially with her being so close to her own trouble.”
“I'd do more for her than that an I durst,” said Catherine. “Here, Cornelis,” and she held out her little wooden stool, and that worthy, who hated Margaret worse than ever, had to take the creepie and put it carefully under her foot.
“I'd do more for her than I dare,” said Catherine. “Here, Cornelis,” and she held out her small wooden stool, and that guy, who hated Margaret more than ever, had to grab the stool and carefully place it under her foot.
“You are very kind, dame,” she faltered. “I will read on; 'tis all I can do for you in turn.
"You’re very kind, ma'am," she hesitated. "I will keep reading; it's all I can do for you in return."
“Thus seeing my master ashy and sore shaken, I deemed this horrible tragic act came timeously to warn him, so I strove sore to turn him from his ill ways, discoursing of sinners and their lethal end. 'Too late!' said he, 'too late!' and gnashed his teeth. Then I told him 'too late' was the divell's favourite whisper in repentant ears. Said I—
“Seeing my master pale and shaken, I thought this terrible event was meant to warn him, so I desperately tried to steer him away from his bad choices, talking about sinners and their grim fate. 'It's too late!' he said, 'too late!' as he gritted his teeth. Then I told him that 'too late' was the devil's favorite whisper in the ears of those who regret. I said—
'The Lord is debonair,
Let sinners nought despair.'
'The Lord is charming,
Let sinners not lose hope.''Too late!' said he, and gnashed his teeth, and writhed his face, as though vipers were biting his inward parts. But, dear heart, his was a mind like running water. Ere we cleared the town he was carolling, and outside the gate hung the other culprit, from the bough of a little tree, and scarce a yard above the ground. And that stayed my vagabone's music. But ere we had gone another furlong, he feigned to have dropped his, rosary, and ran back, with no good intent, as you shall hear. I strolled on very slowly, and often halting, and presently he came stumping up on one leg, and that bandaged. I asked him how he could contrive that, for 'twas masterly done. 'Oh, that was his mystery. Would I know that, I must join the brotherhood.' And presently we did pass a narrow lane, and at the mouth on't espied a written stone, telling beggars by a word like a wee pitchfork to go that way. ''Tis yon farmhouse,' said he: 'bide thou at hand.' And he went to the house, and came back with money, food, and wine. 'This lad did the business,' said he, slapping his one leg proudly. Then he undid the bandage, and with prideful face showed me a hole in his calf you could have put your neef in. Had I been strange to his tricks, here was a leg had drawn my last penny. Presently another farmhouse by the road. He made for it. I stood, and asked myself, should I run away and leave him, not to be shamed in my own despite by him? But while I doubted, there was a great noise, and my master well cudgelled by the farmer and his men, came towards me hobbling and holloaing, for the peasants had laid on heartily. But more trouble was at his heels. Some mischievous wight loosed a dog as big as a jackass colt, and came roaring after him, and downed him momently. I, deeming the poor rogue's death certain, and him least fit to die, drew my sword and ran shouting. But ere I could come near, the muckle dog had torn away his bad leg, and ran growling to his lair with it; and Cul de Jatte slipped his knot, and came running like a lapwing, with his hair on end, and so striking with both crutches before and behind at unreal dogs as 'twas like a windmill crazed. He fled adown the road. I followed leisurely, and found him at dinner. 'Curse the quiens,' said he. And not a word all dinner time but 'Curse the quiens!'
"Too late!" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth and contorting his face as if vipers were biting him from the inside. But, dear heart, his mind was like flowing water. Before we left the town, he was singing, and outside the gate hung the other culprit from the branch of a small tree, barely a yard off the ground. That put a stop to my vagabond's song. But just as we moved on another mile, he pretended to drop his rosary and ran back with no good intentions, as you'll soon find out. I strolled on slowly, often stopping, and soon he came hobbled up on one leg, which was bandaged. I asked him how he managed that, as it was done skillfully. "Oh, that was his secret. If I wanted to know, I had to join the brotherhood." Soon we passed a narrow lane, and at the entrance, I spotted a sign telling beggars with a little pitchfork symbol to go that way. "It's that farmhouse," he said, "Wait here." He went to the house and returned with money, food, and wine. "This lad made it happen," he said, proudly slapping his one leg. Then he unwrapped the bandage and with a proud look, showed me a hole in his calf big enough to fit my fist in. If I hadn’t known his tricks, that leg would’ve taken my last penny. Soon, we reached another farmhouse by the road. He headed for it. I paused, wondering if I should run away and avoid being embarrassed by him. But while I hesitated, there was a loud commotion, and my master came hobbling towards me, well beaten by the farmer and his men, yelling, as the peasants had really laid into him. But more trouble was on his heels. Some mischievous person let loose a dog as big as a young donkey, which came barking after him and quickly caught up. Thinking the poor rogue was doomed and least deserving of death, I drew my sword and ran shouting. But before I could get close, the huge dog had ripped off his bad leg and ran off growling to its den with it; and Cul de Jatte slipped his knot, running like a plover, his hair standing on end, swinging both crutches in front and behind him at imaginary dogs like a crazy windmill. He fled down the road. I followed at a leisurely pace and found him at dinner. "Curse the whores," he said. And not a word during the whole meal except, "Curse the whores!"
“I said, I must know who' they were, before I would curse them.
“I said, I need to know who they were before I curse them."
“'Quiens? why, that was dogs. And I knew not even that much? He had made a bad bargain. Well, well,' said he, 'to-morrow we shall be in Germany. There the folk are music bitten, and they molest not beggars, unless they fake to boot, and then they drown us out of hand that moment, curse 'em!' We came to Strasbourg. And I looked down Rhine with longing heart. The stream how swift! It seemed running to clip Sevenbergen to its soft bosom. With but a piece of timber and an oar I might drift at my ease to thee, sleeping yet gliding still. 'Twas a sore temptation. But the fear of an ill welcome from my folk, and of the neighbours' sneers, and the hope of coming back to thee victorious, not, as now I must, defeated and shamed, and thee with me, it did withhold me; and so, with many sighs, and often turning of the head to look on beloved Rhine, I turned sorrowful face and heavy heart towards Augsburg.”
“‘Who? Oh, that was dogs. And I didn’t even know that much? He made a bad deal. Well, well,’ he said, ‘tomorrow we’ll be in Germany. There, people love music, and they don’t bother beggars, unless they pretend to be something they’re not, and then they throw us away right then and there, damn them!’ We arrived in Strasbourg. I gazed down the Rhine with a longing heart. How fast the river flows! It seemed to be rushing to embrace Sevenbergen in its gentle arms. With just a piece of wood and a paddle, I could drift easily to you, sleeping yet still moving. It was a tempting thought. But the fear of an unwelcoming reception from my family, the neighbors' mockery, and the hope of returning to you as a winner, not like now as I must, defeated and ashamed, with you by my side, kept me from going; and so, with many sighs and often turning my head to look at my beloved Rhine, I turned my sorrowful face and heavy heart towards Augsburg.”
“Alas, dame, alas! Good master Eli, forgive me! But I ne'er can win over this part all at one time. It taketh my breath away. Welladay! Why did he not listen to his heart? Had he not gone through peril enow, sorrow enow? Well-a-day! well-a-day!”
“Alas, my lady, alas! Good master Eli, please forgive me! But I can't conquer this part all at once. It takes my breath away. Oh dear! Why didn’t he listen to his heart? Hadn’t he faced enough danger, enough sorrow? Oh dear! Oh dear!”
The letter dropped from her hand, and she drooped like a wounded lily.
The letter fell from her hand, and she slumped like a bruised lily.
Then there was a clatter on the floor, and it was little Kate going on her crutches, with flushed face, and eyes full of pity, to console her. “Water, mother,” she cried. “I am afeared she shall swoon.”
Then there was a clatter on the floor, and it was little Kate moving on her crutches, with a flushed face and eyes full of pity, to comfort her. “Water, mom,” she cried. “I’m afraid she’s going to faint.”
“Nay, nay, fear me not,” said Margaret feebly. “I will not be so troublesome. Thy good-will it maketh me stouter hearted, sweet mistress Kate. For, if thou carest how I fare, sure Heaven is not against me.”
“Nah, don’t be afraid of me,” said Margaret weakly. “I won’t be a bother. Your kindness makes me braver, sweet mistress Kate. Because if you care about how I’m doing, then surely Heaven is on my side.”
Catherine. “D'ye hear that, my man!”
Catherine. “Did you hear that, my man!”
Eli. “Ay, wife, I hear; and mark to boot.”
Eli. “Yeah, I hear you, and notice that too.”
Little Kate went back to her place, and Margaret read on.
Little Kate went back home, and Margaret continued reading.
“The Germans are fonder of armorials than the French. So I found work every day. And whiles I wrought, my master would leave me, and doff his raiment and don his rags, and other infirmities, and cozen the world, which he did clepe it 'plucking of the goose:' this done, would meet me and demand half my earnings; and with restless piercing eye ask me would I be so base as cheat my poor master by making three parts in lieu of two, till I threatened to lend him a cuff to boot in requital of his suspicion; and thenceforth took his due, with feigned confidence in my good faith, the which his dancing eye belied. Early in Germany we had a quarrel. I had seen him buy a skull of a jailer's wife, and mighty zealous a polishing it. Thought I, 'How can he carry yon memento, and not repent, seeing where ends his way?' Presently I did catch him selling it to a woman for the head of St. Barnabas, with a tale had cozened an Ebrew. So I snatched it out of their hands, and trundled it into the ditch. 'How, thou impious knave,' said I, 'wouldst sell for a saint the skull of some dead thief, thy brother?' He slunk away. But shallow she did crawl after the skull, and with apron reverently dust it for Barnabas, and it Barabbas; and so home with it. Said I, 'Non vult anser velli, sed populus vult decipi.'”
“The Germans care more about coats of arms than the French. So I found work every day. While I worked, my master would leave me, take off his nice clothes and put on his rags and other worn-out garments, pretending to be someone else, which he called 'plucking the goose.' After that, he would meet me and ask for half my earnings; he would give me a piercing look and ask if I would be low enough to cheat my poor master by making three parts out of two, until I threatened to give him a hit in return for his suspicion. From then on, he took his share with fake trust in my honesty, which his eager eye betrayed. Early in Germany, we had a fight. I had seen him buy a skull from a jailer’s wife, and he was eager to polish it. I thought, 'How can he carry that reminder without feeling regret, knowing how his path ends?' Soon, I caught him trying to sell it to a woman as the head of St. Barnabas, with a story that fooled a Hebrew. So I snatched it from their hands and rolled it into the ditch. 'How could you, you wicked fool,' I said, 'sell the skull of some dead thief, your brother, as if it were a saint?' He slunk away. But the foolish woman crawled after the skull and reverently dusted it with her apron for Barnabas, mistaking it for Barabbas, and took it home. I said, 'The goose does not wish to be plucked, but the people want to be deceived.'”
Catherine. “Oh, the goodly Latin!”
Catherine. “Oh, the lovely Latin!”
Eli. “What meaneth it?”
Eli. “What does it mean?”
Catherine. “Nay, I know not; but 'tis Latin; is not that enow? He was the flower of the flock.”
Catherine. “No, I don't know; but it's Latin; isn't that enough? He was the best of the bunch.”
“Then I to him, 'Take now thy psaltery, and part we here, for art a walking prison, a walking hell.' But lo! my master fell on his knees, and begged me for pity's sake not turn him off. 'What would become of him? He did so love honesty.' 'Thou love honesty?' said I. 'Ay,' said he, 'not to enact it; the saints forbid. But to look on. 'Tis so fair a thing to look on. Alas, good Bon Bec,' said he; 'hadst starved peradventure but for me. Kick not down thy ladder! Call ye that just? Nay, calm thy choler! Have pity on me! I must have a pal; and how could I bear one like myself after one so simple as thou? He might cut my throat for the money that is hid in my belt. 'Tis not much; 'tis not much. With thee I walk at mine ease; with a sharp I dare not go before in a narrow way. Alas! forgive me. Now I know where in thy bonnet lurks the bee, I will ware his sting; I will but pluck the secular goose. 'So be it,' said I. 'And example was contagious: he should be a true man by then we reached Nurnberg. 'Twas a long way to Nurnberg.' Seeing him so humble, I said, 'well, doff rags, and make thyself decent; 'twill help me forget what thou art.' And he did so; and we sat down to our nonemete. Presently came by a reverend palmer with hat stuck round with cockle shells from Holy Land, and great rosary of beads like eggs of teal, and sandals for shoes. And he leaned a-weary on his long staff, and offered us a shell apiece. My master would none. But I, to set him a better example, took one, and for it gave the poor pilgrim two batzen, and had his blessing. And he was scarce gone, when we heard savage cries, and came a sorry sight, one leading a wild woman in a chain, all rags and howling like a wolf. And when they came nigh us, she fell to tearing her rags to threads. The man sought an alms of us, and told us his hard case. 'Twas his wife stark raving mad; and he could not work in the fields, and leave her in his house to fire it, nor cure her could be without the Saintys' help, and had vowed six pounds of wax to St. Anthony to heal her, and so was fain beg of charitable folk for the money. And now she espied us, and flew at me with her long nails, and I was cold with fear, so devilish showed, her face and rolling eyes and nails like birdys talons. But he with the chain checked her sudden, and with his whip did cruelly lash her for it, that I cried, 'Forbear! forbear! She knoweth not what she doth;' and gave him a batz. And being gone, said I, 'Master, of those twain I know not which is the more pitiable.' And he laughed in my face, 'Behold thy justice, Bon Bec,' said he. 'Thou railest on thy poor, good, within an ace of honest master, and bestowest alms on a “vopper.”' 'Vopper,' said I, 'what is a vopper?' 'why, a trull that feigns madness. That was one of us, that sham maniac, and wow but she did it clumsily. I blushed for her and thee. Also gavest two batzen for a shell from Holy Land, that came no farther than Normandy. I have culled them myself on that coast by scores, and sold them to pilgrims true and pilgrims false, to gull flats like thee withal.' 'What!' said I; 'that reverend man?' 'One of us!' cried Cul de Jatte; 'one of us! In France we call them “Coquillarts,” but here “Calmierers.” Railest on me for selling a false relic now and then, and wastest thy earnings on such as sell nought else. I tell thee, Bon Bec,' said he, 'there is not one true relic on earth's face. The Saints died a thousand years agone, and their bones mixed with the dust; but the trade in relics, it is of yesterday; and there are forty thousand tramps in Europe live by it; selling relics of forty or fifty bodies; oh, threadbare lie! And of the true Cross enow to build Cologne Minster. Why, then, may not poor Cul de Jatte turn his penny with the crowd? Art but a scurvy tyrannical servant to let thy poor master from his share of the swag with your whoreson pilgrims, palmers and friars, black, grey, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood, and of our art, only masters they, and we but poor apprentices, in guild.' For his tongue was an ell and a half.
“Then I said to him, 'Take your lute and let's part ways here, because you're like a walking prison, a walking hell.' But my master fell to his knees and begged me not to turn him away for the sake of mercy. 'What would happen to him? He loved honesty so much.' 'You love honesty?' I replied. 'Yes,' he said, 'but not to actually practice it; the saints forbid that. Just to look at it. It’s such a beautiful thing to observe. Alas, good Bon Bec,' he lamented; 'you would have starved, perhaps, if it weren't for me. Don’t kick down your ladder! Is that fair? No, calm your anger! Have pity on me! I need a companion, and how could I stand to have one like myself after having someone as simple as you? He might cut my throat for the little money I have hidden in my belt. It’s not much; it’s really not much. With you, I can relax; I wouldn’t dare go down a narrow path with a shady character. Alas! Forgive me. Now that I know where your cap hides the bee, I’ll beware of its sting; I’ll just pluck the secular goose. 'Fine,' I said. 'And if he truly were a man, he should be one by the time we reach Nuremberg. 'It’s a long way to Nuremberg.' Seeing him so humble, I said, 'Well, take off your rags and make yourself presentable; it’ll help me forget what you are.' And he did so, and we sat down to our meal. Soon, a reverend pilgrim came by, his hat adorned with seashells from the Holy Land, a large rosary of beads like teal eggs, and sandals for shoes. He leaned tiredly on his long staff and offered us a shell each. My master rejected it. But I wanted to set a better example, so I took one and gave the poor pilgrim two batzen in return for his blessing. Just as he left, we heard savage cries and saw a sorrowful sight: a man leading a wild woman in chains, all ragged and howling like a wolf. As they neared us, she started tearing her rags into threads. The man asked us for charity and explained his dire situation. 'This is my wife, she’s completely mad; I can’t work in the fields and leave her alone at home to start a fire, nor can I cure her without the help of the Saints. I’ve promised six pounds of wax to St. Anthony to heal her, so I am forced to beg charitable people for the money.' And then she noticed us and lunged at me with her long nails, and I froze in fear, her face and rolling eyes looking so devilish, her nails like bird talons. But the man, holding the chain, pulled her back and cruelly lashed her with his whip, causing me to shout, 'Stop! Stop! She doesn't know what she’s doing!' and I gave him a batz. When they were gone, I said, 'Master, I don’t know which of the two is more pitiable.' He laughed in my face. 'Look at your sense of justice, Bon Bec,' he said. 'You curse your poor, good, nearly honest master, and yet you give alms to a “vopper.”' 'Vopper,' I asked, 'what is a vopper?' 'Well, a strumpet who pretends to be mad. That was one of us, that fake maniac, and wow, but she did it badly. I was embarrassed for her and for you. You also gave two batzen for a shell from the Holy Land, which came no farther than Normandy. I’ve gathered them myself by the dozens on that coast and sold them to true and false pilgrims alike, to fool simpletons like you.' 'What!' I exclaimed; 'that reverend man?' 'One of us!' Cul de Jatte shouted; 'one of us! In France, we call them “Coquillarts,” but here they’re “Calmierers.” You criticize me for occasionally selling a fake relic while you waste your earnings on those who sell nothing else. I tell you, Bon Bec,' he continued, 'there isn’t a single true relic on the face of the earth. The Saints died a thousand years ago, and their bones are mixed with the dust; but the trade in relics started just recently; there are forty thousand vagrants in Europe living off it, selling relics of forty or fifty bodies; oh, what a tired lie! And there’s enough of the true Cross to build Cologne Cathedral. So why shouldn't poor Cul de Jatte make some money alongside the crowd? You're just a scabby, tyrannical servant if you deny your poor master his share of the loot among your scoundrel pilgrims, palmers, and friars, black, gray, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood and our trade, only they are the masters and we are just poor apprentices in the guild.' His tongue was an ell and a half long.
“'A truce to thy irreverend sophistries,' said I, 'and say what company is this a coming.' 'Bohemians,' cried he, 'Ay, ay, this shall be the rest of the band.' With that came along so motley a crew as never your eyes beheld, dear Margaret. Marched at their head one with a banner on a steel-pointed lance, and girded with a great long sword, and in velvet doublet and leathern jerkin, the which stuffs ne'er saw I wedded afore on mortal flesh, and a gay feather in his lordly cap, and a couple of dead fowls at his back, the which, an the spark had come by honestly, I am much mistook. Him followed wives and babes on two lean horses, whose flanks still rattled like parchment drum, being beaten by kettles and caldrons. Next an armed man a-riding of a horse, which drew a cart full of females and children; and in it, sitting backwards, a lusty lazy knave, lance in hand, with his luxurious feet raised on a holy water-pail, that lay along, and therein a cat, new kittened, sat glowing o'er her brood, and sparks for eyes. And the cart-horse cavalier had on his shoulders a round bundle, and thereon did perch a cock and crowed with zeal, poor ruffler, proud of his brave feathers as the rest, and haply with more reason, being his own. And on an ass another wife and new-born child; and one poor quean a-foot scarce dragged herself along, so near her time was she, yet held two little ones by the hand, and helplessly helped them on the road. And the little folk were just a farce; some rode sticks, with horses' heads, between their legs, which pranced and caracoled, and soon wearied the riders so sore, they stood stock still and wept, which cavaliers were presently taken into cart and cuffed. And one, more grave, lost in a man's hat and feather, walked in Egyptian darkness, handed by a girl; another had the great saucepan on his back, and a tremendous three-footed clay-pot sat on his head and shoulders, swallowing him so as he too went darkling led by his sweetheart three foot high. When they were gone by, and we had both laughed lustily, said I, 'Natheless, master, my bowels they yearn for one of that tawdry band, even for the poor wife so near the downlying, scarce able to drag herself, yet still, poor soul, helping the weaker on the way.'
“'Enough of your disrespectful nonsense,' I said, 'and tell me who is coming.' 'Bohemians,' he shouted, 'Yes, yes, these will be the rest of the group.' Then came along such a colorful crowd as your eyes have never seen, dear Margaret. Leading them was someone carrying a banner on a steel-tipped lance, wearing a long sword, a velvet doublet, and a leather jerkin, fabrics I had never seen worn by anyone before, along with a flashy feather in his fancy cap, and a couple of dead birds strapped to his back, which, if he got them honestly, I would be very surprised. Behind him followed wives and children on two skinny horses, whose sides rattled like parchment drums, being hit by kettles and pots. Next, an armed man rode a horse that pulled a cart filled with women and children; and in it, sitting backward, was a lazy fellow, lance in hand, with his fancy feet resting on a holy water bucket, which was lying down, and in it sat a newly mothered cat, glowing over her kittens, with sparks for eyes. The cart horse rider had a round bundle on his shoulders, with a rooster perched on top, proudly crowing, poor show-off, as proud of his feathers as the rest, and maybe for good reason, since they were his. Another wife and her newborn rode on a donkey; and one poor woman walked along, barely able to move as she was so close to giving birth, yet still managed to hold the hands of two little ones, helplessly pulling them along the road. The little ones were a joke; some rode on sticks, with horse heads between their legs, which pranced and danced, soon tiring the riders so much that they just stood still and cried, and those poor riders were then taken into the cart and slapped. One more serious one, wearing a man’s hat and feather, walked in total darkness, led by a girl; another had a big pot on his back, and a huge three-legged clay pot sat on his head and shoulders, obscuring him so he also walked blindly led by his tiny girlfriend. After they passed by, and we had both laughed heartily, I said, 'Still, my friend, I feel a strong pull towards one of that shabby band, even for the poor woman so close to giving birth, barely able to drag herself, yet still, poor thing, helping the weaker ones on their way.'”
Catherine. “Nay, nay, Margaret. Why, wench, pluck up heart. Certes thou art no Bohemian.”
Catherine. “No, no, Margaret. Come on, girl, be brave. You are definitely not a Bohemian.”
Kate. “Nay, mother, 'tis not that, I trow, but her father. And, dear heart, why take notice to put her to the blush?”
Kate. “No, mother, I don’t think it’s that, but her father. And, dear heart, why call attention to make her blush?”
Richart. “So I say.”
Richart. “I'm saying that.”
“And he derided me. 'Why, that is a “biltreger,”' said he, 'and you waste your bowels on a pillow, or so forth.' I told him he lied. 'Time would show,' said he, 'wait till they camp.' And rising after meat and meditation, and travelling forward, we found them camped between two great trees on a common by the wayside; and they had lighted a great fire, and on it was their caldron; and one of the trees slanting o'er the fire, a kid hung down by a chain from the tree-fork to the fire, and in the fork was wedged an urchin turning still the chain to keep the meat from burning, and a gay spark with a feather in his cap cut up a sheep; and another had spitted a leg of it on a wooden stake; and a woman ended chanticleer's pride with wringing of his neck. And under the other tree four rufflers played at cards and quarrelled, and no word sans oath; and of these lewd gamblers one had cockles in his hat and was my reverend pilgrim. And a female, young and comely, and dressed like a butterfly, sat and mended a heap of dirty rags. And Cul de Jatte said, 'Yon is the “vopper,”' and I looked incredulous and looked again, and it was so, and at her feet sat he that had so late lashed her; but I ween he had wist where to strike, or woe betide him; and she did now oppress him sore, and made him thread her very needle, the which he did with all humility; so was their comedy turned seamy side without; and Cul de Jatte told me 'twas still so with 'voppers' and their men in camp; they would don their bravery though but for an hour, and with their tinsel, empire, and the man durst not the least gainsay the 'vopper,' or she would turn him off at these times, as I my master, and take another tyrant more submissive. And my master chuckled over me. Natheless we soon espied a wife set with her back against the tree, and her hair down, and her face white, and by her side a wench held up to her eye a newborn babe, with words of cheer, and the rough fellow, her husband, did bring her hot wine in a cup, and bade her take courage. And just o'er the place she sat, they had pinned from bough to bough of those neighbouring trees two shawls, and blankets two, together, to keep the drizzle off her. And so had another poor little rogue come into the world; and by her own particular folk tended gipsywise, but of the roasters, and boilers, and voppers, and gamblers, no more noticed, no, not for a single moment, than sheep which droppeth her lamb in a field, by travellers upon the way. Then said I, 'What of thy foul suspicions, master? over-knavery blinds the eye as well as over-simplicity.' And he laughed and said, 'Triumph, Bon Bec, triumph. The chances were nine in ten against thee.' Then I did pity her, to be in a crowd at such a time; but he rebuked me. 'I should pity rather your queens and royal duchesses, which by law are condemned to groan in a crowd of nobles and courtiers, and do writhe with shame as, well as sorrow, being come of decent mothers, whereas these gipsy women have no more shame under their skins than a wolf ruth, or a hare valour. And, Bon Bec,' quoth he, 'I espy in thee a lamentable fault. Wastest thy bowels, wilt have none left for thy poor good master which doeth thy will by night and day.' Then we came forward; and he talked with the men in some strange Hebrew cant whereof no word knew I; and the poor knaves bade us welcome and denied us nought. With them, and all they had, 'twas lightly come and lightly go; and when we left them, my master said to me 'This is thy first lesson, but to-night we shall lie at Hansburgh. Come with me to the “rotboss” there, and I'll show thee all our folk and their lays, and especially “the lossners,” “the dutzers,” “the schleppers,” “the gickisses,” “the schwanfelders, whom in England we call “shivering Jemmies,” “the suntvegers,” “the schwiegers,” “the joners,” “the sesseldegers,” “the gensscherers,” in France “marcandiers or rifodes,” “the veranerins,” “the stabulers,” with a few foreigners like ourselves, such as “pietres,” “francmitoux,” “polissons” “malingreux,” “traters,” “rufflers,” “whipjalks,” “dommerars,” “glymmerars,” “jarkmen,” “patricos,” “swadders,” “autem morts,” “walking morts” 'Enow,' cried I, stopping him, 'art as gleesome as the Evil One a counting of his imps. I'll jot down in my tablet all these caitiffs and their accursed names: for knowledge is knowledge. But go among them, alive or dead, that will I not with my good will. Moreover,' said I, 'what need? since I have a companion in thee who is all the knaves on earth in one?' and thought to abash him but his face shone with pride, and hand on breast he did bow low to me. 'If thy wit be scant, good Bon Bec, thy manners are a charm. I have made a good bargain.' So he to the 'rotboss,' and I to a decent inn, and sketched the landlord's daughter by candle-light, and started at morn batzen three the richer, but could not find my master, so loitered slowly on, and presently met him coming west for me, and cursing the quiens. Why so? Because he could blind the culls but not the quiens. At last I prevailed on him to leave cursing and canting, and tell me his adventure. Said he, 'I sat outside the gate of yon monastery, full of sores, which I sho'ed the passers-by. Oh, Bon Bec, beautifuller sores you never saw; and it rained coppers in my hat. Presently the monks came home from some procession, and the convent dogs ran out to meet them, curse the quiens!' 'What, did they fall on thee and bite thee, poor soul?' 'Worse, worse, dear Bon Bec. Had they bitten me I had earned silver. But the great idiots, being, as I think, puppies, or little better, fell on me where I sat, downed me, and fell a licking my sores among them. As thou, false knave, didst swear the whelps in heaven licked the sores of Lazybones, a beggar of old.' 'Nay, nay,' said I, 'I said no such thing. But tell me, since they bit thee not, but sportfully licked thee, what harm?' 'What harm, noodle; why, the sores came off.' 'How could that be?' 'How could aught else be? and them just fresh put on. Did I think he was so weak as bite holes in his flesh with ratsbane? Nay, he was an artist, a painter, like his servant, and had put on sores made of pig's blood, rye meal, and glue. So when the folk saw my sores go on tongues of puppies, they laughed, and I saw cord or sack before me. So up I jumped, and shouted, “A miracle a miracle! The very dogs of this holy convent be holy, and have cured me. Good fathers,” cried I, “whose day is this?” “St. Isidore's,” said one. “St. Isidore,” cried I, in a sort of rapture. “Why, St. Isidore is my patron saint: so that accounts.” And the simple folk swallowed my miracle as those accursed quiens my wounds. But the monks took me inside and shut the gate, and put their heads together; but I have a quick ear, and one did say, “Caret miraculo monasterium,” which is Greek patter, leastways it is no beggar's cant. Finally they bade the lay brethren give me a hiding, and take me out a back way and put me on the road, and threatened me did I come back to the town to hand me to the magistrate and have me drowned for a plain impostor. “Profit now by the Church's grace,” said they, “and mend thy ways.” So forward, Bon Bec, for my life is not sure nigh hand this town.' As we went he worked his shoulders, 'Wow but the brethren laid on. And what means yon piece of monk's cant, I wonder?' So I told him the words meant 'the monastery is in want of a miracle,' but the application thereof was dark to me. 'Dark,' cried he, 'dark as noon. Why, it means they are going to work the miracle, my miracle, and gather all the grain I sowed. Therefore these blows on their benefactor's shoulders; therefore is he that wrought their scurry miracle driven forth with stripes and threats. Oh, cozening knaves!' Said I, 'Becomes you to complain of guile.' 'Alas, Bon Bec,' said he, 'I but outwit the simple, but these monks would pluck Lucifer of his wing feathers.' And went a league bemoaning himself that he was not convent-bred like his servant 'He would put it to more profit;' and railing on quiens. 'And as for those monks, there was one Above.' 'Certes,' said I, 'there is one Above. What then?' 'Who will call those shavelings to compt, one day,' quoth he. 'And all deceitful men' said I. At one that afternoon I got armories to paint: so my master took the yellow jaundice and went begging through the town, and with his oily tongue, and saffron-water face, did fill his hat. Now in all the towns are certain licensed beggars, and one of these was an old favourite with the townsfolk: had his station at St. Martin's porch, the greatest church: a blind man: they called him blind Hans. He saw my master drawing coppers on the other side the street, and knew him by his tricks for an impostor, so sent and warned the constables, and I met my master in the constables' hands, and going to his trial in the town hall. I followed and many more; and he was none abashed, neither by the pomp of justice, nor memory of his misdeeds, but demanded his accuser like a trumpet. And blind Hans's boy came forward, but was sifted narrowly by my master, and stammered and faltered, and owned he had seen nothing, but only carried blind Hans's tale to the chief constable. 'This is but hearsay,' said my master. 'Lo ye now, here standeth Misfortune backbit by Envy. But stand thou forth, blind Envy, and vent thine own lie.' And blind Hans behoved to stand forth, sore against his will. Him did my master so press with questions, and so pinch and torture, asking him again and again, how, being blind, he could see all that befell, and some that befell not, across a way; and why, an he could not see, he came there holding up his perjured hand, and maligning the misfortunate, that at last he groaned aloud and would utter no word more. And an alderman said, 'In sooth, Hans, ye are to blame; hast cast more dirt of suspicion on thyself than on him.' But the burgomaster, a wondrous fat man, and methinks of his fat some had gotten into his head, checked him, and said, 'Nay, Hans we know this many years, and be he blind or not, he hath passed for blind so long, 'tis all one. Back to thy porch, good Hans, and let the strange varlet leave the town incontinent on pain of whipping.' Then my master winked to me; but there rose a civic officer in his gown of state and golden chain, a Dignity with us lightly prized, and even shunned of some, but in Germany and France much courted, save by condemned malefactors, to wit the hangman; and says he, 'Ant please you, first let us see why he weareth his hair so thick and low.' And his man went and lifted Cul de Jatte's hair, and lo, the upper gristle of both ears was gone. 'How is this knave? quoth the burgomaster. My master said carelessly, he minded not precisely: his had been a life of misfortunes and losses. When a poor soul has lost the use of his leg, noble sirs, these more trivial woes rest lightly in his memory.' When he found this would not serve his turn, he named two famous battles, in each of which he had lost half an ear, a fighting like a true man against traitors and rebels. But the hangman showed them the two cuts were made at one time, and by measurement. ''Tis no bungling soldiers' work, my masters,' said he, ''tis ourn.' Then the burgomaster gave judgment: 'The present charge is not proven against thee; but, an thou beest not guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears. Wherefore I send thee to prison for one month, and to give a florin towards the new hall of the guilds now a building, and to be whipt out of the town, and pay the hangman's fee for the same.' And all the aldermen approved, and my master was haled to prison with one look of anguish. It did strike my bosom. I tried to get speech of him, but the jailer denied me. But lingering near the jail I heard a whistle, and there was Cul de Jatte at a narrow window twenty feet from earth. I went under, and he asked me what made I there? I told him I was loath to go forward and not bid him farewell. He seemed quite amazed; but soon his suspicious soul got the better. That was not all mine errand. I told him not all: the psaltery: 'Well, what of that?' 'Twas not mine, but his; I would pay him the price of it. 'Then throw me a rix dollar,' said he. I counted out my coins, and they came to a rix dollar and two batzen. I threw him up his money in three throws, and when he had got it all he said, softly, 'Bon Bec.' 'Master,' said I. Then the poor rogue was greatly moved. 'I thought ye had been mocking me,' said he; 'oh, Bon Bec, Bon Bec, if I had found the world like thee at starting I had put my wit to better use, and I had not lain here.' Then he whimpered out, 'I gave not quite a rix dollar for the jingler;' and threw me back that he had gone to cheat me of; honest for once, and over late; and so, with many sighs, bade me Godspeed. Thus did my master, after often baffling men's justice, fall by their injustice; for his lost ears proved not his guilt only, but of that guilt the bitter punishment: so the account was even; yet they for his chastisement did chastise him. Natheless he was a parlous rogue. Yet he holp to make a man of me. Thanks to his good wit I went forward richer far with my psaltery and brush, than with yon as good as stolen purse; for that must have run dry in time, like a big trough, but these a little fountain.”
“And he mocked me. 'That's a “biltreger,”' he said, 'and you're just wasting your time on a pillow, or something like that.' I told him he was lying. 'Time will tell,' he said, 'just wait until they set up camp.' After eating and thinking, we moved on and soon found them camped between two large trees by the roadside. They had built a big fire with a pot hanging over it; one tree leaned over the fire, and a kid was hanging down by a chain from the tree fork to the fire, while a boy was busy turning the chain to keep the meat from burning. A cheerful guy with a feather in his hat was butchering a sheep, and another had skewered a leg of it on a wooden stick. A woman ended the rooster's life by wringing its neck. Under the other tree, four ruffians were playing cards and arguing, using every curse word imaginable; one of these rascals had cockles in his hat and was my esteemed pilgrim. A young and pretty woman, dressed like a butterfly, was sitting and fixing a pile of dirty rags. Cul de Jatte pointed her out and said, 'That's the “vopper,”' and I looked doubtful and looked again, and indeed it was true; at her feet sat the man who had just beaten her, but I bet he knew just where to strike, or he would be in trouble; and she was now making him thread her needle, which he did very humbly; so their comedy had flipped to reveal the darker side. Cul de Jatte told me it was always like this with 'voppers' and their men in camp; they would adorn themselves for just an hour, and with their flashy clothes, and the man wouldn’t dare defy the 'vopper,' or she would kick him out and take on another more submissive tyrant. My master chuckled at me. Nevertheless, we soon spotted a wife leaning against a tree, her hair down, her face pale, and beside her, a girl held up a newborn baby, offering words of encouragement, while her rough husband brought her hot wine in a cup, urging her to stay strong. Just above where she sat, they had hung two shawls and two blankets from neighboring branches to keep the rain off her. And so, another poor little rogue had come into the world, attended to by her own kind in a gypsy manner, ignored by the roasters, boilers, and gamblers, as little as a sheep dropping her lamb in a field, unnoticed by travelers. Then I said, 'What of your foul suspicions, master? Too much cleverness blinds the eye just as much as too much simplicity.' And he laughed, saying, 'Rejoice, Bon Bec, rejoice. The odds were nine to one against you.' Then I felt sorry for her for being in such a crowd at that moment; but he rebuked me. 'You should feel sorry for your queens and royal duchesses, who by law are forced to suffer in a crowd of nobles and courtiers, writhing with shame as well as sorrow, coming from decent families, while these gypsy women have no shame under their skin, not a bit more than a wolf’s ruth or a hare’s courage. And, Bon Bec,' he said, 'I see a lamentable flaw in you. You're wasting your strength and won't have any left for your poor good master who serves your needs night and day.' Then we moved forward, and he spoke to the men in some strange Hebrew dialect I didn’t understand; they welcomed us without hesitation. Everything with them was casual, easy come and easy go; and as we were leaving, my master said to me, 'This is your first lesson, but tonight we’ll stay in Hansburgh. Come with me to the “rotboss” there, and I'll show you all our folks and their ways, especially “the lossners,” “the dutzers,” “the schleppers,” “the gickisses,” “the schwanfelders,” whom we call “shivering Jemmies” in England, “the suntvegers,” “the schwiegers,” “the joners,” “the sesseldegers,” “the gensscherers,” in France “marcandiers or rifodes,” “the veranerins,” “the stabulers,” with a few foreigners like us, such as “pietres,” “francmitoux,” “polissons,” “malingreux,” “traters,” “rufflers,” “whipjalks,” “dommerars,” “glymmerars,” “jarkmen,” “patricos,” “swadders,” “autem morts,” “walking morts.” 'Enough,' I cried, stopping him, 'you're as cheerful as the devil counting his imps. I'll jot down these lowlifes and their accursed names in my notebook: because knowledge is knowledge. But to go among them, alive or dead, I won’t do that willingly. Moreover,' I said, 'what’s the point? since I have a companion in you who is all the scoundrels of the earth in one?' and I hoped to embarrass him, but his face lit up with pride, and hand on heart, he bowed low to me. 'If your wit is limited, good Bon Bec, your manners are delightful. I’ve gotten a good deal.' So he headed to the 'rotboss,' while I went to a decent inn, sketched the landlord’s daughter by candlelight, and started the next morning three batzen richer, but couldn't find my master, so I wandered along slowly and eventually met him coming west for me, cursing the women. Why? Because he could mislead the men but not the women. Finally, I talked him into stopping the cursing and ranting and telling me about his adventure. He said, 'I sat outside the gate of that monastery, showing off my sores to the passersby. Oh, Bon Bec, you’ve never seen more beautiful sores; and it rained coins into my hat. Soon after, the monks returned from some procession, and the convent dogs ran out to meet them, curse the women!' 'What, did they attack you and bite you, poor thing?' 'Worse, worse, dear Bon Bec. If they had bitten me, I would have earned silver. But those fools, who I guess were puppies or little better, jumped on me where I sat, knocked me down, and started licking my sores. Just like you, false knave, swore those pups in heaven licked Lazybones's sores, an old beggar.' 'No, no,' I said, 'I never said that. But tell me, since they didn’t bite you, just played around licking you, what harm was done?' 'What harm, you fool; well, the sores came off.' 'How could that be?' 'How could it be anything else? and they were freshly applied. Did I think he was so weak as to bite holes in his skin with poison? No, he was an artist, a painter, like his servant, and had put on sores made of pig's blood, rye flour, and glue. So when people saw my sores being licked by puppy tongues, they laughed, and I envisioned a sack or a rope ahead of me. So I jumped up and shouted, “A miracle, a miracle! The very dogs of this holy convent are holy and have healed me. Good fathers,” I cried, “whose day is this?” “St. Isidore's,” said one. “St. Isidore,” I exclaimed in a kind of rapture. “Why, St. Isidore is my patron saint: so that explains it.” And the simple folk bought my miracle just like those accursed women bought my wounds. But the monks took me inside, shut the gate, and huddled together; but I’m quick on the uptake, and one said, “Caret miraculo monasterium,” which is some Greek nonsense, at least it’s not beggar’s talk. Eventually, they ordered the lay brothers to teach me a lesson, take me out a back way, and put me on the road, threatening me that if I returned to town, they’d hand me over to the magistrate and have me drowned as a plain impostor. “Make use of the Church’s grace now,” they said, “and mend your ways.” So onward, Bon Bec, for my life isn’t safe near this town.' As we went, he worked his shoulders, 'Wow, the brothers laid it on thick. And I wonder what that piece of monk’s talk meant?' So I told him the words meant 'the monastery is in need of a miracle,' but I didn’t understand their intention. 'Dark,' he exclaimed, 'dark as midday. Why, it means they plan to work the miracle, my miracle, and collect all the grain I’ve sown. Hence those blows on their benefactor’s shoulders; hence they drive out the one who performed their miracle with stripes and threats. Oh, deceitful knaves!' I said, 'You should be the last to complain about trickery.' 'Alas, Bon Bec,' he said, 'I merely outsmart the simple folk, but those monks would pluck the feathers off Lucifer's wings.' And he went on for a league lamenting he wasn’t convent-bred like his servant, 'He would’ve made better use of it;' and railing against the women. 'And as for those monks, there’s someone above.' 'Indeed,' I said, 'there is someone above. What then?' 'Who will call these shavelings to account one day,' he said. 'And all deceitful men,' I added. That afternoon I had some coats of arms to paint: so my master took on the yellow jaundice and went begging through the town, and with his slick tongue and saffron-colored face, he filled his hat. Now in all the towns are certain licensed beggars, and one of these was a well-known favorite with the townsfolk: he had his spot by St. Martin’s porch, the biggest church: a blind man; they called him blind Hans. He saw my master drawing coins on the other side of the street and recognized him for a fraud by his tricks, so he sent word to the constables, and I found my master in their custody, on his way to trial in the town hall. I followed, along with many others; and he didn’t look fazed, neither by the pomp of justice nor by the memory of his wrongdoings, but demanded to see his accuser like a trumpet. Blind Hans’s boy stepped forward, but was grilled thoroughly by my master, stumbled and hesitated, and admitted he hadn’t seen anything, just carried blind Hans’s story to the chief constable. 'This is just hearsay,' my master said. 'Look, here stands Misfortune backstabbed by Envy. But you, blind Envy, step forward and tell your own lies.' And blind Hans had to step forward, most reluctantly. My master pressed him with questions, pinching him for answers, asking over and over how, being blind, he could see all that happened, and even things that didn’t happen; and why, if he couldn’t see, he stood there waving his lying hand and maligning the unfortunate one, until at last he groaned out loud and couldn’t say another word. An alderman said, 'Indeed, Hans, you’re to blame; you’ve thrown more dirt of suspicion on yourself than on him.' But the burgomaster, a very fat man, and I think some of that fat had gotten into his head, interrupted him and said, 'No, Hans, we’ve known this for many years, and whether he’s blind or not, he’s acted blind for so long, it's all the same. Go back to your porch, good Hans, and let this strange fellow leave town immediately, or he’ll be whipped.' Then my master winked at me; but a civic officer stood up in his formal gown and golden chain, a Dignity, which we valued lightly and even avoided at times, but in Germany and France was much sought after, except by condemned criminals, like the hangman; and he said, 'If you please, let us first see why he wears his hair so thick and low.' His man went and lifted Cul de Jatte's hair, and lo, the upper cartilage of both ears was gone. 'What does this mean, knave?' said the burgomaster. My master carelessly replied that he didn't remember exactly: his life had been filled with misfortunes and losses. 'When a poor soul has lost the use of his leg, noble sirs, these minor woes rest lightly in his memory.' When he found that would not suffice, he mentioned two famous battles where he had lost half an ear, fighting like a true man against traitors and rebels. But the hangman pointed out the two cuts were made at the same time and by measurement. 'This isn’t some foolish soldier's work, my masters,' he said, 'it's our doing.' Then the burgomaster declared, 'The current charge is not proven against you; but, if you’re not guilty now, you have been guilty at other times, as evidenced by your ears. Therefore, I send you to prison for a month, and you must pay a florin towards the new guild hall being built, and be whipped out of the town, plus pay the hangman's fee for the same.' All the aldermen agreed, and my master was dragged off to prison with one look of anguish. It hit my heart. I tried to speak to him, but the jailer refused me. But while lingering near the jail, I heard a whistle, and there was Cul de Jatte at a narrow window twenty feet up. I went underneath, and he asked me what I was doing there. I told him I was reluctant to move on without saying farewell. He seemed quite surprised; but soon his suspicious nature kicked in. That wasn’t my only reason. I told him not entirely: about the psaltery: 'What about that?' 'It wasn't mine, but his; I’d pay him for it.' 'Then throw me a rix dollar,' he said. I counted out my coins, and it came to a rix dollar and two batzen. I tossed up his money in three throws, and when he had it all, he said softly, 'Bon Bec.' 'Master,' I replied. Then the poor rogue was very moved. 'I thought you were mocking me,' he said; 'oh, Bon Bec, Bon Bec, if I had found the world like you at the start, I would have used my wit better, and I wouldn’t be lying here now.' Then he whimpered, 'I didn’t pay quite a rix dollar for the jingler;' and threw back that which he had tried to cheat me of; honest for once, and too late; and so, with many sighs, he wished me Godspeed. Thus my master, after often outsmarting men’s justice, fell by their injustice; for his lost ears proved not only his innocence but also the cruel punishment: so the scales were balanced; yet they punished him for his punishment. Nevertheless, he was quite a rogue. Still, he helped to make a man out of me. Thanks to his cleverness, I moved forward far richer with my psaltery and brush than with that nearly stolen purse; for that purse would have run dry in time, like a big trough, while these were a little fountain.”
Richart. “How pregnant his reflections be; and but a curly pated lad when last I saw him. Asking your pardon, mistress. Prithee read on.”
Richart. “How insightful his thoughts are; and he was just a curly-haired kid the last time I saw him. Excuse me, ma'am. Please continue reading.”
“One day I walked alone, and sooth to say, lighthearted, for mine honest Denys sweetened the air on the way; but poor Cul de Jatte poisoned it. The next day passing a grand house, out came on prancing steeds a gentleman in brave attire and two servants; they overtook me. The gentleman bade me halt. I laughed in my sleeve; for a few batzen were all my store. He bade me doff my doublet and jerkin. Then I chuckled no more. 'Bethink you, my lord,' said I, ''tis winter. How may a poor fellow go bare and live? So he told me I shot mine arrow wide of his thought, and off with his own gay jerkin, richly furred, and doublet to match, and held them forth to me. Then a servant let me know it was a penance. 'His lordship had had the ill luck to slay his cousin in their cups.' Down to my shoes he changed with me; and set me on his horse like a popinjay, and fared by my side in my worn weeds, with my psaltery on his back. And said he, 'Now, good youth, thou art Cousin Detstein; and I, late count, thy Servant. Play the part well, and help me save my bloodstained soul! Be haughty and choleric, as any noble; and I will be as humble as I may.' I said I would do my best to play the noble. But what should I call him? He bade me call him nought but Servant. That would mortify him most, he wist. We rode on a long way in silence; for I was meditating this strange chance, that from a beggar's servant had made me master to a count, and also cudgelling my brains how best I might play the master, without being run through the body all at one time like his cousin. For I mistrusted sore my spark's humility; your German nobles being, to my knowledge, proud as Lucifer, and choleric as fire. As for the servants, they did slily grin to one another to see their master so humbled.”
“One day, I was walking alone, feeling pretty lighthearted because my good friend Denys was making the journey enjoyable; but then poor Cul de Jatte ruined it. The next day, as I passed a grand house, a well-dressed gentleman came out riding on fancy horses, accompanied by two servants; they caught up to me. The gentleman told me to stop. I couldn't help but laugh to myself, considering I barely had a few coins to my name. He ordered me to take off my coat and jacket. That made me stop chuckling. 'Think about it, my lord,' I said, 'it’s winter. How can a poor man go without proper clothing and survive?' He told me I had missed the point and then took off his own stylish jacket, richly lined, along with his matching coat, and offered them to me. A servant informed me that it was a punishment. 'His lordship accidentally killed his cousin while drinking.' He swapped clothes with me down to my shoes, then placed me on his horse like a showy fool, while he walked alongside me in my shabby clothes, with my lute on his back. He said, 'Now, good youth, you are Cousin Detstein; and I, the former count, am your servant. Play your role well, and help me redeem my bloody soul! Be proud and hot-tempered, like a true noble; and I will be as humble as possible.' I promised to do my best to act like a noble. But what should I call him? He insisted I call him nothing but Servant. That would embarrass him most, he knew. We rode on for quite a while in silence; I was pondering this strange turn of events, from being a beggar's servant to becoming a count's master, and also figuring out how to play the master without getting myself killed like his cousin. I was really worried about his attitude; from what I knew, German nobles were as proud as the devil and as fiery as a blaze. As for the servants, they quietly exchanged grins at seeing their master so humbled.”
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
A lump, as of lead, had just bounced against the door, and the latch was fumbled with unsuccessfully. Another bounce, and the door swung inwards with Giles arrayed in cloth of gold sticking to it like a wasp. He landed on the floor, and was embraced; but on learning what was going on, trumpeted that he would much liever hear of Gerard than gossip.
A heavy thud, like metal, just hit the door, and someone was struggling to get the latch open. Another thud, and the door swung open to reveal Giles in gold fabric, sticking to it like a wasp. He landed on the floor and was greeted with hugs; but upon figuring out what was happening, he declared that he would much rather hear about Gerard than any gossip.
Sybrandt pointed to a diminutive chair.
Sybrandt pointed to a small chair.
Giles showed his sense of this civility by tearing the said Sybrandt out of a very big one, and there ensconced himself gorgeous and glowing. Sybrandt had to wedge himself into the one, which was too small for the magnificent dwarf's soul, and Margaret resumed. But as this part of the letter was occupied with notices of places, all which my reader probably knows, and if not, can find handled at large in a dozen well-known books, from Munster to Murray, I skip the topography, and hasten to that part where it occurred to him to throw his letter into a journal. The personal narrative that intervened may be thus condensed.
Giles showed his sense of civility by pulling Sybrandt out of a really big one, settling into it comfortably and brightly. Sybrandt had to squeeze himself into one that was too small for his grand personality, and Margaret continued. Since this part of the letter dealt with descriptions of places that my reader likely knows, and if not, can find detailed in many well-known books, from Munster to Murray, I’ll skip the geography and move on to where he decided to include his letter in a journal. The personal story that follows can be summarized like this.
He spoke but little at first to his new companions, but listened to pick up their characters. Neither his noble Servant nor his servants could read or write; and as he often made entries in his tablets, he impressed them with some awe. One of his entries was, “Le peu que sont les hommes.” For he found the surly innkeepers licked the very ground before him now; nor did a soul suspect the hosier's son in the count's feathers, nor the count in the minstrel's weeds.
He didn’t say much at first to his new friends but listened to understand their personalities. Neither his noble Servant nor his servants could read or write, and since he often wrote in his notebooks, they looked up to him with some respect. One of his notes was, “How little men are.” He noticed that the grumpy innkeepers now treated him like royalty, and no one suspected the hosier's son in the count's fancy clothes, nor the count in the minstrel's outfit.
This seems to have surprised him; for he enlarged on it with the naivete and pomposity of youth. At one place, being humbly requested to present the inn with his armorial bearings, he consented loftily; but painted them himself, to mine host's wonder, who thought he lowered himself by handling brush. The true count stood grinning by, and held the paint-pot, while the sham count painted the shield with three red herrings rampant under a sort of Maltese cross made with two ell-measures. At first his plebeian servants were insolent. But this coming to the notice of his noble one, he forgot what he was doing penance for, and drew his sword to cut off their ears, heads included. But Gerard interposed and saved them, and rebuked the count severely. And finally they all understood one another, and the superior mind obtained its natural influence. He played the barbarous noble of that day vilely. For his heart would not let him be either tyrannical or cold. Here were three human beings. He tried to make them all happier than he was; held them ravished with stories and songs, and set Herr Penitent and Co. dancing with his whistle and psaltery. For his own convenience he made them ride and tie, and thus pushed rapidly through the country, travelling generally fifteen leagues a day.
This seemed to surprise him; he went on about it with the innocence and arrogance of youth. At one point, when he was politely asked to decorate the inn with his coat of arms, he agreed in a grand manner, but decided to paint it himself, much to the innkeeper's astonishment, who thought he was degrading himself by using a brush. The real count stood by, grinning, and held the paint pot while the fake count painted the shield with three red herrings standing upright beneath a kind of Maltese cross made with two yardsticks. At first, his common servants were rude. But when this caught the attention of his noble servant, he forgot why he was supposed to be acting humbly and drew his sword to cut off their ears, heads included. But Gerard stepped in and saved them, sternly reprimanding the count. In the end, they all figured things out, and the superior mind regained its natural influence. He played the part of the brutal noble of that time poorly. His heart wouldn’t allow him to be either cruel or indifferent. Here were three people. He tried to make them all happier than he was; he captivated them with stories and songs, and got Herr Penitent and the others dancing with his whistle and string instrument. For his own convenience, he made them alternate riding and walking, allowing them to travel quickly through the countryside, generally covering fifteen leagues a day.
DIARY.
Journal.
“This first day of January I observed a young man of the country to meet a strange maiden, and kissed his hand, and then held it out to her. She took it with a smile, and lo! acquaintance made; and babbled like old friends. Greeting so pretty and delicate I ne'er did see. Yet were they both of the baser sort. So the next lass I saw a coming, I said to my servant lord, 'For further penance bow thy pride; go meet yon base-born girl; kiss thy homicidal hand, and give it her, and hold her in discourse as best ye may.' And my noble Servant said humbly, 'I shall obey my lord.' And we drew rein and watched while he went forward, kissed his hand and held it out to her. Forthwith she took it smiling, and was most affable with him, and he with her. Presently came up a band of her companions. So this time I bade him doff his bonnet to them, as though they were empresses; and he did so. And lo! the lasses drew up as stiff as hedgestakes, and moved not nor spake.”
“On this first day of January, I saw a young man from the countryside meet a strange young woman. He kissed his hand and then extended it to her. She took it with a smile, and just like that, they became acquainted and chatted like old friends. I’d never seen such a lovely and delicate greeting. However, they were both of a lower status. So, the next girl I saw approaching, I said to my servant, 'For further penance, set aside your pride; go meet that common girl; kiss your hand, and extend it to her, and engage her in conversation as best you can.' My noble servant replied humbly, 'I will obey my lord.' We halted and watched as he went up to her, kissed his hand, and offered it to her. Immediately, she took it, smiling, and was very friendly with him, and he was with her. Soon, a group of her friends arrived. So this time, I told him to tip his hat to them, as if they were royalty; and he did so. And just like that, the girls stood stiffly as sticks and didn’t move or speak.”
Denys. “Aie! aie! aie Pardon, the company.”
Denys. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Sorry, everyone.”
“This surprised me none; for so they did discountenance poor Denys. And that whole day I wore in experimenting these German lasses; and 'twas still the same. An ye doff bonnet to them they stiffen into statues; distance for distance. But accost them with honest freedom, and with that customary, and though rustical, most gracious proffer, of the kissed hand, and they withhold neither their hands in turn nor their acquaintance in an honest way. Seeing which I vexed myself that Denys was not with us to prattle with them; he is so fond of women.” (“Are you fond of women, Denys?”) And the reader opened two great violet eyes upon him with gentle surprise.
“This didn’t surprise me at all; they really were dismissive of poor Denys. I spent the whole day trying to interact with these German girls, and it was still the same. If you tip your hat to them, they freeze up like statues; it’s all about the distance. But if you approach them with genuine openness and that customary, albeit rustic, gesture of a kissed hand, they don’t hold back on offering their hands or getting to know you in a sincere way. Seeing this, I felt frustrated that Denys wasn’t with us to chat with them; he’s so fond of women.” (“Are you fond of women, Denys?”) And the reader looked at him with wide violet eyes, gently surprised.
Denys. “Ahem! he says so, she-comrade. By Hannibal's helmet, 'tis their fault, not mine. They will have such soft voices, and white skins, and sunny hair, and dark blue eyes, and—”
Denys. “Ahem! he says so, she-comrade. By Hannibal's helmet, it's their fault, not mine. They have such soft voices, and fair skin, and bright hair, and dark blue eyes, and—”
Margaret. (Reading suddenly.) “Which their affability I put to profit thus. I asked them how they made shift to grow roses in yule? For know, dear Margaret, that throughout Germany, the baser sort of lasses wear for head-dress nought but a 'crantz,' or wreath of roses, encircling their bare hair, as laurel Caesar's; and though of the worshipful, scorned, yet is braver, I wist, to your eye and mine which painters be, though sorry ones, than the gorgeous, uncouth, mechanical head-gear of the time, and adorns, not hides her hair, that goodly ornament fitted to her head by craft divine. So the good lasses, being questioned close, did let me know, the rosebuds are cut in summer and laid then in great clay-pots, thus ordered:—first bay salt, then a row of buds, and over that row bay salt sprinkled; then, another row of buds placed crosswise; for they say it is death to the buds to touch one another; and so on, buds and salt in layers. Then each pot is covered and soldered tight, and kept in cool cellar. And on Saturday night the master of the house, or mistress, if master be none, opens a pot, and doles the rosebuds out to every female in the house, high or low, withouten grudge; then solders it up again. And such as of these buds would full-blown roses make, put them in warm water a little space, or else in the stove, and then with tiny brush and soft, wetted in Rhenish wine, do coax them till they ope their folds. And some perfume them with rose-water. For, alack, their smell it is fled with the summer; and only their fair bodyes lie withouten soul, in tomb of clay, awaiting resurrection.
Margaret. (Reading suddenly.) “I made use of their friendliness like this: I asked them how they managed to grow roses in winter. You should know, dear Margaret, that throughout Germany, lower-class girls wear nothing for a headpiece but a 'crantz,' or wreath of roses, circling their bare hair, much like Caesar's laurel; and even though those of higher status may look down on it, still, it's far more striking, I believe, to your eyes and mine—though poorly done by artists—than the elaborate, strange, mechanical headpieces of the time, which cover rather than showcase the hair, a lovely feature crafted by divine skill. So when I asked the good girls about it, they explained to me that the rosebuds are cut in summer and then placed in large clay pots, layered like this: first bay salt, then a row of buds, and sprinkled with bay salt over that; then another row of buds placed crosswise, as they say it's harmful for the buds to touch each other, and this continues—buds and salt in layers. Each pot is then covered and sealed tight, kept in a cool cellar. On Saturday night, the head of the household, or the mistress if there's no master, opens a pot and shares the rosebuds with every female in the house, high or low, without complaint; then seals it up again. For those who want fully bloomed roses from these buds, they put them in warm water for a short time or in the stove, then with a tiny brush, softened in Rhenish wine, they coax them to open. Some even perfume them with rose water. Alas, their scent has faded with the summer; only their beautiful bodies remain without a soul, in a clay tomb, waiting for resurrection.
“And some with the roses and buds mix nutmegs gilded, but not by my good will; for gold, brave in itself, cheek by jowl with roses, is but yellow earth. And it does the eye's heart good to see these fair heads of hair come, blooming with roses, over snowy roads, and by snow-capt hedges, setting winter's beauty by the side of summer's glory. For what so fair as winter's lilies, snow yclept, and what so brave as roses? And shouldst have had a picture here, but for their superstition. Leaned a lass in Sunday garb, cross ankled, against her cottage corner, whose low roof was snow-clad, and with her crantz did seem a summer flower sprouting from winter's bosom. I drew rein, and out pencil and brush to limn her for thee. But the simpleton, fearing the evil eye, or glamour, claps both hands to her face and flies panic-stricken. But indeed, they are not more superstitious than the Sevenbergen folk, which take thy father for a magician. Yet softly, sith at this moment I profit by this darkness of their minds; for, at first, sitting down to write this diary, I could frame nor thought nor word, so harried and deaved was I with noise of mechanical persons, and hoarse laughter at dull jests of one of these particoloured 'fools,' which are so rife in Germany. But oh, sorry wit, that is driven to the poor resource of pointed ear-caps, and a green and yellow body. True wit, methinks, is of the mind. We met in Burgundy an honest wench, though over free for my palate, a chambermaid, had made havoc of all these zanies, droll by brute force. Oh, Digressor! Well then, I to be rid of roaring rusticalls, and mindless jests, put my finger in a glass and drew on the table a great watery circle; whereat the rusticalls did look askant, like venison at a cat; and in that circle a smaller circle. The rusticalls held their peace; and besides these circles cabalistical, I laid down on the table solemnly yon parchment deed I had out of your house. The rusticalls held their breath. Then did I look as glum as might be, and muttered slowly thus 'Videamus—quam diu tu fictus morio—vosque veri stulti—audebitis—in hac aula morari, strepitantes ita—et olentes: ut dulcissimae nequeam miser scribere.' They shook like aspens, and stole away on tiptoe one by one at first, then in a rush and jostling, and left me alone; and most scared of all was the fool: never earned jester fairer his ass's ears. So rubbed I their foible, who first rubbed mine; for of all a traveller's foes I dread those giants twain, Sir Noise, and eke Sir Stench. The saints and martyrs forgive my peevishness. Thus I write to thee in balmy peace, and tell thee trivial things scarce worthy ink, also how I love thee, which there was no need to tell, for well thou knowest it. And oh, dear Margaret, looking on their roses, which grew in summer, but blow in winter, I see the picture of our true affection; born it was in smiles and bliss, but soon adversity beset us sore with many a bitter blast. Yet our love hath lost no leaf, thank God, but blossoms full and fair as ever, proof against frowns, and jibes, and prison, and banishment, as those sweet German flowers a blooming in winter's snow.
“And some mix nutmegs with roses and buds, but not by my choice; because gold, splendid in itself, when placed alongside roses, is just yellow dirt. It's pleasing to the eye to see these beautiful heads of hair adorned with roses, moving over snowy paths and beside snow-covered hedges, showcasing winter's beauty next to summer's glory. For what could be more beautiful than winter's lilies, called snow, and what could be bolder than roses? I would have drawn a picture here, but for their superstition. A girl in Sunday clothes, with her ankles crossed, leaned against her cottage corner, her low roof covered in snow, and with her garland, she looked like a summer flower emerging from winter's embrace. I halted, pulling out my pencil and brush to sketch her for you. But she, simple-minded, fearing the evil eye or some enchantment, covered her face with both hands and fled in panic. Yet truly, they are not more superstitious than the people of Sevenbergen, who see your father as a magician. But softly, since in this moment I benefit from their ignorance; for when I first sat down to write this diary, I couldn’t think or form a word, so overwhelmed was I by the noise of mechanical people and the raucous laughter at the dull jokes of one of these colorful ‘fools,’ so common in Germany. Oh, what a poor sense of humor, driven to the pathetic resource of pointed ear-caps and a green and yellow costume. True wit, it seems, comes from the mind. We met in Burgundy an honest girl, though a bit too forward for my taste, a chambermaid who wreaked havoc among all these jesters, funny by sheer force. Oh, I digress! To escape the noisy clowns and mindless jokes, I dipped my finger in a glass and drew a large watery circle on the table; the rustic folk looked on suspiciously, like deer watching a cat; and inside that circle, I drew a smaller one. They fell silent; and besides those mystical circles, I solemnly laid down the parchment deed I had taken from your house. The rustic folks were breathless. Then I put on a serious face and slowly muttered, 'Let us see how long you, foolish jester, and you, real fools, will dare to linger here, making noise and stinking, so that I cannot write even a little.' They trembled like aspen trees and tiptoed away one by one at first, then all at once in a rush, leaving me alone; and the most scared of all was the fool: no jester ever deserved their donkey ears more. So I exposed their weakness, just as they first revealed mine; for of all a traveler’s enemies, I dread those two giants, Sir Noise and Sir Stench. May the saints and martyrs forgive my irritability. Thus I write to you in peaceful calm, sharing trivial things hardly worth ink, and telling you how I love you, which was unnecessary, for you know it well. And oh, dear Margaret, looking at their roses, which bloom in winter but grew in summer, I see the image of our true love; born in smiles and joy, but soon beset by harsh challenges with many bitter blasts. Yet our love hasn’t lost a single petal, thank God, but blossoms fully and beautifully as ever, able to withstand frowns, jibes, imprisonment, and exile, like those sweet German flowers blooming in winter’s snow.”
“January 2.—My servant, the count, finding me curious, took me to the stables of the prince that rules this part. In the first court was a horse-bath, adorned with twenty-two pillars, graven with the prince's arms; and also the horse-leech's shop, so furnished as a rich apothecary might envy. The stable is a fair quadrangle, whereof three sides filled with horses of all nations. Before each horse's nose was a glazed window, with a green curtain to be drawn at pleasure, and at his tail a thick wooden pillar with a brazen shield, whence by turning of a pipe he is watered, and serves too for a cupboard to keep his comb and rubbing clothes. Each rack was iron, and each manger shining copper, and each nag covered with a scarlet mantle, and above him his bridle and saddle hung, ready to gallop forth in a minute; and not less than two hundred horses, whereof twelve score of foreign breed. And we returned to our inn full of admiration, and the two varlets said sorrowfully, 'Why were we born with two legs?' And one of the grooms that was civil and had of me trinkgeld, stood now at his cottage-door and asked us in. There we found his wife and children of all ages, from five to eighteen, and had but one room to bide and sleep in, a thing pestiferous and most uncivil. Then I asked my Servant, knew he this prince? Ay, did he, and had often drunk with him in a marble chamber above the stable, where, for table, was a curious and artificial rock, and the drinking vessels hang on its pinnacles, and at the hottest of the engagement a statue of a horseman in bronze came forth bearing a bowl of liquor, and he that sat nearest behoved to drain it. ''Tis well,' said I: 'now for thy penance, whisper thou in yon prince's ear, that God hath given him his people freely, and not sought a price for them as for horses. And pray him look inside the huts at his horse-palace door, and bethink himself is it well to house his horses, and stable his folk.' Said he, ''Twill give sore offence.' 'But,' said I, 'ye must do it discreetly and choose your time.' So he promised. And riding on we heard plaintive cries. 'Alas,' said I, 'some sore mischance hath befallen some poor soul: what may it be?' And we rode up, and lo! it was a wedding feast, and the guests were plying the business of drinking sad and silent, but ever and anon cried loud and dolefully, 'Seyte frolich! Be merry.'
“January 2.—My servant, the count, noticing my curiosity, took me to the stables of the prince who governs this area. In the first courtyard was a horse bath, decorated with twenty-two pillars featuring the prince's coat of arms; nearby was the horse doctor’s shop, stocked in a way that would make any wealthy apothecary envious. The stable formed a nice quadrangle, with three sides filled with horses from all over the world. In front of each horse was a glass window, with a green curtain that could be pulled back as desired, and at the back of each horse was a thick wooden post with a brass shield, where a pipe could be turned to water them, which also served as a cabinet for their combs and grooming supplies. Each rack was made of iron, and each trough was shining copper, with each horse draped in a scarlet blanket, and above them, their bridle and saddle hung, ready for a quick ride; there were no fewer than two hundred horses, of which one hundred and twenty were of foreign breeds. We returned to our inn full of wonder, and the two attendants lamented, 'Why were we born with two legs?' One of the grooms, who was polite and had received a tip from me, stood at his cottage door and invited us in. Inside, we found his wife and children of all ages, from five to eighteen, sharing a single room to live and sleep in, a rather unpleasant and uncivil situation. I then asked my servant if he knew this prince. 'Yes, he does,' he said, 'and he has often drunk with him in a marble chamber above the stable, where there was an intricately designed rock table, with drinking vessels hanging from its peaks, and at the height of the festivities, a bronze statue of a horseman emerged carrying a bowl of drink, which the person sitting closest had to finish. 'That's interesting,' I said. 'Now for your task: whisper to that prince that God has given him his people freely and hasn't asked for a price for them like he would for horses. And urge him to look inside the huts at his horse palace's entrance and consider whether it's right to provide shelter for his horses while his people stay out in the open.' He replied, 'That might cause serious offense.' 'But,' I said, 'you must do it tactfully and pick the right moment.' He agreed. As we rode on, we heard sad cries. 'Alas,' I said, 'some unfortunate incident has happened to someone: what could it be?' We rode over, and it turned out to be a wedding feast, and the guests were quietly drinking, but every now and then they raised their voices loudly and mournfully, shouting, 'Seyte frolich! Be merry.'”
“January 3.—Yesterday between Nurnberg and Augsburg we parted company. I gave my lord, late Servant, back his brave clothes for mine, but his horse he made me keep, and five gold pieces, and said he was still my debtor, his penance it had been slight along of me, but profitable. But his best word was this: 'I see 'tis more noble to be loved than feared.' And then he did so praise me as I blushed to put on paper; yet, poor fool, would fain thou couldst hear his words, but from some other pen than mine. And the servants did heartily grasp my hand, and wish me good luck. And riding apace, yet could I not reach Augsburg till the gates were closed; but it mattered little, for this Augsburg it is an enchanted city. For a small coin one took me a long way round to a famous postern called der Einlasse. Here stood two guardians, like statues. To them I gave my name and business. They nodded me leave to knock; I knocked; and the iron gate opened with a great noise and hollow rattling of a chain, but no hand seen nor chain; and he who drew the hidden chain sits a butt's length from the gate; and I rode in, and the gate closed with a clang after me. I found myself in a great building with a bridge at my feet. This I rode over and presently came to a porter's lodge, where one asked me again my name and business, then rang a bell, and a great portcullis that barred the way began to rise, drawn by a wheel overhead, and no hand seen. Behind the portcullis was a thick oaken door studded with steel. It opened without hand, and I rode into a hall as dark as pitch. Trembling there a while, a door opened and showed me a smaller hall lighted. I rode into it: a tin goblet came down from the ceiling by a little chain: I put two batzen into it, and it went up again. Being gone, another thick door creaked and opened, and I rid through. It closed on me with a tremendous clang, and behold me in Augsburg city. I lay at an inn called 'The Three Moors,' over an hundred years old; and this morning, according to my way of viewing towns to learn their compass and shape, I mounted the highest tower I could find, and setting my dial at my foot surveyed the beautiful city: whole streets of palaces and churches tiled with copper burnished like gold; and the house fronts gaily painted and all glazed, and the glass so clean and burnished as 'tis most resplendent and rare; and I, now first seeing a great city, did crow with delight, and like cock on his ladder, and at the tower foot was taken into custody for a spy; for whilst I watched the city the watchman had watched me. The burgomaster received me courteously and heard my story; then rebuked he the officers. 'Could ye not question him yourselves, or read in his face? This is to make our city stink in strangers' report.' Then he told me my curiosity was of a commendable sort; and seeing I was a craftsman and inquisitive, bade his clerk take me among the guilds. God bless the city where the very burgomaster is cut of Soloman's cloth!
"January 3.—Yesterday, between Nuremberg and Augsburg, we went our separate ways. I returned my former lord's fine clothes for my own, but he insisted I keep his horse and gave me five gold coins, saying he still owed me, and his penance was light because of me but worthwhile. His best words were: 'I realize it’s more noble to be loved than feared.' Then he praised me so much that I blushed to write it down; yet, foolishly, I wish you could hear his words from someone else's pen. The servants warmly shook my hand and wished me good luck. Riding quickly, I still couldn’t reach Augsburg before the gates closed; but it didn’t matter much, for Augsburg is an enchanted city. For a small coin, I took a long detour to a famous side gate called der Einlasse. Here stood two guardians like statues. I gave them my name and purpose. They nodded for me to knock; I knocked, and the iron gate opened with a loud noise and a hollow rattling of a chain, with no visible hand or chain in sight; the one who pulled the hidden chain was sitting just out of view from the gate, and I rode in, with the gate clanging shut behind me. I found myself in a large building with a bridge at my feet. I rode over it and soon came to a porter’s lodge, where someone asked my name and purpose again, then rang a bell, and a great portcullis began to rise, pulled by a wheel overhead with no hand in sight. Behind the portcullis was a thick oak door studded with steel. It opened without a hand, and I rode into a pitch-dark hall. After trembling there for a while, a door opened, revealing a smaller, lit hall. I rode into it: a tin goblet descended from the ceiling by a small chain; I dropped two batzen into it, and it went back up. After that, another thick door creaked open, and I rode through. It slammed shut behind me with a loud clang, and there I was in the city of Augsburg. I stayed at an inn called 'The Three Moors,' which is over a hundred years old. This morning, to learn the layout and shape of the city, I climbed the highest tower I could find, set my compass at my feet, and surveyed the beautiful city: whole streets of palaces and churches covered in copper tiles shining like gold; the house fronts brightly painted and all glazed, with glass so clean and polished that it sparkled and shone; and as I saw a great city for the first time, I was filled with joy, like a rooster on its perch, but at the foot of the tower, I was taken into custody as a spy; while I watched the city, the watchman was watching me. The burgomaster received me kindly and listened to my story, then reprimanded the officers. 'Could you not question him yourselves or read his face? This makes our city look bad to outsiders.' Then he mentioned that my curiosity was commendable; seeing that I was a craftsman and inquisitive, he instructed his clerk to take me among the guilds. God bless the city where even the burgomaster is made of Solomon's stuff!"
“January 5.—Dear Margaret, it is a noble city, and a kind mother to arts. Here they cut in wood and ivory, that 'tis like spider's work, and paint on glass, and sing angelical harmonies. Writing of books is quite gone by; here be six printers. Yet was I offered a bountiful wage to write fairly a merchant's accounts, one Fugger, a grand and wealthy trader, and hath store of ships, yet his father was but a poor weaver. But here in commerce, her very garden, men swell like mushrooms. And he bought my horse of me, and abated me not a jot, which way of dealing is not known in Holland. But oh, Margaret, the workmen of all the guilds are so kind and brotherly to one another, and to me. Here, methinks, I have found the true German mind, loyal, frank, and kindly, somewhat choleric withal, but nought revengeful. Each mechanic wears a sword. The very weavers at the loom sit girded with their weapons, and all Germans on too slight occasion draw them and fight; but no treachery: challenge first, then draw, and with the edge only, mostly the face, not with Sir Point; for if in these combats one thrust at his adversary and hurt him, 'tis called ein schelemstucke, a heinous act, both men and women turn their backs on him; and even the judges punish thrusts bitterly, but pass over cuts. Hence in Germany be good store of scarred faces, three in five at least, and in France scarce more than one in three.
“January 5.—Dear Margaret, it’s a noble city and a nurturing place for the arts. Here, they carve in wood and ivory with such finesse that it resembles spider's work, they paint on glass, and create angelic harmonies in song. Bookwriting has nearly disappeared; there are six printers here. Still, I was offered a generous salary to neatly write a merchant's accounts by one Fugger, a grand and wealthy trader with a fleet of ships, though his father was just a poor weaver. In commerce, which is truly the city’s garden, men grow like mushrooms. He bought my horse without haggling, a way of dealing that's unheard of in Holland. But oh, Margaret, the workers from all the guilds are so kind and brotherly to one another and to me. Here, I feel like I’ve discovered the true German spirit—loyal, honest, and friendly, though a bit hot-headed, but not vengeful. Every tradesman carries a sword. Even weavers at the loom are armed, and all Germans tend to draw their swords over minor disputes; but there’s no treachery: you issue a challenge first, then draw, and mainly use the edge, usually against the face, not the point; for if someone thrusts at his opponent and injures him, it’s considered ein schelemstucke, a dreadful offense, and both men and women will turn their backs on him; even judges punish thrusts severely but overlook cuts. Hence, in Germany, many people have scarred faces—at least three in five—while in France, it’s hardly more than one in three.”
“But in arts mechanical no citizens may compare with these. Fountains in every street that play to heaven, and in the gardens seeming trees, which being approached, one standing afar touches a spring, and every twig shoots water, and souses the guests to their host's much delectation. Big culverins of war they cast with no more ado than our folk horse-shoes, and have done this fourscore years. All stuffs they weave, and linen fine as ours at home, or nearly, which elsewhere in Europe vainly shall ye seek. Sir Printing Press—sore foe to poor Gerard, but to other humans beneficial—plieth by night and day, and casteth goodly words like sower afield; while I, poor fool, can but sow them as I saw women in France sow rye, dribbling it in the furrow grain by grain. And of their strange mechanical skill take two examples. For ending of exemplary rogues they have a figure like a woman, seven feet high, and called Jung Frau; but lo, a spring is touched, she seizeth the poor wretch with iron arms, and opening herself, hales him inside her, and there pierces him through and through with two score lances. Secondly, in all great houses the spit is turned not by a scrubby boy, but by smoke. Ay, mayst well admire, and judge me a lying knave. These cunning Germans do set in the chimney a little windmill, and the smoke struggling to wend past, turns it, and from the mill a wire runs through the wall and turns the spit on wheels; beholding which I doffed my bonnet to the men of Augsburg, for who but these had ere devised to bind ye so dark and subtle a knave as Sir Smoke, and set him to roast Dame Pullet?
"But in mechanical arts, no citizens can compare to these. Fountains in every street that spray up towards the sky, and in the gardens, there are trees that, when approached, one standing afar touches a spring, and every branch shoots water, drenching the guests to their host's great delight. They cast large cannons of war with as much ease as our people make horseshoes, and they have done this for eighty years. They weave all kinds of fabrics and produce linen as fine as ours at home, or nearly so, which you will vainly seek elsewhere in Europe. Sir Printing Press—an arch-enemy to poor Gerard, but beneficial to others—works day and night, producing good words like a sower in the fields; while I, a poor fool, can only sow them like I saw women in France sow rye, dropping it in the furrow grain by grain. And from their peculiar mechanical skill, take two examples. For executing infamous rogues, they have a figure of a woman, seven feet tall, called Jung Frau; and lo, when a spring is touched, she grabs the poor wretch with iron arms, opens herself up, and pulls him inside, where she pierces him through and through with twenty lances. Secondly, in all great houses, the spit is turned not by a scruffy boy, but by smoke. Yes, you may well admire and think me a lying knave. These clever Germans place a small windmill in the chimney, and the smoke struggling to escape turns it, and from the mill, a wire runs through the wall and turns the spit on wheels; and seeing this, I tipped my hat to the men of Augsburg, for who else but they had ever thought to trap such a dark and crafty rogue as Sir Smoke and set him to roast Dame Pullet?"
“This day, January 8, with three craftsmen of the town, I painted a pack of cards. They were for a senator, in a hurry. I the diamonds. My queen came forth with eyes like spring violets, hair a golden brown, and witching smile. My fellow-craftsmen saw her, and put their arms round my neck and hailed me master. Oh, noble Germans! No jealousy of a brother-workman: no sour looks at a stranger; and would have me spend Sunday with them after matins; and the merchant paid me so richly as I was ashamed to take the guerdon; and I to my inn, and tried to paint the queen of diamonds for poor Gerard; but no, she would not come like again. Luck will not be bespoke. Oh, happy rich man that hath got her! Fie! fie! Happy Gerard that shall have herself one day, and keep house with her at Augsburg.
“This day, January 8, I painted a deck of cards with three craftsmen from the town. They were for a senator who was in a rush. I took care of the diamonds. My queen appeared with eyes like spring violets, golden brown hair, and an enchanting smile. My fellow craftsmen saw her, threw their arms around my neck, and called me master. Oh, noble Germans! No jealousy towards a fellow worker; no sour looks at a stranger; they even invited me to spend Sunday with them after church. The merchant paid me so generously that I felt embarrassed to accept the payment. After that, I returned to my inn and tried to paint the queen of diamonds for poor Gerard, but no, she refused to appear again. Luck cannot be ordered. Oh, happy rich man who has won her! Shame! Shame! Happy Gerard, who will one day have her and settle down with her in Augsburg.
“January 8.—With my fellows, and one Veit Stoss, a wood-carver, and one Hafnagel, of the goldsmiths' guild, and their wives and lasses, to Hafnagel's cousin, a senator of this free city, and his stupendous wine-vessel. It is ribbed like a ship, and hath been eighteen months in hand, and finished but now, and holds a hundred and fifty hogsheads, and standeth not, but lieth; yet even so ye get not on his back, withouten ladders two, of thirty steps. And we sat about the miraculous mass, and drank Rhenish from it, drawn by a little artificial pump, and the lasses pinned their crantzes to it, and we danced round it, and the senator danced on its back, but with drinking of so many garausses, lost his footing and fell off, glass in hand, and broke an arm and a leg in the midst of us. So scurvily ended our drinking bout for this time.
“January 8.—I was with my friends, including Veit Stoss, a wood-carver, and Hafnagel from the goldsmiths' guild, along with their wives and daughters, at Hafnagel's cousin's place, a senator in this free city, to see his incredible wine vessel. It's ribbed like a ship, took eighteen months to make, just finished, and holds one hundred and fifty hogsheads. It doesn't stand up, but lies down; even so, you can't get on it without two ladders with thirty steps each. We gathered around this amazing piece, drinking Rhenish from it, drawn by a little pump, while the girls pinned their garlands to it. We danced around it, and the senator danced on top, but after drinking so much, he lost his balance and fell off, glass in hand, breaking an arm and a leg right in front of us. So poorly did our drinking party end this time.”
“January 10.—This day started for Venice with a company of merchants, and among them him who had desired me for his scrivener; and so we are now agreed, I to write at night the letters he shall dict, and other matters, he to feed and lodge me on the road. We be many and armed, and soldiers with us to boot, so fear not the thieves which men say lie on the borders of Italy. But an if I find the printing press at Venice, I trow I shall not go unto Rome, for man may not vie with iron.
“January 10.—Today, I set out for Venice with a group of merchants, including the one who wanted me to be his writer. We’ve come to an agreement: I’ll write the letters he dictates at night, and he’ll provide food and lodging for me along the way. There are many of us, armed, and we have soldiers with us as well, so I’m not worried about the thieves that people say are on the borders of Italy. However, if I find the printing press in Venice, I don’t think I’ll go to Rome, because a person can’t compete with iron."
“Imprimit una dies quantum non scribitur anno. And, dearest, something tells me you and I shall end our days at Augsburg, whence going, I shall leave it all I can—my blessing.
“Print it one day for every year it's not written. And, my dear, something tells me you and I will spend our last days in Augsburg, from where, when I leave, I will leave behind everything I can—my blessing.”
“January 12.—My master affecteth me much, and now maketh me sit with him in his horse-litter. A grave good man, of all respected, but sad for loss of a dear daughter, and loveth my psaltery: not giddy-faced ditties, but holy harmonies such as Cul de Jatte made wry mouths at. So many men, so many minds. But cooped in horse-litter and at night writing his letters, my journal halteth.
“January 12.—My master means a lot to me, and now he has me sit with him in his horse-drawn carriage. He is a serious, good man, well-respected, but sad over the loss of a beloved daughter, and he loves my psaltery: not silly songs, but holy tunes that Cul de Jatte scoffed at. So many men, so many thoughts. But stuck in the carriage and at night writing his letters, my journal is on hold.
“January 14.—When not attending on my good merchant, I consort with such of our company as are Italians, for 'tis to Italy I wend, and I am ill seen in Italian tongue. A courteous and a subtle people, at meat delicate feeders and cleanly: love not to put their left hand in the dish. They say Venice is the garden of Lombardy, Lombardy the garden of Italy, Italy of the world.
“January 14.—When I’m not with my good merchant, I hang out with the Italians in our group because I’m heading to Italy, and I’m not great at speaking Italian. They’re a polite and refined people, delicate eaters, and tidy: they don’t like putting their left hand in the dish. They say Venice is the garden of Lombardy, Lombardy the garden of Italy, and Italy the garden of the world.”
“January 16.-Strong ways and steep, and the mountain girls so girded up, as from their armpits to their waist is but a handful. Of all the garbs I yet have seen, the most unlovely.
“January 16.-Rugged paths and steep inclines, and the mountain girls are all dressed up, their clothing barely reaching from their armpits to their waists. Out of all the outfits I've seen, this one is the least attractive.”
“January 18.-In the midst of life we are in death. Oh! dear Margaret, I thought I had lost thee. Here I lie in pain and dole, and shall write thee that, which read you it in a romance ye should cry, 'Most improbable!' And so still wondering that I am alive to write it, and thanking for it God and the saints, this is what befell thy Gerard. Yestreen I wearied of being shut up in litter, and of the mule's slow pace, and so went forward; and being, I know not why, strangely full of spirit and hope, as I have heard befall some men when on trouble's brink, seemed to tread on air, and soon distanced them all. Presently I came to two roads, and took the larger; I should have taken the smaller. After travelling a good half-hour, I found my error, and returned; and deeming my company had long passed by, pushed bravely on, but I could not overtake them; and small wonder, as you shall hear. Then I was anxious, and ran, but bare was the road of those I sought; and night came down, and the wild beasts a-foot, and I bemoaned my folly; also I was hungered. The moon rose clear and bright exceedingly, and presently a little way off the road I saw a tall windmill. 'Come,' said I, 'mayhap the miller will take ruth on me.' Near the mill was a haystack, and scattered about were store of little barrels; but lo they were not flour-barrels, but tar-barrels, one or two, and the rest of spirits, Brant vein and Schiedam; I knew them momently, having seen the like in Holland. I knocked at the mill-door, but none answered. I lifted the latch, and the door opened inwards. I went in, and gladly, for the night was fine but cold, and a rime on the trees, which were a kind of lofty sycamores. There was a stove, but black; I lighted it with some of the hay and wood, for there was a great pile of wood outside, and I know not how, I went to sleep. Not long had I slept, I trow, when hearing a noise, I awoke; and there were a dozen men around me, with wild faces, and long black hair, and black sparkling eyes.”
“January 18.-In the midst of life we are in death. Oh! dear Margaret, I thought I had lost you. Here I lie in pain and sorrow, and will write to you that, if you read it in a story, you would exclaim, 'Most improbable!' And still amazed that I am alive to write this, and thankful to God and the saints for it, this is what happened to your Gerard. Last night I grew tired of being cooped up in a litter, and of the mule's slow pace, so I went ahead; feeling, for some unknown reason, oddly energized and hopeful, as I’ve heard happens to some men on the edge of trouble, I felt like I was walking on air and soon left everyone behind. Eventually, I came to two paths and took the larger one; I should have taken the smaller. After traveling for a good half-hour, I realized my mistake and turned back, thinking my companions had long passed, I pushed on bravely, but I couldn’t catch up with them; and it’s no surprise, as you’ll hear. Then I grew anxious and ran, but the road was empty of those I sought; night fell, and wild beasts roamed, and I regretted my foolishness; plus, I was hungry. The moon rose bright and clear, and soon I spotted a tall windmill just off the road. 'Come,' I thought, 'maybe the miller will have pity on me.' Near the mill stood a haystack, and scattered around were lots of little barrels; but behold, they were not flour barrels, but tar barrels, one or two, and the rest were spirits, Brandy and Schiedam; I recognized them immediately, having seen similar ones in Holland. I knocked at the mill door, but no one answered. I lifted the latch, and the door opened inward. I went inside, very glad to find shelter, for the night was lovely but cold, with frost on the trees, which were tall sycamores. There was a stove, but it was black; I lit it using some hay and wood from a great pile outside, and somehow, I fell asleep. I hadn’t slept long, I think, when I heard a noise and woke up; and there were a dozen men around me, with wild faces, long black hair, and black sparkling eyes.”
Catherine. “Oh, my poor boy! those black-haired ones do still scare me to look on.”
Catherine. “Oh, my poor boy! Those dark-haired ones still frighten me to look at.”
“I made my excuses in such Italian as I knew, and eking out by signs. They grinned. 'I had lost my company.' They grinned. 'I was an hungered.' Still they grinned, and spoke to one another in a tongue I knew not. At last one gave me a piece of bread and a tin mug of wine, as I thought, but it was spirits neat. I made a wry face and asked for water: then these wild men laughed a horrible laugh. I thought to fly, but looking towards the door it was bolted with two enormous bolts of iron, and now first, as I ate my bread, I saw it was all guarded too, and ribbed with iron. My blood curdled within me, and yet I could not tell thee why; but hadst thou seen the faces, wild, stupid, and ruthless. I mumbled my bread, not to let them see I feared them; but oh, it cost me to swallow it and keep it in me. Then it whirled in my brain, was there no way to escape? Said I, 'They will not let me forth by the door; these be smugglers or robbers.' So I feigned drowsiness, and taking out two batzen said, 'Good men, for our Lady's grace let me lie on a bed and sleep, for I am faint with travel.' They nodded and grinned their horrible grin, and bade one light a lanthorn and lead me. He took me up a winding staircase, up, up, and I saw no windows, but the wooden walls were pierced like a barbican tower, and methinks for the same purpose, and through these slits I got glimpses of the sky, and thought, 'Shall I e'er see thee again?' He took me to the very top of the mill, and there was a room with a heap of straw in one corner and many empty barrels, and by the wall a truckle bed. He pointed to it, and went downstairs heavily, taking the light, for in this room was a great window, and the moon came in bright. I looked out to see, and lo, it was so high that even the mill sails at their highest came not up to my window by some feet, but turned very slow and stately underneath, for wind there was scarce a breath; and the trees seemed silver filagree made by angel craftsmen. My hope of flight was gone.
“I made my excuses in the little Italian I knew, using gestures to help. They grinned. 'I had lost my group.' They grinned. 'I was hungry.' Still, they grinned and spoke to each other in a language I didn’t understand. Finally, one of them handed me a piece of bread and what I thought was a tin mug of wine, but it turned out to be straight spirits. I grimaced and asked for water: then these wild men laughed a chilling laugh. I thought about escaping, but when I looked at the door, I saw it was locked with two huge iron bolts, and only then, as I ate my bread, did I notice that it was heavily guarded, reinforced with iron. My blood ran cold, although I couldn’t explain why; but if you had seen their faces—wild, dull, and merciless. I chewed my bread, trying not to show them that I was afraid; but oh, it was hard to swallow it down and keep it there. Then it spun in my mind, was there no way to get away? I thought, 'They won’t let me out through the door; these must be smugglers or thieves.' So, I pretended to be drowsy, took out two batzen, and said, 'Good sirs, for the sake of our Lady’s grace, let me lie down on a bed and sleep, for I am exhausted from my travels.' They nodded and shared their dreadful grins, then instructed one to light a lantern and lead me. He took me up a winding staircase, higher and higher, and I didn’t see any windows, but the wooden walls had gaps like a fortified tower, seemingly for the same purpose, and through these openings, I caught glimpses of the sky, wondering, 'Will I ever see you again?' He led me to the very top of the mill, where there was a room with a pile of straw in one corner and several empty barrels, along with a small bed against the wall. He pointed to it and then trudged heavily back downstairs, taking the light with him, since this room had a large window through which the bright moonlight streamed in. I looked outside and realized it was so high that even the mill sails, at their highest, didn’t reach my window by several feet, turning very slowly and majestically below, as there was hardly a breath of wind; and the trees looked like delicate silver filigree crafted by angelic hands. My hope of escape was gone.
“But now, those wild faces being out of sight, I smiled at my fears: what an if they were ill men, would it profit them to hurt me? Natheless, for caution against surprise, I would put the bed against the door. I went to move it, but could not. It was free at the head, but at the foot fast clamped with iron to the floor. So I flung my psaltery on the bed, but for myself made a layer of straw at the door, so as none could open on me unawares. And I laid my sword ready to my hand. And said my prayers for thee and me, and turned to sleep.
“But now, with those wild faces out of sight, I smiled at my fears: even if they were bad men, would it really help them to hurt me? Still, to be cautious and avoid any surprises, I decided to push the bed against the door. I tried to move it, but I couldn't. It was loose at the head, but the foot was firmly clamped to the floor with iron. So I tossed my psaltery onto the bed, but for myself, I made a bed of straw in front of the door, so no one could sneak in on me. I kept my sword within reach. Then I said my prayers for both of us and turned in to sleep.”
“Below they drank and made merry. And hearing this gave me confidence. Said I, 'Out of sight, out of mind. Another hour and the good Schiedam will make them forget that I am here.' And so I composed myself to sleep. And for some time could not for the boisterous mirth below. At last I dropped off. How long I slept I knew not; but I woke with a start: the noise had ceased below, and the sudden silence woke me. And scarce was I awake, when sudden the truckle bed was gone with a loud clang all but the feet, and the floor yawned, and I heard my psaltery fall and break to atoms, deep, deep, below the very floor of the mill. It had fallen into a well. And so had I done, lying where it lay.”
“Downstairs, they drank and celebrated. Hearing this gave me confidence. I thought, 'Out of sight, out of mind. In another hour, the good Schiedam will make them forget that I'm here.' So I settled down to sleep. For a while, I couldn't because of the loud partying below. Eventually, I dozed off. I don't know how long I was asleep, but I woke up suddenly: the noise had stopped, and the unexpected silence jolted me awake. Barely awake, I noticed the bed had vanished with a loud clang, except for the legs, and the floor opened up beneath me, and I heard my psaltery fall and shatter into pieces, deep, deep below the very floor of the mill. It had fallen into a well. And so had I, lying where it lay.”
Margaret shuddered and put her face in her hands. But speedily resumed.
Margaret shuddered and buried her face in her hands. But she quickly gathered herself again.
“I lay stupefied at first. Then horror fell on me, and I rose, but stood rooted there, shaking from head to foot. At last I found myself looking down into that fearsome gap, and my very hair did bristle as I peered. And then, I remember, I turned quite calm, and made up my mind to die sword in hand. For I saw no man must know this their bloody secret and live. And I said, 'Poor Margaret!' And I took out of my bosom, where they lie ever, our marriage lines, and kissed them again and again. And I pinned them to my shirt again, that they might lie in one grave with me, if die I must. And I thought, 'All our love and hopes to end thus!'”
“I lay there in shock at first. Then fear washed over me, and I got up, but I stood frozen, shaking from head to toe. Eventually, I found myself looking down into that terrifying abyss, and my hair stood on end as I stared. Then, I remember feeling completely calm, deciding to face death with a sword in hand. I understood that no one should know their bloody secret and survive. And I said, 'Poor Margaret!' I took out the marriage certificate from my chest, where I always kept it, and kissed it over and over. I pinned it to my shirt again, so it could be buried with me if I had to die. And I thought, 'All our love and hopes to end like this!'"
Eli. “Whisht all! Their marriage lines? Give her time! But no word. I can bear no chat. My poor lad!”
Eli. “Quiet everyone! Their marriage certificate? Give her some time! But not a word. I can’t handle any talk. My poor boy!”
During the long pause that ensued Catherine leaned forward and passed something adroitly from her own lap under her daughter's apron who sat next her.
During the long pause that followed, Catherine leaned forward and skillfully passed something from her lap under her daughter's apron, who was sitting next to her.
“Presently thinking, all in a whirl, of all that ever passed between us, and taking leave of all those pleasant hours, I called to mind how one day at Sevenbergen thou taughtest me to make a rope of straw. Mindest thou? The moment memory brought that happy day back to me, I cried out very loud: 'Margaret gives me a chance for life even here.' I woke from my lethargy. I seized on the straw and twisted it eagerly, as thou didst teach me, but my fingers trembled and delayed the task. Whiles I wrought I heard a door open below. That was a terrible moment. Even as I twisted my rope I got to the window and looked down at the great arms of the mill coming slowly up, then passing, then turning less slowly down, as it seemed; and I thought, 'They go not as when there is wind: yet, slow or fast, what man rid ever on such steed as these, and lived. Yet,' said I, 'better trust to them and God than to ill men.' And I prayed to Him whom even the wind obeyeth.
“Right now, with everything swirling in my mind about everything we've shared, I reflected on all those good times and remembered that one day at Sevenbergen when you taught me how to make a rope out of straw. Remember? As soon as that happy memory came back to me, I shouted, 'Margaret gives me a chance at life even here.' I snapped out of my stupor. I grabbed the straw and started twisting it eagerly, just like you taught me, but my hands were shaking, making it hard to focus. While I worked, I heard a door open downstairs. That was a terrifying moment. As I twisted the rope, I went to the window and looked down at the mill's big arms slowly moving up, then passing by, then turning down, seemingly slower. I thought, 'They don't move like when there's wind: still, fast or slow, what man ever rode such a beast and survived? Yet,' I said, 'it's better to rely on them and God than on bad people.' And I prayed to Him who even the wind obeys.”
“Dear Margaret, I fastened my rope, and let myself gently down, and fixed my eye on that huge arm of the mill, which then was creeping up to me, and went to spring on to it. But my heart failed me at the pinch. And methought it was not near enow. And it passed calm and awful by. I watched for another; they were three. And after a little while one crept up slower than the rest methought. And I with my foot thrust myself in good time somewhat out from the wall, and crying aloud 'Margaret!' did grip with all my soul the wood-work of the sail, and that moment was swimming in the air.”
“Dear Margaret, I secured my rope and let myself down slowly, fixing my gaze on the massive arm of the mill, which was slowly approaching me, and I prepared to leap onto it. But my courage failed me at the last moment. It felt too far away. It passed by calmly and ominously. I waited for another; there were three. After a short while, one crept up slower than the others, I thought. I pushed myself away from the wall with my foot just in time, and shouting 'Margaret!' I gripped the wood of the sail with all my strength, and in that moment, I was soaring through the air.”
Giles. “WELL DONE! WELL DONE!”
Giles. “Great job! Great job!”
“Motion I felt little; but the stars seemed to go round the sky, and then the grass came up to me nearer and nearer, and when the hoary grass was quite close I was sent rolling along it as if hurled from a catapult, and got up breathless, and every point and tie about me broken. I rose, but fell down again in agony. I had but one leg I could stand on.”
“ I felt little motion, but it seemed like the stars were moving around the sky. The grass kept coming closer and closer, and when the grey grass was right next to me, I was suddenly thrown along it as if launched from a catapult. I got up short of breath, with everything around me in disarray. I stood up, but collapsed again in pain. I could only stand on one leg.”
Catherine. “Eh! dear! his leg is broke, my boy's leg is broke.”
Catherine. “Oh dear! His leg is broken, my boy's leg is broken.”
“And e'en as I lay groaning, I heard a sound like thunder. It was the assassins running up the stairs. The crazy old mill shook under them. They must have found that I had not fallen into their bloody trap, and were running to despatch me. Margaret, I felt no fear, for I had now no hope. I could neither run nor hide; so wild the place, so bright the moon. I struggled up all agony and revenge, more like some wounded wild beast than your Gerard. Leaning on my sword hilt I hobbled round; and swift as lighting, or vengeance, I heaped a great pile of their hay and wood at the mill door; then drove my dagger into a barrel of their smuggled spirits, and flung it on; then out with my tinder and lighted the pile. 'This will bring true men round my dead body,' said I. 'Aha!' I cried, 'think you I'll die alone, cowards, assassins! reckless fiends!' and at each word on went a barrel pierced. But oh, Margaret! the fire fed by the spirits surprised me: it shot up and singed my very hair, it went roaring up the side of the mill, swift as falls the lightning; and I yelled and laughed in my torture and despair, and pierced more barrels and the very tar-barrels, and flung them on. The fire roared like a lion for its prey, and voices answered it inside from the top of the mill, and the feet came thundering down, and I stood as near that awful fire as I could, with uplifted sword to slay and be slain. The bolt was drawn. A tar-barrel caught fire. The door was opened. What followed? Not the men came out, but the fire rushed in at them like a living death, and the first I thought to fight with was blackened and crumpled on the floor like a leaf. One fearsome yell, and dumb for ever. The feet ran up again, but fewer. I heard them hack with their swords a little way up at the mill's wooden sides; but they had no time to hew their way out: the fire and reek were at their heels, and the smoke burst out at every loophole, and oozed blue in the moonlight through each crevice. I hobbled back, racked with pain and fury. There were white faces up at my window. They saw me. They cursed me. I cursed them back and shook my naked sword: 'Come down the road I came,' I cried. 'But ye must come one by one, and as ye come, ye die upon this steel.' Some cursed at that, but others wailed. For I had them all at deadly vantage. And doubtless, with my smoke-grimed face and fiendish rage, I looked a demon. And now there was a steady roar inside the mill. The flame was going up it as furnace up its chimney. The mill caught fire. Fire glimmered through it. Tongues of flame darted through each loophole and shot sparks and fiery flakes into the night. One of the assassins leaped on to the sail, as I had done. In his hurry he missed his grasp and fell at my feet, and bounded from the hard ground like a ball, and never spoke, nor moved again. And the rest screamed like women, and with their despair came back to me both ruth for them and hope of life for myself. And the fire gnawed through the mill in placen, and shot forth showers of great flat sparks like flakes of fiery snow; and the sails caught fire one after another; and I became a man again and staggered away terror-stricken, leaning on my sword, from the sight of my revenge, and with great bodily pain crawled back to the road. And, dear Margaret, the rimy trees were now all like pyramids of golden filagree, and lace, cobweb fine, in the red firelight. Oh! most beautiful! And a poor wretch got entangled in the burning sails, and whirled round screaming, and lost hold at the wrong time, and hurled like stone from mangonel high into the air; then a dull thump; it was his carcass striking the earth. The next moment there was a loud crash. The mill fell in on its destroyer, and a million great sparks flew up, and the sails fell over the burning wreck, and at that a million more sparks flew up, and the ground was strewn with burning wood and men. I prayed God forgive me, and kneeling with my back to that fiery shambles, I saw lights on the road; a welcome sight. It was a company coming towards me, and scarce two furlongs off. I hobbled towards them. Ere I had gone far I heard a swift step behind me. I turned. One had escaped; how escaped, who can divine? His sword shone in the moonlight. I feared him. Methought the ghosts of all those dead sat on that glittering glaive. I put my other foot to the ground, maugre the anguish, and fled towards the torches, moaning with pain, and shouting for aid. But what could I do He gained on me. Behooved me turn and fight. Denys had taught me sword play in sport. I wheeled, our swords clashed. His clothes they smelled all singed. I cut swiftly upward with supple hand, and his dangled bleeding at the wrist, and his sword fell; it tinkled on the ground. I raised my sword to hew him should he stoop for't. He stood and cursed me. He drew his dagger with his left; I opposed my point and dared him with my eye to close. A great shout arose behind me from true men's throats. He started. He spat at me in his rage, then gnashed his teeth and fled blaspheming. I turned and saw torches close at hand. Lo, they fell to dancing up and down methought, and the next-moment-all-was-dark. I had—ah!”
“And even as I lay groaning, I heard a sound like thunder. It was the assassins running up the stairs. The crazy old mill shook under them. They must have realized that I hadn’t fallen into their bloody trap and were coming to finish me off. Margaret, I felt no fear, because I had no hope left. I could neither run nor hide; the place was too wild, and the moon too bright. I struggled up in all my agony and revenge, more like a wounded wild animal than your Gerard. Leaning on the hilt of my sword, I hobbled around; and quick as lightning, or vengeance, I piled a huge heap of their hay and wood at the mill door; then I drove my dagger into a barrel of their smuggled liquor and flung it on; then I took out my tinder and lit the pile. 'This will attract true men to my dead body,' I said. 'Aha!' I cried, 'do you think I'll die alone, cowards, assassins! Reckless fiends!' And with each word, I pierced another barrel. But oh, Margaret! The fire fueled by the spirits caught me by surprise: it shot up and singed my hair, roaring up the side of the mill as fast as lightning; and I yelled and laughed in my pain and despair and pierced more barrels, even the tar barrels, and tossed them in. The fire roared like a lion after its prey, and voices answered from inside the top of the mill, and the footsteps came thundering down, and I stood as close to that awful fire as I could, with my sword raised to kill and be killed. The bolt was drawn. A tar barrel caught fire. The door was opened. What happened next? The men didn’t come out; instead, the fire rushed in at them like a living death, and the first one I thought to fight was blackened and crumpled on the floor like a leaf. One fearsome yell, and he was dumb forever. The footsteps ran up again, but there were fewer now. I heard them hacking away with their swords at the mill's wooden sides; but they had no time to carve their way out: the fire and smoke were on their heels, and the smoke burst out at every loophole, oozing blue in the moonlight through each crevice. I hobbled back, racked with pain and fury. There were pale faces up at my window. They saw me. They cursed me. I cursed them back and shook my naked sword: 'Come down the road I came,' I cried. 'But you must come one by one, and as you come, you will die on this steel.' Some cursed at that, but others wailed. Because I had them all at deadly advantage. And no doubt, with my smoke-grimed face and fiendish rage, I looked like a demon. And now there was a steady roar inside the mill. The flame was rising like a furnace in its chimney. The mill caught fire. Fire glimmered through it. Tongues of flames shot through every loophole, sending sparks and fiery flakes into the night. One of the assassins leaped onto the sail, just like I had. In his hurry, he missed his grip and fell at my feet, bouncing off the hard ground like a ball, never to speak or move again. The rest screamed like women, and with their despair came to me both pity for them and hope for my own life. And the fire chewed through the mill in places, shooting forth showers of great flat sparks like flakes of fiery snow; and one by one, the sails caught fire; and I became a man again and staggered away terror-stricken, leaning on my sword, from the sight of my revenge, and crawled back, in great bodily pain, to the road. And, dear Margaret, the frosty trees now looked like pyramids of golden filigree, and delicate lace, fine as cobwebs, in the red firelight. Oh! Most beautiful! And a poor wretch got tangled in the burning sails, whirling around screaming, losing grip at the wrong moment, and was hurled into the air like a stone from a catapult; then a dull thump; it was his body hitting the earth. The next moment, there was a loud crash. The mill collapsed on its destroyer, and a million great sparks flew up, and the sails fell over the burning wreck, and at that, a million more sparks flew up, and the ground was littered with burning wood and men. I prayed for God’s forgiveness, and kneeling with my back to that fiery scene, I saw lights on the road; a welcome sight. A group was coming towards me, and barely two furlongs away. I hobbled towards them. Before I had gone far, I heard a swift step behind me. I turned. One had escaped; how he escaped, who can say? His sword shone in the moonlight. I feared him. I thought the ghosts of all those dead sat on that glittering blade. I pushed my other foot to the ground, despite the pain, and fled towards the torches, moaning with agony, and shouting for help. But what could I do? He gained on me. I had to turn and fight. Denys had taught me swordplay as a game. I turned, our swords clashed. His clothes smelled burnt. I cut swiftly upward with a flexible hand, and his hand dangled, bleeding at the wrist, and his sword fell; it clinked on the ground. I raised my sword to strike him if he bent down to retrieve it. He stood and cursed me. He drew his dagger with his left hand; I held my point and dared him with my eye to come closer. A great shout arose behind me from true men. He flinched. He spat at me in his rage, then gnashed his teeth and fled, cursing. I turned and saw torches close at hand. They seemed to dance up and down, I thought, and the next moment—all was dark. I had—ah!”
Catherine. “Here, help! water! Stand aloof, you that be men!”
Catherine. “Help! Water! Stay back, you men!”
Margaret had fainted away.
Margaret had fainted.
CHAPTER LIV
When she recovered, her head was on Catherine's arm, and the honest half of the family she had invaded like a foe stood round her uttering rough homely words of encouragement, especially Giles, who roared at her that she was not to take on like that. “Gerard was alive and well, or he could not have writ this letter, the biggest mankind had seen as yet, and,” as he thought, “the beautifullest, and most moving, and smallest writ.”
When she came to, her head was resting on Catherine's arm, and the genuine half of the family she had barged in on, like an enemy, surrounded her, offering supportive but unrefined words, especially Giles, who shouted that she shouldn't be so upset. “Gerard was alive and well, or he couldn't have written this letter, the largest anyone had ever seen, and,” as he thought, “the most beautiful, touching, and briefest writing.”
“Ay, good Master Giles,” sighed Margaret feebly, “he was alive. But how know I what hath since befallen him? Oh, why left he Holland to go among strangers fierce as lions? And why did I not drive him from me sooner than part him from his own flesh and blood? Forgive me, you that are his mother!”
“Ay, good Master Giles,” sighed Margaret weakly, “he was alive. But how do I know what has happened to him since? Oh, why did he leave Holland to go among strangers as fierce as lions? And why didn’t I push him away sooner instead of separating him from his own flesh and blood? Forgive me, you who are his mother!”
And she gently removed Catherine's arm, and made a feeble attempt to slide off the chair on to her knees, which, after a brief struggle with superior force, ended in her finding herself on Catherine's bosom. Then Margaret held out the letter to Eli, and said faintly but sweetly, “I will trust it from my hand now. In sooth, I am little fit to read any more-and-and—loth to leave my comfort;” and she wreathed her other arm round Catherine's neck.
And she gently pulled Catherine's arm away and tried weakly to slide off the chair onto her knees, which, after a brief struggle with more strength, ended with her finding herself resting on Catherine's chest. Then Margaret held out the letter to Eli and said softly but sweetly, “I’ll trust it from my hand now. Honestly, I’m not really in a fit state to read anymore—and—and I’m reluctant to leave my comfort;” and she wrapped her other arm around Catherine's neck.
“Read thou, Richart,” said Eli: “thine eyes be younger than mine.”
“Read, Richart,” said Eli, “your eyes are younger than mine.”
Richart took the letter. “Well,” said he, “such writing saw I never. A writeth with a needle's point; and clear to boot. Why is he not in my counting-house at Amsterdam instead of vagabonding it out yonder!”
Richart took the letter. “Well,” he said, “I’ve never seen writing like this. It’s done with a needle’s point, and it’s so clear too. Why isn’t he in my office in Amsterdam instead of wandering around out there!”
“When I came to myself I was seated in the litter, and my good merchant holding of my hand. I babbled I know not what, and then shuddered awhile in silence. He put a horn of wine to my lips.”
“When I came to, I was sitting in the litter, with my kind merchant holding my hand. I babbled about who knows what, then shuddered for a bit in silence. He brought a horn of wine to my lips.”
Catherine. “Bless him! bless him!”
Catherine. "Bless him! Bless him!"
Eli. “Whisht!”
Eli. “Be quiet!”
“And I told him what had befallen. He would see my leg. It was sprained sore, and swelled at the ankle; and all my points were broken, as I could scarce keep up my hose, and I said, 'Sir, I shall be but a burden to you, I doubt, and can make you no harmony now; my poor psaltery it is broken;' and I did grieve over my broken music, companion of so many weary leagues. But he patted me on the cheek, and bade me not fret; also he did put up my leg on a pillow, and tended me like a kind father.
“I told him what had happened. He looked at my leg. It was sprained, painful, and swollen at the ankle; I could barely keep my socks up because all my points were broken, and I said, 'Sir, I’m afraid I’ll just be a burden to you, and I can't make any music right now; my poor psaltery is broken.' I felt sad about my broken instrument, which had been my companion through so many tiring journeys. But he gently patted my cheek and told me not to worry; he also propped my leg up on a pillow and took care of me like a kind father.”
“January 19.—I sit all day in the litter, for we are pushing forward with haste, and at night the good, kind merchant sendeth me to bed, and will not let me work. Strange! whene'er I fall in with men like fiends, then the next moment God still sendeth me some good man or woman, lest I should turn away from human kind. Oh, Margaret! how strangely mixed they be, and how old I am by what I was three months agone. And lo! if good Master Fugger hath not been and bought me a psaltery.”
“January 19.—I spend all day in the mess, as we're rushing forward, and at night the kind merchant makes me go to bed and won’t let me work. It’s strange! Whenever I come across men who are like demons, the next moment God sends me some good man or woman, so I don’t lose faith in humanity. Oh, Margaret! how oddly mixed they are, and how much older I feel compared to three months ago. And look! good Master Fugger has been and bought me a psaltery.”
Catherine. “Eli, my man, an yon merchant comes our way let us buy a hundred ells of cloth of him, and not higgle.”
Catherine. “Eli, my friend, that merchant is coming our way, so let’s buy a hundred yards of cloth from him, and no bargaining.”
Eli. “That will I, take your oath on't!”
Eli. “I will, I swear it!”
While Richart prepared to read, Kate looked at her mother, and with a faint blush drew out the piece of work from under her apron, and sewed with head depressed a little more than necessary. On this her mother drew a piece of work out of her pocket, and sewed too, while Richart read. Both the specimens these sweet surreptitious creatures now first exposed to observation were babies' caps, and more than half finished, which told a tale. Horror! they were like little monks' cowls in shape and delicacy.
While Richart got ready to read, Kate glanced at her mom and, with a slight blush, pulled out her sewing project from under her apron, lowering her head a bit more than needed. In response, her mom took out some work from her pocket and started sewing too, as Richart read. Both of the projects these sneaky girls now revealed were babies' caps, and they were more than halfway done, which said a lot. Oh no! They looked like little monks' hoods in shape and delicacy.
“January 20.—Laid up in the litter, and as good as blind, but halting to bait, Lombardy plains burst on me. Oh, Margaret! a land flowing with milk and honey; all sloping plains, goodly rivers, jocund meadows, delectable orchards, and blooming gardens; and though winter, looks warmer than poor beloved Holland at midsummer, and makes the wanderer's face to shine, and his heart to leap for joy to see earth so kind and smiling. Here be vines, cedars, olives, and cattle plenty, but three goats to a sheep. The draught oxen wear white linen on their necks, and standing by dark green olive-trees each one is a picture; and the folk, especially women, wear delicate strawen hats with flowers and leaves fairly imitated in silk, with silver mixed. This day we crossed a river prettily in a chained ferry-boat. On either bank was a windlass, and a single man by turning of it drew our whole company to his shore, whereat I did admire, being a stranger. Passed over with us some country folk. And an old woman looking at a young wench, she did hide her face with her hand, and held her crucifix out like knight his sword in tourney dreading the evil eye.
“January 20.—I’m stuck in the mess and nearly blind, but as we stop to rest, the Lombardy plains come into view. Oh, Margaret! It's a land rich with resources; rolling fields, beautiful rivers, cheerful meadows, enticing orchards, and blooming gardens; and even though it’s winter, it feels warmer than my beloved Holland in summer, making the traveler’s face light up and his heart leap with joy to see such a kind and welcoming earth. Here, there are vines, cedars, olives, and plenty of cattle, though three goats for every sheep. The draft oxen wear white linen around their necks, and standing next to dark green olive trees, each one looks like a work of art; the people, especially the women, wear delicate straw hats adorned with flowers and silk leaves, with silver mixed in. Today we crossed a river beautifully on a chained ferry boat. On each bank was a windlass, and a single man turning it brought our entire group to his side, which I found impressive as a newcomer. A few local folks crossed with us. An old woman, looking at a young girl, covered her face with her hand and held her crucifix out like a knight holding his sword in a tournament, fearing the evil eye.”
“January 25.—Safe at Venice. A place whose strange and passing beauty is well known to thee by report of our mariners. Dost mind too how Peter would oft fill our ears withal, we handed beneath the table, and he still discoursing of this sea-enthroned and peerless city, in shape a bow, and its great canal and palaces on piles, and its watery ways plied by scores of gilded boats; and that market-place of nations, orbis, non urbis, forum, St. Mark, his place? And his statue with the peerless jewels in his eyes, and the lion at his gate? But I, lying at my window in pain, may see none of these beauties as yet, but only a street, fairly paved, which is dull, and houses with oiled paper and linen, in lieu of glass, which is rude; and the passers-by, their habits and their gestures, wherein they are superfluous. Therefore, not to miss my daily comfort of whispering to thee, I will e'en turn mine eyes inward, and bind my sheaves of wisdom reaped by travel. For I love thee so, that no treasure pleases me not shared with thee; and what treasure so good and enduring as knowledge? This then have I, Sir Footsore, learned, that each nation hath its proper wisdom, and its proper folly; and methinks, could a great king, or duke, tramp like me, and see with his own eyes, he might pick the flowers, and eschew the weeds of nations, and go home and set his own folk on Wisdom's hill. The Germans in the north were churlish, but frank and honest; in the south, kindly and honest too. Their general blot is drunkenness, the which they carry even to mislike and contempt of sober men. They say commonly, 'Kanstu niecht sauffen und fressen so kanstu kienem hern wol dienen.' In England, the vulgar sort drink as deep, but the worshipful hold excess in this a reproach, and drink a health or two for courtesy, not gluttony, and still sugar the wine. In their cups the Germans use little mirth or discourse, but ply the business sadly, crying 'Seyte frolich!' The best of their drunken sport is 'Kurlemurlehuff,' a way of drinking with touching deftly of the glass, the beard, the table, in due turn, intermixed with whistlings and snappings of the finger so curiously ordered as 'tis a labour of Hercules, but to the beholder right pleasant and mirthful. Their topers, by advice of German leeches, sleep with pebbles in their mouths. For, as of a boiling pot the lid must be set ajar, so with these fleshy wine-pots, to vent the heat of their inward parts: spite of which many die suddenly from drink; but 'tis a matter of religion to slur it, and gloze it, and charge some innocent disease therewith. Yet 'tis more a custom than very nature, for their women come among the tipplers, and do but stand a moment, and as it were, kiss the wine-cup; and are indeed most temperate in eating and drinking, and of all women, modest and virtuous, and true spouses and friends to their mates; far before our Holland lasses, that being maids, put the question to the men, and being wived, do lord it over them. Why, there is a wife in Tergou, not far from our door. One came to the house and sought her man. Says she, 'You'll not find him: he asked my leave to go abroad this afternoon, and I did give it him.'”
“January 25.—Safe in Venice. A place whose unusual and fleeting beauty is well known to you through stories from our sailors. Do you remember how Peter would often fill our ears with tales while we sat under the table, and he continued talking about this sea-kissed and unique city, shaped like a bow, with its grand canal and palaces on stilts, and its water routes filled with dozens of golden boats? And that marketplace of nations, orbis, non urbis, forum, St. Mark, his place? And his statue with the brilliant jewels in his eyes, and the lion at his gate? But here I am, lying at my window in pain, unable to see any of these beauties yet, just a street that's nicely paved but dull, lined with houses that have oiled paper and linen instead of glass, which feels crude; and the people passing by, with their habits and gestures, where they seem excessive. So, to not miss my daily comfort of whispering to you, I'll turn my eyes inward and gather my insights gained through travel. For I love you so much that no treasure is enjoyable unless I can share it with you; and what treasure is better and more lasting than knowledge? This I have learned, Sir Footsore: that each nation has its own wisdom and folly; and I think if a great king or duke were to walk like me and see with his own eyes, he could pick the flowers and avoid the weeds of nations, then return home and elevate his own people on Wisdom's hill. The Germans in the north were unfriendly, yet frank and honest; in the south, kind and honest as well. Their main flaw is their drunkenness, which they hold in contempt for sober individuals. They commonly say, 'If you can't drink and eat, you can't serve anyone well.' In England, the common folk drink just as heavily, but the respectable ones find excess shameful, only toasting a health or two out of courtesy, not gluttony, and they sweeten their wine. When they drink, the Germans show little cheer or conversation but stick to their business seriously, shouting 'Seyte frolich!' Their most enjoyable drunken game is 'Kurlemurlehuff,' a way of drinking that involves skillfully touching the glass, the beard, the table, in turn, mixed with whistling and snapping fingers arranged so intricately that it's a labor of Hercules, but for the observer, it's truly delightful and amusing. Their drinkers, advised by German doctors, sleep with pebbles in their mouths. For just as a boiling pot needs its lid slightly ajar, so do these heavy drinkers need to vent the heat from within them: despite this, many die suddenly from drinking; yet it’s a matter of belief to gloss it over and attribute it to some innocent disease. But it’s more a custom than a natural state, since their women join the drinkers, just standing for a moment to, in a way, kiss the wine cup; and they are indeed very moderate in eating and drinking, and among all women, they are modest, virtuous, and true partners to their husbands; far beyond our Dutch girls, who, while single, question the men, and once married, dominate them. For example, there is a wife in Tergou, not far from our home. Someone came to the house looking for her husband. She said, 'You won't find him: he asked for my permission to go out this afternoon, and I granted it.'”
Catherine. “'Tis sooth! 'tis sooth! 'Twas Beck Hulse, Jonah's wife. This comes of a woman wedding a boy.”
Catherine. “It's true! It's true! It was Beck Hulse, Jonah's wife. This is what happens when a woman marries a boy.”
“In the south where wine is, the gentry drink themselves bare; but not in the north: for with beer a noble shall sooner burst his body than melt his lands. They are quarrelsome, but 'tis the liquor, not the mind; for they are none revengeful. And when they have made a bad bargain drunk, they stand to it sober. They keep their windows bright; and judge a man by his clothes. Whatever fruit or grain or herb grows by the roadside, gather and eat. The owner seeing you shall say, 'Art welcome, honest man.' But an ye pluck a wayside grape, your very life is in jeopardy. 'Tis eating of that Heaven gave to be drunken. The French are much fairer spoken, and not nigh so true-hearted. Sweet words cost them nought. They call it payer en blanche.”
“In the south, where wine flows, the wealthy drink until they're wasted; but not in the north: there, a noble would rather burst than lose their land over beer. They're argumentative, but it's the drink, not their nature; they're not vengeful. And when they make a bad deal while drunk, they stick to it when sober. They keep their windows clean and judge a person by their clothes. Whatever fruits, grains, or herbs grow by the roadside, feel free to pick and eat. The owner will likely say, 'Welcome, honest person.' But if you pick a grape from the roadside, your life could be at risk. It's like eating what Heaven gave just to get drunk. The French are much more charming in their speech, but they're not nearly as honest. Sweet words cost them nothing. They call it payer en blanche.”
Denys. “Les coquins! ha! ha!”
Denys. “The rascals! ha! ha!”
“Natheless, courtesy is in their hearts, ay, in their very blood. They say commonly, 'Give yourself the trouble of sitting down.' And such straws of speech show how blows the wind. Also at a public show, if you would leave your seat, yet not lose it, tie but your napkin round the bench, and no French man or woman will sit here; but rather keep the place for you.”
“Still, politeness is in their hearts, yes, in their very blood. They often say, 'Take the trouble to sit down.' And such little expressions show which way the wind is blowing. Also, at a public event, if you want to leave your seat without losing it, just tie your napkin around the bench, and no French man or woman will sit there; instead, they’ll keep the spot for you.”
Catherine. “Gramercy! that is manners. France for me!”
Catherine. “Thanks! Now that's good manners. France is where I want to be!”
Denys rose and placed his hand gracefully to his breastplate.
Denys got up and placed his hand gracefully on his chest plate.
“Natheless, they say things in sport which are not courteous, but shocking. 'Le diable t'emporte!' 'Allez au diable!' and so forth. But I trow they mean not such dreadful wishes: custom belike. Moderate in drinking, and mix water with their wine, and sing and dance over their cups, and are then enchanting company. They are curious not to drink in another man's cup. In war the English gain the better of them in the field; but the French are their masters in attack and defence of cities; witness Orleans, where they besieged their besiegers and hashed them sore with their double and treble culverines; and many other sieges in this our century. More than all nations they flatter their women, and despise them. No. She may be their sovereign ruler. Also they often hang their female malefactors, instead of drowning them decently, as other nations use. The furniture in their inns is walnut, in Germany only deal. French windows are ill. The lower half is of wood, and opens; the upper half is of glass, but fixed; so that the servant cannot come at it to clean it. The German windows are all glass, and movable, and shine far and near like diamonds. In France many mean houses are not glazed at all. Once I saw a Frenchman pass a church without unbonneting. This I ne'er witnessed in Holland, Germany, or Italy. At many inns they show the traveller his sheets, to give him assurance they are clean, and warm them at the fire before him; a laudable custom. They receive him kindly and like a guest; they mostly cheat him, and whiles cut his throat. They plead in excuse hard and tyrannous laws. And true it is their law thrusteth its nose into every platter, and its finger into every pie. In France worshipful men wear their hats and their furs indoors, and go abroad lighter clad. In Germany they don hat and furred cloak to go abroad; but sit bareheaded and light clad round the stove.
“However, they say things in jest that are not polite, but rather shocking. 'The devil take you!' 'Go to hell!' and so on. But I think they don’t really mean such terrible wishes; it’s just the custom. They drink moderately, mixing water with their wine, and they sing and dance over their cups, making them delightful company. They are careful not to drink from someone else's cup. In battle, the English generally have the upper hand, but the French excel in attacking and defending cities; just look at Orleans, where they besieged their besiegers and hurt them badly with their double and triple cannons, as seen in many other sieges this century. More than any other nation, they flatter their women while also looking down on them. Yes, a woman can be their sovereign ruler. They also often hang their female offenders, instead of drowning them decently like other countries do. The furniture in their inns is made of walnut, while in Germany it’s just pine. French windows are poorly designed. The lower half is wooden and opens, while the upper half is glass but fixed, so the servant can't reach it to clean. German windows are all glass and movable, shining brightly like diamonds. In France, many simple houses have no glass at all. Once, I saw a Frenchman walk past a church without taking off his hat. I’ve never seen that in Holland, Germany, or Italy. At many inns, they show travelers their sheets to assure them they are clean, even warming them by the fire in front of the guest; a commendable practice. They greet you warmly like a guest; they mostly cheat you and sometimes even rob you. They excuse this with harsh and oppressive laws. It’s true their laws poke their noses into every dish and their fingers into every pie. In France, respectable men wear their hats and furs indoors but dress lightly when going out. In Germany, they put on their hats and fur coats to go outside, but sit without hats and lightly dressed around the stove.”
“The French intermix not the men and women folk in assemblies, as we Hollanders use. Round their preachers the women sit on their heels in rows, and the men stand behind them. Their harvests are rye, and flax, and wine. Three mules shall you see to one horse, and whole flocks of sheep as black as coal.
“The French don’t mix men and women in gatherings like we Dutch do. The women sit on their heels in rows around their preachers, while the men stand behind them. They grow rye, flax, and grapes for wine. You’ll see three mules for every horse and flocks of sheep as black as coal.”
“In Germany the snails be red. I lie not. The French buy minstrelsy, but breed jests, and make their own mirth. The Germans foster their set fools, with ear-caps, which move them to laughter by simulating madness; a calamity that asks pity, not laughter. In this particular I deem that lighter nation wiser than the graver German. What sayest thou? Alas! canst not answer me now.
“In Germany, the snails are red. I’m not kidding. The French enjoy music but create their own jokes and find their own joy. The Germans support their court jesters, who wear silly hats and make them laugh by pretending to be crazy; a misfortune that deserves sympathy, not laughter. In this regard, I think that the lighter nation is wiser than the serious Germans. What do you say? Unfortunately, you can’t answer me right now.”
“In Germany the petty laws are wondrous wise and just. Those against criminals, bloody. In France bloodier still; and executed a trifle more cruelly there. Here the wheel is common, and the fiery stake; and under this king they drown men by the score in Paris river, Seine yclept. But the English are as peremptory in hanging and drowning for a light fault; so travellers report. Finally, a true-hearted Frenchman, when ye chance on one, is a man as near perfect as earth affords; and such a man is my Denys, spite of his foul mouth.”
“In Germany, the petty laws are surprisingly wise and fair. The laws against criminals are severe. In France, they're even harsher, and executions are a bit more brutal there. Here, the wheel and the fiery stake are common methods of punishment, and under this king, they drown people by the dozens in the Seine River. But the English are just as strict when it comes to hanging and drowning for minor offenses; so travelers say. Finally, a true-hearted Frenchman, when you come across one, is a man as close to perfect as earth can offer; and such a man is my Denys, despite his foul mouth.”
Denys. “My foul mouth! Is that so writ, Master Richart?”
Denys. “My bad mouth! Is that really written that way, Master Richart?”
Richart. “Ay, in sooth; see else.”
Richart. “Yeah, really; take a look.”
Denys (inspecting the letter gravely). “I read not the letter so.”
Denys (seriously examining the letter). “I don't read the letter like that.”
Richart. “How then?”
Richart. "So, what now?"
Denys. “Humph! ahem why just the contrary.” He added: “'Tis kittle work perusing of these black scratches men are agreed to take for words. And I trow 'tis still by guess you clerks do go, worthy sir. My foul mouth! This is the first time e'er I heard on't. Eh, mesdames?”
Denys. “Hmph! Ahem, quite the opposite, actually.” He added: “It’s tricky work trying to make sense of these black marks that people have agreed to call words. And I suppose you clerks are still just guessing, aren’t you, my good sir? My goodness! This is the first time I’ve ever heard of it. Right, ladies?”
But the females did not seize the opportunity he gave them, and burst into a loud and general disclaimer. Margaret blushed and said nothing; the other two bent silently over their work with something very like a sly smile. Denys inspected their countenances long and carefully. And the perusal was so satisfactory, that he turned with a tone of injured, but patient innocence, and bade Richart read on.
But the women didn’t take the chance he offered, and instead erupted into a loud and universal denial. Margaret blushed and stayed silent; the other two quietly focused on their work with something resembling a sly smile. Denys looked at their faces for a long time, studying them carefully. The inspection was so satisfying that he turned with a tone of hurt but patient innocence and told Richart to continue reading.
“The Italians are a polished and subtle people. They judge a man, not by his habits, but his speech and gesture. Here Sir Chough may by no means pass for falcon gentle, as did I in Germany, pranked in my noble servant's feathers. Wisest of all nations in their singular temperance of food and drink. Most foolish of all to search strangers coming into their borders, and stay them from bringing much money in. They should rather invite it, and like other nations, let the traveller from taking of it out. Also here in Venice the dames turn their black hair yellow by the sun and art, to be wiser than Him who made them. Ye enter no Italian town without a bill of health, though now is no plague in Europe. This peevishness is for extortion's sake. The innkeepers cringe and fawn, and cheat, and in country places murder you. Yet will they give you clean sheets by paying therefor. Delicate in eating, and abhor from putting their hand in the plate; sooner they will apply a crust or what not. They do even tell of a cardinal at Rome, which armeth his guest's left hand with a little bifurcal dagger to hold the meat, while his knife cutteth it. But methinks this, too, is to be wiser than Him, who made the hand so supple and prehensile.”
“The Italians are a cultured and refined people. They assess a person, not by his actions, but by his speech and gestures. Here, Sir Chough wouldn’t be able to pass for a gentleman like I did in Germany, dressed in my noble servant's feathers. They are the wisest of all nations when it comes to their unique moderation in food and drink. Yet, it’s rather foolish to search strangers entering their borders and prevent them from bringing in money. They should do the opposite and, like other countries, allow travelers to take money out. Also, here in Venice, the women dye their dark hair blonde with the sun and by artificial means, thinking they’re smarter than the Creator. You can't enter any Italian town without a health certificate, even though there’s no plague in Europe now. This annoyance is just for the sake of making money. The innkeepers grovel, flatter, cheat, and in the countryside, can be quite dangerous. However, they will provide you with clean sheets if you pay for them. They are fastidious about eating and dislike putting their hands in the plate; they'd rather use a piece of bread or something similar. There’s even a story about a cardinal in Rome who gives his guests a little fork to hold their food while he cuts it with a knife. But it seems to me that this is another attempt to outsmart the one who made our hands so flexible and capable.”
Eli. “I am of your mind, my lad.”
Eli. “I agree with you, my friend.”
“They are sore troubled with the itch. And ointment for it, unguento per la rogna, is cried at every corner of Venice. From this my window I saw an urchin sell it to three several dames in silken trains, and to two velvet knights.”
“They're really struggling with the itch. And ointment for it, unguento per la rogna, is being shouted on every corner of Venice. From my window, I saw a kid sell it to three different ladies in fancy silks, and to two guys in velvet tunics.”
Catherine. “Italy, my lass, I rede ye wash your body i' the tub o' Sundays; and then ye can put your hand i' the plate o' Thursday withouten offence.”
Catherine. “Italy, my girl, I advise you to wash yourself in the tub on Sundays; and then you can put your hand in the plate on Thursday without being rude.”
“Their bread is lovely white. Their meats they spoil with sprinkling cheese over them; O, perversity! Their salt is black; without a lie. In commerce these Venetians are masters of the earth and sea; and govern their territories wisely. Only one flaw I find; the same I once heard a learned friar cast up against Plato his republic: to wit, that here women are encouraged to venal frailty, and do pay a tax to the State, which, not content with silk and spice, and other rich and honest freights, good store, must trade in sin. Twenty thousand of these Jezebels there be in Venice and Candia, and about, pampered and honoured for bringing strangers to the city, and many live in princely palaces of their own. But herein methinks the politic signors of Venice forget what King David saith, 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' Also, in religion, they hang their cloth according to the wind, siding now with the Pope, now with the Turk; but aye with the god of traders, mammon hight. Shall flower so cankered bloom to the world's end? But since I speak of flowers, this none may deny them, that they are most cunning in making roses and gilliflowers to blow unseasonably. In summer they nip certain of the budding roses and water them not. Then in winter they dig round these discouraged plants, and put in cloves; and so with great art rear sweet-scented roses, and bring them to market in January. And did first learn this art of a cow. Buds she grazed in summer, and they sprouted at yule. Women have sat in the doctors' chairs at their colleges. But she that sat in St. Peter's was a German. Italy too, for artful fountains and figures that move by water and enact life. And next for fountains is Augsburg, where they harness the foul knave Smoke to good Sir Spit, and he turneth stout Master Roast. But lest any one place should vaunt, two towns there be in Europe, which, scorning giddy fountains, bring water tame in pipes to every burgher's door, and he filleth his vessels with but turning of a cock. One is London, so watered this many a year by pipes of a league from Paddington, a neighbouring city; and the other is the fair town of Lubeck. Also the fierce English are reported to me wise in that they will not share their land and flocks with wolves; but have fairly driven those marauders into their mountains. But neither in France, nor Germany, nor Italy, is a wayfarer's life safe from the vagabones after sundown. I can hear of no glazed house in all Venice; but only oiled linen and paper; and behind these barbarian eyelets, a wooden jalosy. Their name for a cowardly assassin is 'a brave man,' and for an harlot, 'a courteous person,' which is as much as to say that a woman's worst vice, and a man's worst vice, are virtues. But I pray God for little Holland that there an assassin may be yclept an assassin, and an harlot an harlot, till domesday; and then gloze foul faults with silken names who can!”
“Their bread is a beautiful white. They ruin their meats by sprinkling cheese on them; oh, what a shame! Their salt is black; no lie. In trade, these Venetians are masters of land and sea and manage their territories wisely. But there’s one flaw I see; the same criticism I once heard a learned friar make against Plato's republic: that women here are encouraged to sell their bodies and pay a tax to the State, which, not satisfied with silk and spices, and other rich and honest goods, has to trade in sin. There are twenty thousand of these Jezebels in Venice and Candia, who are pampered and honored for bringing strangers to the city, many living in their own grand palaces. But in this matter, I think the political leaders of Venice forget what King David said, 'Unless the Lord guards the city, the watchman stays awake in vain.' Also, in religion, they shift their allegiance with the winds, siding now with the Pope, now with the Turk; but always with the god of trade, named mammon. Will such a rotted flower continue to bloom until the end of the world? But since I’m talking about flowers, no one can deny that they excel at making roses and gilliflowers bloom out of season. In summer, they cut certain budding roses and don’t water them. Then in winter, they dig around these neglected plants and add cloves; with great skill, they raise sweet-smelling roses and bring them to market in January. And they learned this art from a cow. She grazed on buds in the summer, and they sprouted at Christmas. Women have sat in the doctors' chairs at their colleges. But the one who sat in St. Peter's was a German. Italy is also known for its clever fountains and figures that move by water and act out life. Next in fountains is Augsburg, where they yoke the foul knave Smoke to good Sir Spit, and he turns into stout Master Roast. But lest any single place take pride, there are two towns in Europe that, disregarding fancy fountains, bring water simply in pipes to every citizen’s door, allowing them to fill their vessels with just the turn of a tap. One is London, having been supplied with water for years by pipes a league long from Paddington, a neighboring city; the other is the beautiful town of Lubeck. The fierce English are said to be wise for not sharing their land and flocks with wolves; they have driven those marauders into the mountains. However, neither in France, nor Germany, nor Italy, is a traveler’s life safe from robbers after dark. I can find no glass windows in all of Venice; only oiled linen and paper, and behind these barbarian panes, a wooden jalousie. Their term for a cowardly assassin is 'a brave man,' and for a harlot, 'a courteous person,' which is to say that a woman’s worst flaw and a man’s worst flaw are seen as virtues. But I pray for little Holland that there an assassin may be called an assassin, and a harlot a harlot, until the end of time; and then let those who can gloss over terrible faults with fancy names do so!”
Eli (with a sigh). “He should have been a priest, saving your presence, my poor lass.”
Eli (with a sigh). “He should have been a priest, no offense, my poor girl.”
“January 26.—Sweetheart, I must be brief, and tell thee but a part of that I have seen, for this day my journal ends. To-night it sails for thee, and I, unhappy, not with it, but to-morrow, in another ship, to Rome.
“January 26.—Sweetheart, I have to be quick and can only share part of what I've experienced, because today my journal comes to an end. Tonight it will sail to you, and I, sadly, not with it, will be leaving tomorrow on another ship to Rome."
“Dear Margaret, I took a hand litter, and was carried to St. Mark his church. Outside it, towards the market-place, is a noble gallery, and above it four famous horses, cut in brass by the ancient Romans, and seem all moving, and at the very next step must needs leap down on the beholder. About the church are six hundred pillars of marble, porphyry, and ophites. Inside is a treasure greater than either, at St. Denys, or Loretto, or Toledo. Here a jewelled pitcher given the seigniory by a Persian king, also the ducal cap blazing with jewels, and on its crown a diamond and a chrysolite, each as big as an almond; two golden crowns and twelve golden stomachers studded with jewels, from Constantinople; item, a monstrous sapphire; item, a great diamond given by a French king; item, a prodigious carbuncle; item, three unicorns' horns. But what are these compared with the sacred relics?
“Dear Margaret, I took a hand litter and was carried to St. Mark's church. Outside, towards the market place, there's a grand gallery, and above it are four famous horses, cast in brass by the ancient Romans, which look like they're about to leap down at any moment. Surrounding the church are six hundred pillars made of marble, porphyry, and ophites. Inside is a treasure greater than what you'll find at St. Denys, or Loretto, or Toledo. There's a jeweled pitcher given to the seigniory by a Persian king, the ducal cap sparkling with jewels, and on its crown a diamond and a chrysolite, each about the size of an almond; two golden crowns and twelve golden stomachers studded with jewels from Constantinople; also, a huge sapphire; a large diamond given by a French king; a massive carbuncle; and three unicorns' horns. But what are these compared to the sacred relics?”
“Dear Margaret, I stood and saw the brazen chest that holds the body of St. Mark the Evangelist. I saw with these eyes and handled his ring, and his gospel written with his own hand, and all my travels seemed light; for who am I that I should see such things? Dear Margaret, his sacred body was first brought from Alexandria, by merchants in 810, and then not prized as now; for between 829, when this church was builded, and 1094, the very place where it lay was forgotten. Then holy priests fasted and prayed many days seeking for light, and lo! the Evangelist's body brake at midnight through the marble and stood before them. They fell to the earth; but in the morning found the crevice the sacred body had burst through, and peering through it saw him lie. Then they took and laid him in his chest beneath the altar, and carefully put back the stone with its miraculous crevice, which crevice I saw, and shall gape for a monument while the world lasts. After that they showed me the Virgin's chair, it is of stone; also her picture, painted by St. Luke, very dark, and the features now scarce visible. This picture, in time of drought, they carry in procession, and brings the rain. I wish I had not seen it. Item, two pieces of marble spotted with John the Baptist's blood; item, a piece of the true cross, and of the pillar to which Christ was tied; item, the rock struck by Moses, and wet to this hour; also a stone Christ sat on, preaching at Tyre; but some say it is the one the patriarch Jacob laid his head on, and I hold with them, by reason our Lord never preached at Tyre. Going hence, they showed me the state nursery for the children of those aphrodisian dames, their favourites. Here in the outer wall was a broad niche, and if they bring them so little as they can squeeze them through it alive, the bairn falls into a net inside, and the state takes charge of it, but if too big, their mothers must even take them home again, with whom abiding 'tis like to be mali corvi mali ovum. Coming out of the church we met them carrying in a corpse, with the feet and face bare. This I then first learned is Venetian custom, and sure no other town will ever rob them of it, nor of this that follows. On a great porphyry slab in the piazza were three ghastly heads rotting and tainting the air, and in their hot summers like to take vengeance with breeding of a plague. These were traitors to the state, and a heavy price—two thousand ducats—being put on each head, their friends had slain them and brought all three to the slab, and so sold blood of others and their own faith. No state buys heads so many, nor pays half so high a price for that sorry merchandise. But what I most admired was to see over against the Duke's palace a fair gallows in alabaster, reared express to bring him, and no other, for the least treason to the state; and there it stands in his eye whispering him memento mori. I pondered, and owned these signors my masters, who will let no man, not even their sovereign, be above the common weal. Hard by, on a wall, the workmen were just finishing, by order of the seigniory, the stone effigy of a tragical and enormous act enacted last year, yet on the wall looks innocent. Here two gentle folks whisper together, and there other twain, their swords by their side. Four brethren were they, which did on either side conspire to poison the other two, and so halve their land in lieu of quartering it; and at a mutual banquet these twain drugged the wine, and those twain envenomed a marchpane, to such good purpose that the same afternoon lay four 'brave men' around one table grovelling in mortal agony, and cursing of one another and themselves, and so concluded miserably, and the land, for which they had lost their immortal souls, went into another family. And why not? it could not go into a worse.
“Dear Margaret, I stood and saw the bold chest that holds the body of St. Mark the Evangelist. I saw with my own eyes and handled his ring, and his gospel written by his own hand, and all my travels seemed trivial; for who am I to witness such things? Dear Margaret, his sacred body was first brought from Alexandria by merchants in 810, and it wasn’t valued as it is now; for between 829, when this church was built, and 1094, the very spot where it lay was forgotten. Then holy priests fasted and prayed for many days seeking enlightenment, and lo! the Evangelist's body broke through the marble at midnight and stood before them. They fell to the ground; but in the morning, they found the crack the sacred body had burst through and peering through it saw him lying there. They took him and laid him in his chest beneath the altar and carefully replaced the stone with its miraculous crack, which crack I saw, and shall gape at as a monument for as long as the world lasts. After that, they showed me the Virgin's chair, made of stone; also her picture, painted by St. Luke, very dark, with the features barely visible now. This picture, during times of drought, they carry in procession, and it brings the rain. I wish I had not seen it. Then, two pieces of marble stained with John the Baptist's blood; then, a piece of the true cross, and a piece of the pillar to which Christ was tied; then, the rock struck by Moses, still wet to this hour; also a stone that Christ sat on while preaching at Tyre; but some say it’s the one Jacob laid his head on, and I agree with them since our Lord never preached at Tyre. After that, they showed me the state nursery for the children of those Aphrodisian ladies, their favorites. Here in the outer wall, there was a wide niche, and if they bring them small enough to squeeze through it alive, the baby falls into a net inside, and the state takes charge of it, but if too big, their mothers must take them home again, with whom it would be like the saying ‘bad crow, bad egg.’ Coming out of the church, we met them carrying in a corpse, with the feet and face bare. This was when I first learned this is the Venetian custom, and no other town will ever take it from them, nor this that follows. On a large porphyry slab in the piazza were three grotesque heads rotting and tainting the air, and in their hot summers likely to take vengeance by breeding a plague. These were traitors to the state, and a heavy price—two thousand ducats—was set on each head; their friends had killed them and brought all three to the slab, thus selling the blood of others along with their own loyalty. No state buys so many heads, nor pays half so much for that sad merchandise. But what I admired most was to see, across from the Duke's palace, a beautiful gallows made of alabaster, built solely for him and no other, for even the slightest treason against the state; and there it stands in his view, reminding him, ‘remember you must die.’ I reflected, and recognized that these signors are my masters, who will not let anyone, not even their sovereign, be above the common good. Nearby, on a wall, the workmen were just finishing, by order of the seigniory, the stone statue of a tragic and enormous act committed last year, yet it appears innocent on the wall. Here two gentlemen whisper together, and there another pair, their swords at their sides. They were four brothers, who conspired against each other to poison the other two, aiming to split their land instead of dividing it into quarters; and at a mutual banquet, these two drugged the wine, and those two poisoned a marzipan, so effectively that the same afternoon four ‘brave men’ lay around one table, writhing in mortal agony, cursing one another and themselves, concluding miserably, while the land for which they lost their immortal souls passed to another family. And why not? It could hardly go to a worse one.”
“But O, sovereign wisdom of bywords! how true they put the finger on each nation's, or particular's, fault.
“But oh, the wise sayings of old! How accurately they highlight each nation’s or individual’s flaws.”
“Quand Italie sera sans poison
Et France sans trahison
Et l'Angleterre sans guerre,
Lors sera le monde sans terre.”
“When Italy is free of poison
And France without betrayal
And England free from war,
Then the world will be without ground.”Richart explained this to Catherine, then proceeded: “And after this they took me to the quay, and presently I espied among the masts one garlanded with amaranth flowers. 'Take me thither,' said I, and I let my guide know the custom of our Dutch skippers to hoist flowers to the masthead when they are courting a maid. Oft had I scoffed at this saying, 'So then his wooing is the earth's concern. But now, so far from the Rotter, that bunch at a masthead made my heart leap with assurance of a countryman. They carried me, and oh, Margaret! on the stern of that Dutch boy, was written in muckle letters,
Richart explained this to Catherine, then continued: “And after that, they took me to the dock, and soon I spotted among the masts one decorated with amaranth flowers. 'Take me there,' I said, and I let my guide know about the custom of our Dutch skippers to raise flowers to the masthead when they're courting a girl. I had often mocked this notion, saying, 'So his wooing is the earth’s concern.' But now, so far from Rotterdam, that bunch at the masthead made my heart leap with the reassurance of a fellow countryman. They carried me, and oh, Margaret! on the stern of that Dutch boy, was written in big letters,
RICHART ELIASSOEN, AMSTERDAM.
RICHART ELIASSOEN, AMSTERDAM.
'Put me down,' I said; 'for our Lady's sake put me down.' I sat on the bank and looked, scarce believing my eyes, and looked, and presently fell to crying, till I could see the words no more. Ah me, how they went to my heart, those bare letters in a foreign land. Dear Richart! good, kind brother Richart! often I have sat on his knee and rid on his back. Kisses many he has given me, unkind word from him had I never. And there was his name on his own ship, and his face and all his grave, but good and gentle ways, came back to me, and I sobbed vehemently, and cried aloud, 'Why, why is not brother Richart here, and not his name only?' I spake in Dutch, for my heart was too full to hold their foreign tongues, and
'Put me down,' I said; 'for heaven's sake, put me down.' I sat on the bank and looked, hardly believing my eyes, and looked some more, until I started crying, to the point where I couldn't see the words anymore. Oh, how those simple letters in a foreign land struck me. Dear Richart! good, kind brother Richart! I often sat on his lap and rode on his back. He gave me many kisses, and I never heard a harsh word from him. And there was his name on his own ship, and his face and all his serious but gentle ways came rushing back to me, and I sobbed uncontrollably, crying out, 'Why, why isn’t brother Richart here, and just his name?' I spoke in Dutch, because my heart was too full for their foreign languages, and
Eli. “Well, Richart, go on, lad, prithee go on. Is this a place to halt at?”
Eli. “Well, Richart, go ahead, man, please continue. Is this a place to stop?”
Richart. “Father, with my duty to you, it is easy to say go on, but think ye I am not flesh and blood? The poor boy's—simple grief and brotherly love coming—so sudden-on me, they go through my heart and—I cannot go on; sink me if I can even see the words, 'tis writ so fine.”
Richart. “Dad, I know I have a responsibility to you, and it's easy for me to say to just keep going, but don’t you think I'm human? The poor boy's simple sadness and brotherly love hit me so suddenly that it pierces my heart, and I can’t continue; I swear I can barely even see the words, they’re written so small.”
Denys. “Courage, good Master Richart! Take your time. Here are more eyne wet than yours. Ah, little comrade! would God thou wert here, and I at Venice for thee.”
Denys. “Hang in there, good Master Richart! Take your time. There are more eyes wet than yours. Ah, little buddy! I wish you were here, and I was in Venice for you.”
Richart. “Poor little curly-headed lad, what had he done that we have driven him so far?”
Richart. “Poor little curly-haired boy, what did he do to make us push him away so much?”
“That is what I would fain know,” said Catherine drily, then fell to weeping and rocking herself, with her apron over her head.
“That is what I would like to know,” said Catherine dryly, then started to weep and rock herself, with her apron over her head.
“Kind dame, good friends,” said Margaret trembling, “let me tell you how the letter ends. The skipper hearing our Gerard speak his grief in Dutch, accosted him, and spake comfortably to him; and after a while our Gerard found breath to say he was worthy Master Richart's brother. Thereat was the good skipper all agog to serve him.”
“Kind lady, good friends,” said Margaret nervously, “let me tell you how the letter ends. The captain, hearing our Gerard express his sorrow in Dutch, approached him and spoke kindly to him; and after a while, our Gerard managed to say he was Master Richart's brother. At that, the good captain was eager to help him.”
Richart. “So! so! skipper! Master Richart aforesaid will be at thy wedding and bring's purse to boot.”
Richart. “Hey there, captain! Master Richart will be at your wedding and will bring a purse as well.”
Margaret. “Sir, he told Gerard of his consort that was to sail that very night for Rotterdam; and dear Gerard had to go home and finish his letter and bring it to the ship. And the rest, it is but his poor dear words of love to me, the which, an't please you, I think shame to hear them read aloud, and ends with the lines I sent to Mistress Kate, and they would sound so harsh now and ungrateful.”
Margaret. “Sir, he told Gerard about his partner who was supposed to sail that very night for Rotterdam; and poor Gerard had to go home, finish his letter, and take it to the ship. And the rest is just his sweet words of love to me, which, if you don’t mind, I think it’s embarrassing to hear them read out loud, and it ends with the lines I sent to Mistress Kate, and they would sound so harsh and ungrateful now.”
The pleading tone, as much as the words, prevailed, and Richart said he would read no more aloud, but run his eye over it for his own brotherly satisfaction. She blushed and looked uneasy, but made no reply.
The pleading tone, as much as the words, won out, and Richart said he would read no more aloud but would scan it for his own brotherly satisfaction. She blushed and appeared uncomfortable, but didn’t respond.
“Eli,” said Catherine, still sobbing a little, “tell me, for our Lady's sake, how our poor boy is to live at that nasty Rome. He is gone there to write, but here he his own words to prove writing avails nought: a had died o' hunger by the way but for paint-brush and psaltery. Well a-day!”
“Eli,” said Catherine, still sobbing a little, “please, for our Lady's sake, tell me how our poor boy is supposed to survive in that awful Rome. He went there to write, but here he has his own words to show that writing doesn’t do any good: he would have starved on the way if it weren't for his paintbrush and psaltery. Well, what a day!”
“Well,” said Eli, “he has got brush and music still. Besides, so many men so many minds. Writing, though it had no sale in other parts, may be merchandise at Rome.”
“Well,” Eli said, “he still has his brush and his music. Besides, there are so many men, so many opinions. Writing, even if it doesn't sell well elsewhere, might be a good business in Rome.”
“Father,” said little Kate, “have I your good leave to put in my word 'twixt mother and you?”
“Dad,” said little Kate, “can I have your permission to say something between you and Mom?”
“And welcome, little heart.”
"And welcome, little one."
“Then, seems to me, painting and music, close at hand, be stronger than writing, but being distant, nought to compare; for see what glamour written paper hath done here but now. Our Gerard, writing at Venice, hath verily put his hand into this room at Rotterdam, and turned all our hearts. Ay, dear dear Gerard, methinks thy spirit hath rid hither on these thy paper wings; and oh! dear father, why not do as we should do were he here in the body?”
“Then, it seems to me, painting and music, right in front of us, are stronger than writing, but from a distance, there's nothing to compare; just look at the magic that written words have created here and now. Our Gerard, writing in Venice, has truly reached into this room in Rotterdam and touched all our hearts. Yes, dear Gerard, I think your spirit has flown here on these paper wings; and oh! dear father, why shouldn't we act as we would if he were here in person?”
“Kate,” said Eli, “fear not; Richart and I will give him glamour for glamour. We will write him a letter, and send it to Rome by a sure hand with money, and bid him home on the instant.”
“Kate,” Eli said, “don’t worry; Richart and I will match his glamour. We’ll write him a letter, send it to Rome with someone trustworthy along with some money, and ask him to come home right away.”
Cornelis and Sybrandt exchanged a gloomy look.
Cornelis and Sybrandt exchanged a worried glance.
“Ah, good father! And meantime?”
“Hey, good dad! And in the meantime?”
“Well, meantime?”
“Well, in the meantime?”
“Dear father, dear mother, what can we do to pleasure the absent, but be kind to his poor lass; and her own trouble afore her?”
“Dear Dad, dear Mom, what can we do to comfort the one who's not here, but be kind to his poor girl; and her own troubles ahead of her?”
“'Tis well!” said Eli; “but I am older than thou.” Then he turned gravely to Margaret: “Wilt answer me a question, my pretty mistress?”
“It's good!” said Eli; “but I'm older than you.” Then he turned seriously to Margaret: “Will you answer me a question, my pretty lady?”
“If I may, sir,” faltered Margaret.
“If I may, sir,” Margaret hesitated.
“What are these marriage lines Gerard speaks of in the letter?”
“What are these marriage lines Gerard mentions in the letter?”
“Our marriage lines, sir. His and mine. Know you not that we are betrothed?”
“Our marriage lines, sir. His and mine. Don’t you know that we are engaged?”
“Before witnesses?”
“Is there proof?”
“Ay, sure. My poor father and Martin Wittenhaagen.”
“Ay, sure. My poor dad and Martin Wittenhaagen.”
“This is the first I ever heard of it. How came they in his hands? They should be in yours.”
“This is the first time I've heard about it. How did it end up in his hands? They should be with you.”
“Alas, sir, the more is my grief; but I ne'er doubted him; and he said it was a comfort to him to have them in his bosom.”
“Unfortunately, sir, the more I feel sad; but I never doubted him; and he said it was comforting to him to keep them close to his heart.”
“Y'are a very foolish lass.”
"You are a very foolish girl."
“Indeed I was, sir. But trouble teaches the simple.”
"Yeah, I was, sir. But trouble teaches the naive."
“'Tis a good answer. Well, foolish or no, y'are honest. I had shown ye more respect at first, but I thought y'had been his leman, and that is the truth.”
“It's a good answer. Well, whether foolish or not, you are honest. I would have shown you more respect at first, but I thought you had been his lover, and that is the truth.”
“God forbid, sir! Denys, methinks 'tis time for us to go. Give me my letter, sir!”
“God forbid, sir! Denys, I think it's time for us to go. Hand me my letter, sir!”
“Bide ye! bide ye! be not so hot for a word! Natheless, wife, methinks her red cheek becomes her.”
“Wait! Wait! Don't be so eager for a word! Still, wife, I think her red cheek suits her.”
“Better than it did you to give it her, my man.”
“Better for you to give it to her, my man.”
“Softly, wife, softly. I am not counted an unjust man though I be somewhat slow.”
“Gently, my love, gently. I’m not considered an unfair man, even if I am a bit slow.”
Here Richart broke in. “Why, mistress, did ye shed your blood for our Gerard?”
Here Richart interrupted. “Why, my lady, did you shed your blood for our Gerard?”
“Not I, sir. But maybe I would.”
“Not me, sir. But maybe I would.”
“Nay, nay. But he says you did. Speak sooth now!”
“Nah, nah. But he says you did. Tell the truth now!”
“Alas! I know not what ye mean. I rede ye believe not all that my poor lad says of me. Love makes him blind.”
“Alas! I don’t know what you mean. I advise you not to believe everything my poor boy says about me. Love makes him blind.”
“Traitress!” cried Denys. “Let not her throw dust in thine eyes, Master Richart. Old Martin tells me ye need not make signals to me, she-comrade; I am as blind as love—Martin tells me she cut her arm, and let her blood flow, and smeared her heels when Gerard was hunted by the bloodhounds, to turn the scent from her lad.”
“Trickster!” Denys shouted. “Don’t let her fool you, Master Richart. Old Martin says you don’t have to signal to me, lady; I’m as blind as love—Martin tells me she cut her arm, let her blood flow, and smeared her heels when Gerard was chased by the bloodhounds, to throw them off the scent of her man.”
“Well, and if I did, 'twas my own, and spilled for the good of my own,” said Margaret defiantly. But Catherine suddenly clasping her, she began to cry at having found a bosom to cry on, of one who would have also shed her blood for Gerard in danger.
“Well, if I did, it was mine to spill for my own good,” said Margaret defiantly. But when Catherine suddenly hugged her, she started crying because she had found someone to lean on, someone who would have also risked her life for Gerard in danger.
Eli rose from his chair. “Wife,” said he solemnly, “you will set another chair at our table for every meal: also another plate and knife. They will be for Margaret and Peter. She will come when she likes, and stay away when she pleases. None may take her place at my left hand. Such as can welcome her are welcome to me. Such as cannot, I force them not to abide with me. The world is wide and free. Within my walls I am master, and my son's betrothed is welcome.”
Eli stood up from his chair. “Wife,” he said seriously, “you will set another chair at our table for every meal, along with another plate and knife. They will be for Margaret and Peter. She can come whenever she wants and stay away when she chooses. No one can take her place at my left side. Those who can welcome her are welcome to me. Those who can’t, I don’t force to stay with me. The world is wide and free. Inside my home, I am in charge, and my son’s fiancée is welcome.”
Catherine bustled out to prepare supper. Eli and Richart sat down and concocted a letter to bring Gerard home. Richart promised it should go by sea to Rome that very week. Sybrandt and Cornelis exchanged a gloomy wink, and stole out. Margaret, seeing Giles deep in meditation, for the dwarf's intelligence had taken giant strides, asked him to bring her the letter. “You have heard but half, good master Giles,” said she. “Shall I read you the rest?”
Catherine hurried out to make dinner. Eli and Richart sat down and wrote a letter to bring Gerard home. Richart promised it would go by sea to Rome that very week. Sybrandt and Cornelis shared a gloomy glance and slipped out. Margaret, noticing Giles lost in thought, since the dwarf’s intelligence had grown significantly, asked him to fetch her the letter. “You’ve only heard part of it, good master Giles,” she said. “Should I read you the rest?”
“I shall be much beholden to you,” shouted the sonorous atom.
“I'll be really grateful to you,” shouted the booming atom.
She gave him her stool: curiosity bowed his pride to sit on it; and Margaret murmured the first part of the letter into his ear very low, not to disturb Eli and Richart. And to do this, she leaned forward and put her lovely face cheek by jowl with Giles's hideous one: a strange contrast, and worth a painter's while to try and represent. And in this attitude Catherine found her, and all the mother warmed towards her, and she exchanged an eloquent glance with little Kate.
She gave him her stool: curiosity made him set aside his pride to sit on it; and Margaret quietly whispered the first part of the letter into his ear, careful not to disturb Eli and Richart. To do this, she leaned forward and brought her beautiful face close to Giles's ugly one: a peculiar contrast that would be worth a painter's time to capture. In this position, Catherine found her, and all the motherly affection flowed towards her, leading to an expressive exchange of glances with little Kate.
The latter smiled, and sewed, with drooping lashes.
The latter smiled and sewed, with droopy eyelashes.
“Get him home on the instant,” roared Giles. “I'll make a man of him.”
“Get him home right away,” shouted Giles. “I’ll make a man out of him.”
“Hear the boy!” said Catherine, half comically, half proudly.
“Hear the boy!” Catherine said, half joking, half proudly.
“We hear him,” said Richart; “a mostly makes himself heard when a do speak.”
“We hear him,” said Richart; “he mostly makes himself heard when he speaks.”
Sybrandt. “Which will get to him first?”
Sybrandt. “Which one will reach him first?”
Cornelis (gloomily). “Who can tell?”
Cornelis (gloomily). “Who knows?”
CHAPTER LV
About two months before this scene in Eli's home, the natives of a little' maritime place between Naples and Rome might be seen flocking to the sea beach, with eyes cast seaward at a ship, that laboured against a stiff gale blowing dead on the shore.
About two months before this scene in Eli's home, the locals of a small coastal town between Naples and Rome could be seen gathering on the beach, gazing out at a ship struggling against a strong wind blowing straight towards the shore.
At times she seemed likely to weather the danger, and then the spectators congratulated her aloud: at others the wind and sea drove her visibly nearer, and the lookers-on were not without a secret satisfaction they would not have owned even to themselves.
At times, she looked like she might survive the danger, and the onlookers cheered her on; at other moments, the wind and sea pushed her closer, and the viewers secretly took some satisfaction in her struggle, even if they wouldn’t admit it to themselves.
Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas
Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est.
Not because it’s enjoyable to annoy anyone
But because it’s pleasant to see what troubles you avoid.And the poor ship, though not scientifically built for sailing, was admirably constructed for going ashore, with her extravagant poop that caught the wind, and her lines like a cocked hat reversed. To those on the beach that battered labouring frame of wood seemed alive, and struggling against death with a panting heart. But could they have been transferred to her deck they would have seen she had not one beating heart but many, and not one nature but a score were coming out clear in that fearful hour.
And the poor ship, even though it wasn’t designed for sailing, was perfectly built for landing, with its high stern that caught the wind and its shape like an upside-down hat. To those on the beach, that battered, struggling wooden structure looked like it was alive, fighting against death with a heavy heart. But if they could have stepped onto its deck, they would have realized it had not one beating heart but many, and not one essence but countless were coming through in that terrifying moment.
The mariners stumbled wildly about the deck, handling the ropes as each thought fit, and cursing and praying alternately.
The sailors stumbled around the deck, managing the ropes however they liked, and alternating between cursing and praying.
The passengers were huddled together round the mast, some sitting, some kneeling, some lying prostrate, and grasping the bulwarks as the vessel rolled and pitched in the mighty waves. One comely young man, whose ashy cheek, but compressed lips, showed how hard terror was battling in him with self-respect, stood a little apart, holding tight by a shroud, and wincing at each sea. It was the ill-fated Gerard. Meantime prayers and vows rose from the trembling throng amid-ships, and to hear them, it seemed there were almost as many gods about as men and women. The sailors, indeed, relied on a single goddess. They varied her titles only, calling on her as “Queen of Heaven,” “Star of the Sea,” “Mistress of the World,” “Haven of Safety.” But among the landsmen Polytheism raged. Even those who by some strange chance hit on the same divinity did not hit on the same edition of that divinity. An English merchant vowed a heap of gold to our lady of Walsingham. But a Genoese merchant vowed a silver collar of four pounds to our lady of Loretto; and a Tuscan noble promised ten pounds of wax lights to our lady of Ravenna; and with a similar rage for diversity they pledged themselves, not on the true Cross, but on the true Cross in this, that, or the other modern city.
The passengers were crowded around the mast, some sitting, some kneeling, some lying flat, holding onto the railings as the ship rolled and pitched in the huge waves. One good-looking young man, with his pale cheek and tight lips showing how hard he was fighting between fear and self-respect, stood a little apart, gripping a rope tightly and flinching with each wave. It was the unfortunate Gerard. Meanwhile, prayers and promises rose from the trembling crowd in the middle of the ship, and listening to them, it seemed like there were almost as many gods as there were men and women. The sailors, in fact, focused on just one goddess. They only changed her titles, calling her “Queen of Heaven,” “Star of the Sea,” “Mistress of the World,” and “Haven of Safety.” But among the landlubbers, there was a frenzy of different gods. Even those who somehow ended up invoking the same deity didn’t agree on the same version of that deity. An English merchant promised a bunch of gold to our Lady of Walsingham. But a Genoese merchant vowed a silver necklace worth four pounds to our Lady of Loretto; and a Tuscan noble offered ten pounds worth of candles to our Lady of Ravenna; and with a similar obsession for variety, they made their pledges, not on the true Cross, but on the true Cross in this, that, or the other modern city.
Suddenly a more powerful gust than usual catching the sail at a disadvantage, the rotten shrouds gave way, and the sail was torn out with a loud crack, and went down the wind smaller and smaller, blacker and blacker, and fluttered into the sea, half a mile off, like a sheet of paper, and ere the helmsman could put the ship's head before the wind, a wave caught her on the quarter and drenched the poor wretches to the bone, and gave them a foretaste of chill death. Then one vowed aloud to turn Carthusian monk, if St. Thomas would save him. Another would go a pilgrim to Compostella, bareheaded, barefooted, with nothing but a coat of mail on his naked skin, if St. James would save him. Others invoked Thomas, Dominic, Denys, and above all, Catherine of Sienna.
Suddenly, a stronger gust than usual caught the sail off guard. The frayed rigging snapped, and the sail was ripped away with a loud crack, drifting downwind, getting smaller and darker until it fluttered into the sea half a mile away like a piece of paper. Before the helmsman could turn the ship into the wind, a wave slammed into the side and soaked the poor souls to the bone, giving them a taste of icy death. One person loudly vowed to become a Carthusian monk if St. Thomas saved him. Another promised to make a pilgrimage to Compostela, bareheaded and barefoot, wearing nothing but a coat of mail on his bare skin, if St. James would save him. Others called upon Thomas, Dominic, Denys, and especially Catherine of Siena.
Two petty Neapolitan traders stood shivering.
Two small-time Neapolitan merchants stood shivering.
One shouted at the top of his voice, “I vow to St. Christopher at Paris a waxen image of his own weight, if I win safe to land.”
One shouted loudly, “I swear to St. Christopher in Paris a wax statue of his own weight, if I make it safely to shore.”
On this the other nudged him, and said, “Brother, brother, take heed what you vow. Why, if you sell all you have in the world by public auction, 'twill not buy his weight in wax.”
On this, the other nudged him and said, “Brother, brother, be careful what you promise. If you sold everything you own at a public auction, it still wouldn't be enough to buy his weight in wax.”
“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said the vociferator. Then in a whisper:
“Shut your mouth, you idiot,” said the loudspeaker. Then in a whisper:
“Think ye I am in earnest? Let me but win safe to land, I'll not give him a rush dip.”
“Do you think I’m serious? Just let me get safely to shore, and I won’t give him a second thought.”
Others lay flat and prayed to the sea.
Others lay down flat and prayed to the sea.
“Oh, most merciful sea! oh, sea most generous! oh! bountiful sea! oh, beautiful sea! be gentle, be kind, preserve us in this hour of peril.”
“Oh, most merciful sea! Oh, generous sea! Oh! bountiful sea! Oh, beautiful sea! Be gentle, be kind, protect us in this hour of danger.”
And others wailed and moaned in mere animal terror each time the ill-fated ship rolled or pitched more terribly than usual; and she was now a mere plaything in the arms of the tremendous waves.
And others cried out in pure animal fear whenever the doomed ship rolled or pitched more violently than usual; she was now just a toy in the grip of the massive waves.
A Roman woman of the humbler class sat with her child at her half-bared breast, silent amid that wailing throng: her cheek ashy pale; her eye calm; and her lips moved at times in silent prayer, but she neither wept, nor lamented, nor bargained with the gods. Whenever the ship seemed really gone under their feet, and bearded men squeaked, she kissed her child; but that was all. And so she sat patient, and suckled him in death's jaws; for why should he lose any joy she could give him; moribundo? Ay, there I do believe, sat Antiquity among those mediaevals. Sixteen hundred years had not tainted the old Roman blood in her veins; and the instinct of a race she had perhaps scarce heard of taught her to die with decent dignity.
A Roman woman from a poor background sat with her child at her partially exposed breast, silent in the midst of the crying crowd: her cheek was ashen pale; her gaze steady; and her lips occasionally moved in silent prayer, but she neither cried nor mourned, nor pleaded with the gods. Whenever the ship seemed truly about to sink beneath them, and bearded men shouted, she kissed her child; but that was all. And so she sat patiently, nursing him in the face of death; for why should he miss out on any joy she could give him, even in his final moments? Yes, there I truly believe was Antiquity among those medieval people. Sixteen hundred years had not corrupted the old Roman blood in her veins; and the instinct of a race she may have scarcely known taught her to face death with dignity.
A gigantic friar stood on the poop with feet apart, like the Colossus of Rhodes, not so much defying, as ignoring, the peril that surrounded him. He recited verses from the Canticles with a loud unwavering voice; and invited the passengers to confess to him. Some did so on their knees, and he heard them and laid his hands on them, and absolved them as if he had been in a snug sacristy, instead of a perishing ship. Gerard got nearer and nearer to him, by the instinct that takes the wavering to the side of the impregnable. And in truth, the courage of heroes facing fleshly odds might have paled by the side of that gigantic friar, and his still more gigantic composure. Thus, even here, two were found who maintained the dignity of our race: a woman, tender, yet heroic, and a monk steeled by religion against mortal fears.
A huge friar stood at the back of the ship with his feet apart, like the Colossus of Rhodes, not so much challenging as ignoring the danger around him. He recited verses from the Canticles in a loud, steady voice and invited the passengers to confess to him. Some knelt before him, and he listened to them, laid his hands on them, and absolved them as if he were in a cozy sacristy instead of a sinking ship. Gerard moved closer and closer to him, drawn by the instinct that leads the uncertain to the side of the unshakeable. Honestly, the courage of heroes facing physical threats might have seemed small next to that huge friar and his even greater calm. So, even here, two people were found who upheld the dignity of our humanity: a woman, gentle yet brave, and a monk toughened by faith against mortal fears.
And now, the sail being gone, the sailors cut down the useless mast a foot above the board, and it fell with its remaining hamper over the ship's side. This seemed to relieve her a little.
And now, with the sail gone, the sailors cut down the useless mast a foot above the deck, and it fell with its remaining gear over the side of the ship. This seemed to ease her a bit.
But now the hull, no longer impelled by canvas, could not keep ahead of the sea. It struck her again and again on the poop, and the tremendous blows seemed given by a rocky mountain, not by a liquid.
But now the hull, no longer driven by sails, could not stay ahead of the sea. It hit her repeatedly on the stern, and the massive impacts felt like hits from a rocky mountain, not from a liquid.
The captain left the helm and came amidships pale as death. “Lighten her,” he cried. “Fling all overboard, or we shall founder ere we strike, and lose the one little chance we have of life.” While the sailors were executing this order, the captain, pale himself, and surrounded by pale faces that demanded to know their fate, was talking as unlike an English skipper in like peril as can well be imagined. “Friends,” said he, “last night when all was fair, too fair, alas! there came a globe of fire close to the ship. When a pair of them come it is good luck, and nought can drown her that voyage. We mariners call these fiery globes Castor and Pollux. But if Castor come without Pollux, or Pollux without Castor, she is doomed. Therefore, like good Christians, prepare to die.”
The captain left the helm and came to the middle of the ship, looking deathly pale. “Lighten her,” he shouted. “Throw everything overboard, or we’ll sink before we even hit, and lose our only chance of survival.” While the sailors followed his orders, the captain, himself looking pale and surrounded by anxious faces wanting to know their fate, spoke in a way that was anything but typical for an English captain in such danger. “Friends,” he said, “last night, when the weather was too good, a fireball came close to the ship. When two of them show up, it’s good luck, and nothing can sink us that trip. We sailors call these fireballs Castor and Pollux. But if Castor appears without Pollux, or Pollux without Castor, we’re doomed. So, like good Christians, prepare to die.”
These words were received with a loud wail.
These words were met with a loud cry.
To a trembling inquiry how long they had to prepare, the captain replied, “She may, or may not, last half an hour; over that, impossible; she leaks like a sieve; bustle, men, lighten her.”
To a nervous question about how long they had to get ready, the captain responded, “She might last half an hour, or she might not; anything beyond that is impossible; she’s leaking like crazy; hurry up, men, lighten her down.”
The poor passengers seized on everything that was on deck and flung it overboard. Presently they laid hold of a heavy sack; an old man was lying on it, sea sick. They lugged it from under him. It rattled. Two of them drew it to the side; up started the owner, and with an unearthly shriek, pounced on it. “Holy Moses! what would you do? 'Tis my all; 'tis the whole fruits of my journey; silver candlesticks, silver plates, brooches, hanaps—”
The desperate passengers grabbed everything on deck and threw it over the side. Soon, they came across a heavy sack with an old man lying on it, feeling seasick. They pulled it from underneath him. It rattled. Two of them dragged it to the edge; the owner suddenly jumped up, let out a terrifying scream, and lunged for it. “Holy Moses! What are you doing? That’s everything I have; it’s the entire result of my trip—silver candlesticks, silver plates, brooches, goblets—”
“Let go, thou hoary villain,” cried the others; “shall all our lives be lost for thy ill-gotten gear?” “Fling him in with it,” cried one; “'tis this Ebrew we Christian men are drowned for.” Numbers soon wrenched it from him, and heaved it over the side. It splashed into the waves. Then its owner uttered one cry of anguish, and stood glaring, his white hair streaming in the wind, and was going to leap after it, and would, had it floated. But it sank, and was gone for ever; and he staggered to and fro, tearing his hair, and cursed them and the ship, and the sea, and all the powers of heaven and hell alike.
“Let go, you old villain,” shouted the others; “are we all going to lose our lives because of your stolen goods?” “Throw him in with it,” yelled one; “it’s this Hebrew that we Christians are drowning because of.” A crowd quickly wrested it from him and threw it overboard. It splashed into the water. Then its owner let out a cry of despair, standing there with his white hair blowing in the wind, about to jump after it, and he would have, if it had floated. But it sank and was gone forever; he staggered back and forth, tearing at his hair, cursing them, the ship, the sea, and all the forces of heaven and hell.
And now the captain cried out: “See, there is a church in sight. Steer for that church, mate, and you, friends, pray to the saint, whoe'er he be.”
And now the captain shouted, “Look, there’s a church ahead. Head toward that church, mate, and you all, pray to the saint, whoever he is.”
So they steered for the church and prayed to the unknown god it was named after. A tremendous sea pooped them, broke the rudder, and jammed it immovable, and flooded the deck.
So they headed for the church and prayed to the unknown god it was named after. A huge wave hit them, broke the rudder, and jammed it stuck, flooding the deck.
Then wild with superstitious terror some of them came round Gerard. “Here is the cause of all,” they cried. “He has never invoked a single saint. He is a heathen; here is a pagan aboard.”
Then wild with superstitious fear, some of them surrounded Gerard. “He’s the reason for everything,” they shouted. “He’s never called on a single saint. He’s a heathen; there’s a pagan on board.”
“Alas, good friends, say not so,” said Gerard, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. “Rather call these heathens, that lie a praying to the sea. Friends, I do honour the saints—but I dare not pray to them now—there is no time—(oh!) what avail me Dominic, and Thomas, and Catherine? Nearer God's throne than these St. Peter sitteth; and if I pray to him, it's odd, but I shall be drowned ere he has time to plead my cause with God. Oh! oh! oh! I must need go straight to Him that made the sea, and the saints, and me. Our Father which art in heaven, save these poor souls and me that cry for the bare life! Oh, sweet Jesus, pitiful Jesus, that didst walk Genezaret when Peter sank, and wept for Lazarus dead when the apostles' eyes were dry, oh, save poor Gerard—for dear Margaret's sake!”
“Please, good friends, don’t say that,” Gerard said, his teeth chattering from the cold and fear. “Instead, let’s call these heathens who are praying to the sea. Friends, I honor the saints—but I can’t pray to them now—there’s no time—(oh!) what good are Dominic, Thomas, and Catherine to me? Closer to God’s throne than these sits St. Peter; and if I pray to him, it’s strange, but I’ll probably drown before he has a chance to speak to God on my behalf. Oh! oh! oh! I must go straight to Him who made the sea, the saints, and me. Our Father who art in heaven, save these poor souls and me who cry for our very lives! Oh, sweet Jesus, merciful Jesus, who walked on Genezaret when Peter sank, and wept for Lazarus when the apostles were dry-eyed, oh, save poor Gerard—for dear Margaret’s sake!”
At this moment the sailors were seen preparing to desert the sinking ship in the little boat, which even at that epoch every ship carried; then there was a rush of egotists; and thirty souls crowded into it. Remained behind three who were bewildered, and two who were paralyzed, with terror. The paralyzed sat like heaps of wet rags, the bewildered ones ran to and fro, and saw the thirty egotists put off, but made no attempt to join them: only kept running to and fro, and wringing their hands. Besides these there was one on his knees, praying over the wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, as large as life, which the sailors had reverently detached from the mast. It washed about the deck, as the water came slushing in from the sea, and pouring out at the scuppers; and this poor soul kept following it on his knees, with his hands clasped at it, and the water playing with it. And there was the Jew palsied, but not by fear. He was no longer capable of so petty a passion. He sat cross-legged, bemoaning his bag, and whenever the spray lashed him, shook his fist at where it came from, and cursed the Nazarenes, and their gods, and their devils, and their ships, and their waters, to all eternity.
At that moment, the sailors were seen getting ready to abandon the sinking ship in the small boat that every ship had back then; then a rush of selfish individuals happened, and thirty people crammed into it. Three who were confused stayed behind, along with two who were frozen in fear. The paralyzed ones sat there like piles of wet rags, while the bewildered ones ran back and forth, watching the thirty selfish individuals leave but making no effort to join them; they just kept running around and wringing their hands. In addition, there was one person on his knees, praying over a life-sized wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, which the sailors had respectfully taken down from the mast. It tossed around the deck as water flooded in from the sea and spilled out from the scuppers, and this poor soul kept following it on his knees, hands clasped together, while the water played with it. There was also the Jew, trembling, but not from fear. He was beyond such a trivial emotion. He sat cross-legged, mourning his bag, and whenever the spray hit him, he shook his fist at its source and cursed the Nazarenes, their gods, their devils, their ships, and their waters for all eternity.
And the gigantic Dominican, having shriven the whole ship, stood calmly communing with his own spirit. And the Roman woman sat pale and patient, only drawing her child closer to her bosom as death came nearer.
And the huge Dominican, having heard confessions from everyone on the ship, stood peacefully reflecting on his own soul. The Roman woman sat pale and composed, only pulling her child closer to her chest as death approached.
Gerard saw this, and it awakened his manhood.
Gerard saw this, and it sparked his maturity.
“See! see!” he said, “they have ta'en the boat and left the poor woman and her child to perish.”
“Look! Look!” he said, “they've taken the boat and left the poor woman and her child to die.”
His heart soon set his wit working.
His heart quickly got his mind going.
“Wife, I'll save thee yet, please God.” And he ran to find a cask or a plank to float her. There was none.
“Wife, I’ll save you yet, if God wills it.” And he ran to look for a barrel or a plank to keep her afloat. There was none.
Then his eye fell on the wooden image of the Virgin. He caught it up in his arms, and heedless of a wail that issued from its worshipper like a child robbed of its toy, ran aft with it. “Come, wife,” he cried. “I'll lash thee and the child to this. 'Tis sore worm eaten, but 'twill serve.”
Then his gaze landed on the wooden figure of the Virgin. He picked it up in his arms, ignoring the cry that came from its worshipper like a child losing its toy, and ran to the back with it. “Come, wife,” he shouted. “I’ll tie you and the child to this. It’s pretty worn out, but it will do.”
She turned her great dark eye on him and said a single word:
She fixed her big dark eye on him and said one word:
“Thyself?!”
“You?”
But with wonderful magnanimity and tenderness.
But with incredible generosity and kindness.
“I am a man, and have no child to take care of.”
“I’m a man, and I have no child to look after.”
“Ah!” said she, and his words seemed to animate her face with a desire to live. He lashed the image to her side. Then with the hope of life she lost something of her heroic calm; not much: her body trembled a little, but not her eye.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, and his words appeared to light up her face with a will to live. He tied the image to her side. Then, with the hope of life, she lost a bit of her heroic composure; not by much: her body shook slightly, but her gaze remained steady.
The ship was now so low in the water that by using an oar as a lever he could slide her into the waves.
The ship was now sitting so low in the water that he could use an oar as a lever to push her into the waves.
“Come,” said he, “while yet there is time.”
“Come,” he said, “while there's still time.”
She turned her great Roman eyes, wet now, upon him. “Poor youth!—God forgive me!—My child!” And he launched her on the surge, and with his oar kept her from being battered against the ship.
She turned her big Roman eyes, now teary, toward him. “Poor boy!—God forgive me!—My child!” And he pushed her into the wave, using his oar to keep her from being crushed against the ship.
A heavy hand fell on him; a deep sonorous voice sounded in his ear: “'Tis well. Now come with me.”
A heavy hand landed on him; a deep, resonant voice spoke in his ear: “It's fine. Now, come with me.”
It was the gigantic friar.
It was the huge monk.
Gerard turned, and the friar took two strides, and laid hold of the broken mast. Gerard did the same, obeying him instinctively. Between them, after a prodigious effort, they hoisted up the remainder of the mast, and carried it off. “Fling it in,” said the friar, “and follow it.” They flung it in; but one of the bewildered passengers had run after them, and jumped first and got on one end. Gerard seized the other, the friar the middle.
Gerard turned, and the friar took two steps, grabbing onto the broken mast. Gerard did the same without thinking. Together, after a huge effort, they lifted the rest of the mast and carried it away. “Toss it in,” said the friar, “and follow it.” They threw it in, but one of the confused passengers had run after them, jumped in first, and held onto one end. Gerard grabbed the other end, and the friar took the middle.
It was a terrible situation. The mast rose and plunged with each wave like a kicking horse, and the spray flogged their faces mercilessly, and blinded them: to help knock them off.
It was a horrible situation. The mast rose and fell with each wave like a bucking horse, and the spray hit their faces relentlessly, blinding them and trying to knock them off.
Presently was heard a long grating noise ahead. The ship had struck, and soon after, she being stationary now, they were hurled against her with tremendous force. Their companion's head struck against the upper part of the broken rudder with a horrible crack, and was smashed like a cocoa-nut by a sledge-hammer. He sunk directly, leaving no trace but a red stain on the water, and a white clot on the jagged rudder, and a death cry ringing in their ears, as they drifted clear under the lee of the black hull. The friar uttered a short Latin prayer for the safety of his soul, and took his place composedly. They rolled along; one moment they saw nothing, and seemed down in a mere basin of watery hills: the next they caught glimpses of the shore speckled bright with people, who kept throwing up their arms with wild Italian gestures to encourage them, and the black boat driving bottom upwards, and between it and them the woman rising and falling like themselves. She had come across a paddle, and was holding her child tight with her left arm, and paddling gallantly with her right.
A long grating noise was heard ahead. The ship had hit something, and soon after, as it came to a stop, they were thrown against it with incredible force. Their companion's head slammed into the broken rudder with a terrible crack, shattering like a coconut hit by a sledgehammer. He sank immediately, leaving behind nothing but a red stain on the water, a white spot on the jagged rudder, and a dying scream echoing in their ears as they drifted away under the shadow of the black hull. The friar said a quick Latin prayer for his soul’s safety and took his place calmly. They rolled along; one moment they saw nothing, feeling as if they were in a basin of water hills: the next, they caught glimpses of the shore crowded with people who were wildly gesturing to encourage them, and the black boat capsized, with the woman bobbing up and down like them. She had found a paddle and was clutching her child tightly with one arm while paddling determinedly with the other.
When they had tumbled along thus a long time, suddenly the friar said quietly—
When they had been scrambling along like this for a while, the friar suddenly said quietly—
“I touched the ground.”
"I touched the ground."
“Impossible, father,” said Gerard; “we are more than a hundred yards from shore. Prithee, prithee, leave not our faithful mast.”
“Impossible, Dad,” said Gerard; “we're over a hundred yards from shore. Please, please don’t abandon our faithful mast.”
“My son,” said the friar, “you speak prudently. But know that I have business of Holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating when I can walk, in her service. There I felt it with my toes again; see the benefit of wearing sandals, and not shoon. Again; and sandy. Thy stature is less than mine: keep to the mast! I walk.” He left the mast accordingly and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water. Gerard soon followed him. At each overpowering wave the monk stood like a tower, and closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it, and was entirely lost under it awhile: then emerged and ploughed lustily on. At last they came close to the shore; but the suction outward baffled all their attempts to land. Then the natives sent stout fishermen into the sea, holding by long spears in a triple chain; and so dragged them ashore.
“My son,” said the friar, “you speak wisely. But know that I have business for the Holy Church, and I can’t waste time floating when I can walk in her service. I felt it with my toes again; see the advantage of wearing sandals instead of shoes. Again; and it’s sandy. You’re shorter than I am: stick to the mast! I’m walking.” He left the mast and, extending his strong arms, rushed through the water. Gerard quickly followed him. With each powerful wave, the monk stood tall, closing his mouth, throwing his head back to face it, and was completely submerged for a while; then he emerged and charged forward with energy. Eventually, they got close to the shore, but the pull of the water made it impossible to land. Then the locals sent strong fishermen into the sea, holding long spears in a triple chain, and pulled them ashore.
The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the natives, and went on to Rome, with eyes bent on earth according to his rule, and without pausing. He did not even cast a glance back upon that sea, which had so nearly engulfed him, but had no power to harm him, without his Master's leave.
The friar shook himself, offered a brief fatherly blessing to the locals, and continued on to Rome, keeping his eyes focused on the ground as per his rules, without stopping. He didn’t even look back at the sea that had almost swallowed him but had no power to hurt him without his Master’s permission.
While he stalks on alone to Rome without looking back, I who am not in the service of Holy Church, stop a moment to say that the reader and I were within six inches of this giant once before; but we escaped him that time. Now I fear we are in for him. Gerard grasped every hand upon the beach. They brought him to an enormous fire, and with a delicacy he would hardly have encountered in the north, left him to dry himself alone: on this he took out of his bosom a parchment, and a paper, and dried them carefully. When this was done to his mind, and not till then, he consented to put on a fisherman's dress and leave his own by the fire, and went down to the beach. What he saw may be briefly related.
While he strides alone toward Rome without looking back, I, who am not part of the Holy Church, pause for a moment to mention that the reader and I were once within six inches of this giant before; but we got away that time. Now, I fear we’re up against him. Gerard shook hands with everyone on the beach. They led him to a huge fire, and with a kindness he probably wouldn’t have found in the north, left him to dry off by himself: after that, he pulled out a parchment and a piece of paper from his chest and dried them carefully. Once he was satisfied with this, and not until then, he agreed to put on a fisherman’s outfit and leave his own clothes by the fire, and he went down to the beach. What he saw can be summed up briefly.
The captain stuck by the ship, not so much from gallantry, as from a conviction that it was idle to resist Castor or Pollux, whichever it was that had come for him in a ball of fire.
The captain stayed with the ship, not so much out of bravery, but because he believed it was pointless to fight against Castor or Pollux, whichever one had come for him in a ball of fire.
Nevertheless the sea broke up the ship and swept the poop, captain and all, clear of the rest, and took him safe ashore. Gerard had a principal hand in pulling him out of the water. The disconsolate Hebrew landed on another fragment, and on touching earth, offered a reward for his bag, which excited little sympathy, but some amusement. Two more were saved on pieces of the wreck. The thirty egotists came ashore, but one at a time, and dead; one breathed still. Him the natives, with excellent intentions, took to a hot fire. So then he too retired from this shifting scene.
Nevertheless, the sea wrecked the ship and swept the captain and the poop deck away from the rest, then brought him safely to shore. Gerard played a key role in pulling him out of the water. The distressed Hebrew landed on another piece of debris and, upon reaching land, offered a reward for his bag, which drew little sympathy but some amusement. Two more people were rescued on parts of the wreckage. The thirty self-absorbed individuals made it to shore, but one at a time and lifeless; one still had breath left. The locals, with good intentions, carried him to a hot fire. So he too left this chaotic scene.
As Gerard stood by the sea, watching, with horror and curiosity mixed, his late companions washed ashore, a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder. He turned. It was the Roman matron, burning with womanly gratitude. She took his hand gently, and raising it slowly to her lips, kissed it; but so nobly, she seemed to be conferring an honour on one deserving hand. Then with face all beaming and moist eyes, she held her child up and made him kiss his preserver.
As Gerard stood by the sea, filled with a mix of horror and curiosity as he watched his late companions wash ashore, a hand was gently placed on his shoulder. He turned to see the Roman matron, radiating with gratefulness. She took his hand softly and slowly raised it to her lips, kissing it in a way that felt like she was honoring a deserving person. With her face glowing and eyes moist, she lifted her child and made him kiss the one who saved him.
Gerard kissed the child more than once. He was fond of children. But he said nothing. He was much moved; for she did not speak at all, except with her eyes, and glowing cheeks, and noble antique gesture, so large and stately. Perhaps she was right. Gratitude is not a thing of words. It was an ancient Roman matron thanking a modern from her heart of hearts.
Gerard kissed the child multiple times. He really liked kids. But he didn’t say anything. He was deeply touched because she didn’t speak at all, except through her eyes, flushed cheeks, and her grand, elegant gestures that were so big and dignified. Maybe she was right. Gratitude isn’t about words. It was like an ancient Roman matron expressing her heartfelt thanks to someone modern.
Next day towards afternoon, Gerard—twice as old as last year, thrice as learned in human ways, a boy no more, but a man who had shed blood in self-defence, and grazed the grave by land and sea—reached the Eternal City; post tot naufragia tutus.
Next day in the afternoon, Gerard—twice as old as he was last year, three times as knowledgeable about human ways, no longer a boy but a man who had shed blood in self-defense and been close to death on land and sea—arrived at the Eternal City; after all those shipwrecks, safe at last.
CHAPTER LVI
Gerard took a modest lodging on the west bank of the Tiber, and every day went forth in search of work, taking a specimen round to every shop he could hear of that executed such commissions.
Gerard rented a small place on the west side of the Tiber, and every day he set out looking for work, bringing a sample to every shop he could find that took on such projects.
They received him coldly. “We make our letter somewhat thinner than this,” said one. “How dark your ink is,” said another. But the main cry was, “What avails this? Scant is the Latin writ here now. Can ye not write Greek?”
They welcomed him with indifference. “Our letter is usually a bit thinner than this,” said one. “Your ink is really dark,” said another. But the main complaint was, “What’s the point of this? The Latin writing here is minimal now. Can you not write in Greek?”
“Ay, but not nigh so well as Latin.”
“Ay, but not nearly as well as Latin.”
“Then you shall never make your bread at Rome.”
“Then you will never make your bread in Rome.”
Gerard borrowed a beautiful Greek manuscript at a high price, and went home with a sad hole in his purse, but none in his courage.
Gerard borrowed a gorgeous Greek manuscript for a hefty price and returned home with a sad gap in his wallet, but none in his determination.
In a fortnight he had made vast progress with the Greek character; so then, to lose no time, he used to work at it till noon, and hunt customers the rest of the day.
In two weeks, he had made significant progress with the Greek character; so, to avoid wasting time, he would work on it until noon and then look for customers the rest of the day.
When he carried round a better Greek specimen than any they possessed, the traders informed him that Greek and Latin were alike unsaleable; the city was thronged with works from all Europe. He should have come last year.
When he brought a better Greek example than any they had, the traders told him that both Greek and Latin were unsellable; the city was packed with works from all over Europe. He should have come last year.
Gerard bought a psaltery. His landlady, pleased with his looks and manners, used often to speak a kind word in passing. One day she made him dine with her, and somewhat to his surprise asked him what had dashed his spirits. He told her. She gave him her reading of the matter. “Those sly traders,” she would be bound, “had writers in their pay, for whose work they received a noble price, and paid a sorry one. So no wonder they blow cold on you. Methinks you write too well. How know I that? say you. Marry—marry, because you lock not your door, like the churl Pietro, and women will be curious. Ay, ay, you write too well for them.”
Gerard bought a psaltery. His landlady, pleased with his appearance and manners, often shared a kind word when passing by. One day, she invited him to dinner and, to his surprise, asked what was bothering him. He told her. She offered her perspective on the situation. “Those sneaky traders,” she insisted, “must have writers on their payroll, paying them well while they offer you a pittance. So it’s no wonder they’re cold towards you. I think you write too well. How do I know that? you ask. Well, it’s because you don’t lock your door like that miser Pietro, and women will be curious. Yes, you definitely write too well for them.”
Gerard asked an explanation.
Gerard asked for an explanation.
“Why,” said she, “your good work might put out the eyes of that they are selling.”
“Why,” she said, “your good work might blind those they are selling.”
Gerard sighed. “Alas! dame, you read folk on the ill side, and you so kind and frank yourself.”
Gerard sighed. “Oh dear! Ma'am, you see people in such a negative light, and you’re so kind and open yourself.”
“My dear little heart, these Romans are a subtle race. Me? I am a Siennese, thanks to the Virgin.”
“My dear little heart, these Romans are a clever bunch. Me? I’m from Siena, thanks to the Virgin.”
“My mistake was leaving Augsburg,” said Gerard.
“My mistake was leaving Augsburg,” Gerard said.
“Augsburg?” said she haughtily: “is that a place to even to Rome? I never heard of it, for my part.”
“Augsburg?” she said arrogantly. “Is that even a place compared to Rome? I’ve never heard of it, to be honest.”
She then assured him that he should make his fortune in spite of the booksellers. “Seeing thee a stranger, they lie to thee without sense or discretion. Why, all the world knows that our great folk are bitten with the writing spider this many years, and pour out their money like water, and turn good land and houses into writ sheepskins, to keep in a chest or a cupboard. God help them, and send them safe through this fury, as He hath through a heap of others; and in sooth hath been somewhat less cutting and stabbing among rival factions, and vindictive eating of their opposites' livers, minced and fried, since Scribbling came in. Why, I can tell you two. There is his eminence Cardinal Bassarion, and his holiness the Pope himself. There be a pair could keep a score such as thee a writing night and day. But I'll speak to Teresa; she hears the gossip of the court.”
She then assured him that he would make his fortune despite the booksellers. “Since you’re a stranger, they’re deceiving you without any sense or discretion. Everyone knows that our elites have been obsessed with writing for years, spending their money like it’s nothing, and turning valuable land and homes into books to stash away in a chest or a cupboard. God help them and get them through this craze, just like He has for many others; honestly, it's been somewhat less brutal with all the fighting and the vengeful attacks on each other since writing became a thing. I can name two: Cardinal Bassarion and the Pope himself. Those two could keep someone like you writing day and night. But I’ll talk to Teresa; she hears all the gossip from the court.”
The next day she told him she had seen Teresa, and had heard of five more signors who were bitten with the writing spider. Gerard took down their names, and bought parchment, and busied himself for some days in preparing specimens. He left one, with his name and address, at each of these signors' doors, and hopefully awaited the result.
The next day she told him she had seen Teresa and had heard about five more signors who were bitten by the writing spider. Gerard wrote down their names, bought parchment, and spent the next few days preparing specimens. He left one, with his name and address, at each of these signors' doors, and eagerly awaited the results.
There was none.
There wasn’t any.
Day after day passed and left him heartsick.
Day after day went by and left him feeling heartbroken.
And strange to say this was just the time when Margaret was fighting so hard against odds to feed her male dependents at Rotterdam, and arrested for curing without a licence instead of killing with one.
And oddly enough, this was exactly when Margaret was struggling so hard against the odds to support her male dependents in Rotterdam, and she was arrested for practicing medicine without a license instead of for taking lives with one.
Gerard saw ruin staring him in the face.
Gerard saw disaster staring him down.
He spent the afternoons picking up canzonets and mastering them. He laid in playing cards to colour, and struck off a meal per day.
He spent the afternoons picking up short songs and mastering them. He played card games to pass the time and skipped one meal a day.
This last stroke of genius got him into fresh trouble.
This final stroke of genius got him into more trouble.
In these “camere locande” the landlady dressed all the meals, though the lodgers bought the provisions. So Gerard's hostess speedily detected him, and asked him if he was not ashamed himself: by which brusque opening, having made him blush and look scared, she pacified herself all in a moment, and appealed to his good sense whether Adversity was a thing to be overcome on an empty stomach.
In these "guest rooms," the landlady prepared all the meals, although the guests bought the groceries. So Gerard's hostess quickly noticed him and asked if he wasn’t ashamed of himself. With that blunt question, she made him blush and look frightened, but then she calmed down immediately and appealed to his common sense about whether it was possible to overcome hardships on an empty stomach.
“Patienza, my lad! times will mend; meantime I will feed you for the love of heaven.” (Italian for “gratis.”)
“Hang in there, my boy! Things will get better; for now, I’ll take care of you for the sake of heaven.” (Italian for “free.”)
“Nay, hostess,” said Gerard, “my purse is not yet quite void, and it would add to my trouble an if true folk should lose their due by me.”
“Nah, hostess,” said Gerard, “my wallet isn’t completely empty yet, and it would add to my stress if honest people lost what they’re owed because of me.”
“Why, you are as mad as your neighbour Pietro, with his one bad picture.”
“Why, you are just as crazy as your neighbor Pietro, with his one terrible painting.”
“Why, how know you 'tis a bad picture?”
“Why, how do you know it's a bad picture?”
“Because nobody will buy it. There is one that hath no gift. He will have to don casque and glaive, and carry his panel for a shield.”
“Because no one will buy it. There is one who has no talent. He will have to put on a helmet and sword, and use his panel as a shield.”
Gerard pricked up his ears at this: so she told him more. Pietro had come from Florence with money in his purse, and an unfinished picture; had taken her one unfurnished room, opposite Gerard's, and furnished it neatly. When his picture was finished, he received visitors and had offers for it: though in her opinion liberal ones, he had refused so disdainfully as to make enemies of his customers. Since then he had often taken it out with him to try and sell, but had always brought it back; and the last month, she had seen one movable after another go out of his room, and now he wore but one suit, and lay at night on a great chest. She had found this out only by peeping through the keyhole, for he locked the door most vigilantly whenever he went out. “Is he afraid we shall steal his chest, or his picture, that no soul in all Rome is weak enough to buy?”
Gerard perked up at this: so she shared more details. Pietro had come from Florence with money in his pocket and an unfinished painting; he rented one unfurnished room, directly across from Gerard's, and furnished it nicely. Once his painting was complete, he welcomed visitors and received offers for it: although, in her view, they were generous offers, he had rejected them so arrogantly that he ended up making enemies out of his potential buyers. Since then, he had often taken it with him to try and sell it, but he always brought it back; and in the last month, she had seen various items leave his room, and now he only had one suit and slept at night on a large trunk. She only discovered this by peeking through the keyhole because he locked the door very carefully whenever he went out. “Is he worried we’ll steal his trunk or his painting, which no one in all of Rome is foolish enough to buy?”
“Nay, sweet hostess; see you not 'tis his poverty he would screen from view?”
“Nah, dear hostess; don’t you see he’s trying to hide his poverty?”
“And the more fool he! Are all our hearts as ill as his? A might give us a trial first, anyway.”
“And what a fool he is! Are all our hearts as unhealthy as his? We should at least get a chance to prove ourselves first.”
“How you speak of him. Why, his case is mine; and your countryman to boot.”
“How you talk about him. Well, his situation is the same as mine, and he’s your fellow countryman too.”
“Oh, we Siennese love strangers. His case yours? Nay, 'tis just the contrary. You are the comeliest youth ever lodged in this house; hair like gold: he is a dark, sour-visaged loon. Besides, you know how to take a woman on her better side; but not he. Natheless, I wish he would not starve to death in my house, to get me a bad name. Anyway, one starveling is enough in any house. You are far from home, and it is for me, which am the mistress here, to number your meals—for me and the Dutch wife, your mother, that is far away: we two women shall settle that matter. Mind thou thine own business, being a man, and leave cooking and the like to us, that are in the world for little else that I see but to roast fowls, and suckle men at starting, and sweep their grownup cobwebs.”
“Oh, we Siennese love visitors. Is he your case? No, it's just the opposite. You're the most handsome young man ever to stay in this house; your hair shines like gold, while he has a dark, sour look. Besides, you know how to win a woman's favor, but he doesn't. Still, I wish he wouldn't starve in my house and ruin my reputation. Anyway, one starving person is enough in any home. You’re far from home, and it’s up to me, as the mistress of the house, to keep track of your meals—for me and your mother, the Dutch woman, who is far away: we two women will take care of that. You focus on your own business as a man, and let us handle the cooking and things like that, as it seems we’re here for little else but to roast chickens, take care of men when they’re young, and clear away their adult cobwebs.”
“Dear kind dame, in sooth you do often put me in mind of my mother that is far away.”
“Dear kind lady, you really do remind me of my mother who is far away.”
“All the better; I'll put you more in mind of her before I have done with you.” And the honest soul beamed with pleasure.
“All the better; I’ll make you think of her even more before I’m done with you.” And the genuine person smiled with joy.
Gerard not being an egotist, nor blinded by female partialities, saw his own grief in poor proud Pietro; and the more he thought of it the more he resolved to share his humble means with that unlucky artist; Pietro's sympathy would repay him. He tried to waylay him; but without success.
Gerard, not being self-centered or swayed by favoritism towards women, recognized his own sorrow in the unfortunate and proud Pietro. The more he reflected on it, the more determined he became to share his limited resources with that struggling artist; Pietro's understanding would reward him. He attempted to catch him off guard, but he was unsuccessful.
One day he heard a groaning in the room. He knocked at the door, but received no answer. He knocked again. A surly voice bade him enter.
One day he heard someone groaning in the room. He knocked on the door, but got no response. He knocked again. A grumpy voice told him to come in.
He obeyed somewhat timidly, and entered a garret furnished with a chair, a picture, face to wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest, on which was coiled a haggard young man with a wonderfully bright eye. Anything more like a coiled cobra ripe for striking the first comer was never seen.
He complied a bit nervously and stepped into a small attic furnished with a chair, a picture facing the wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest, on which lay a worn-out young man with an incredibly bright eye. Nothing looked more like a coiled cobra ready to strike the first person who approached than this.
“Good Signor Pietro,” said Gerard, “forgive me that, weary of my own solitude, I intrude on yours; but I am your nighest neighbour in this house, and methinks your brother in fortune. I am an artist too.”
“Good Signor Pietro,” said Gerard, “forgive me for intruding on your solitude, as I’m weary of my own; but I live closest to you in this house, and I think we share the same fortune. I’m an artist as well.”
“You are a painter? Welcome, signer. Sit down on my bed.”
“You're a painter? Welcome, artist. Come sit on my bed.”
And Pietro jumped off and waved him into the vacant throne with a magnificent demonstration of courtesy.
And Pietro jumped down and gestured for him to take the empty throne with a grand display of politeness.
Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little. “I may not call myself a painter. I am a writer, a caligraph. I copy Greek and Latin manuscripts, when I can get them to copy.”
Gerard bowed and smiled, but hesitated for a moment. “I can’t really call myself a painter. I’m a writer, a calligrapher. I copy Greek and Latin manuscripts whenever I can find them to copy.”
“And you call that an artist?”
“And you call that an artist?”
“Without offence to your superior merit, Signor Pietro.”
“Without disrespect to your greater abilities, Mr. Pietro.”
“No offence, stranger, none. Only, meseemeth an artist is one who thinks, and paints his thought. Now a caligraph but draws in black and white the thoughts of another.”
“No offense, stranger, none at all. It just seems to me that an artist is someone who thinks and expresses those thoughts through their art. A calligrapher, on the other hand, only reproduces someone else's thoughts in black and white.”
“'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write the thoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as no man may paint: ay, and the thoughts of God, which angels could not paint. But let that pass. I am a painter as well; but a sorry one.”
“It's well noted, sir. But then, a writer can express the thoughts of great ancients and matters of pure reason that cannot be depicted: yes, and the thoughts of God, which even angels couldn't capture. But let's set that aside. I’m also a painter; however, not a very good one.”
“The better thy luck. 'They will buy thy work in Rome.”
“The better your luck. 'They will buy your work in Rome.”
“But seeking to commend myself to one of thy eminence, I thought it well rather to call myself a capable writer, than a scurvy painter.”
“But trying to get your approval, I thought it better to call myself a decent writer than a lousy painter.”
At this moment a step was heard on the stair. “Ah! 'tis the good dame,” cried Gerard. “What oh! hostess, I am here in conversation with Signor Pietro. I dare say he will let me have my humble dinner here.”
At that moment, a step was heard on the stairs. “Ah! It's the good lady,” cried Gerard. “Hey there, hostess, I’m here talking with Signor Pietro. I’m sure he’ll allow me to have my simple dinner here.”
The Italian bowed gravely.
The Italian bowed solemnly.
The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner smoking and savoury. She put the dish down on the bed with a face divested of all expression, and went.
The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner, hot and delicious. She set the dish down on the bed with a blank expression and left.
Gerard fell to. But ere he had eaten many mouthfuls, he stopped, and said: “I am an ill-mannered churl, Signor Pietro. I ne'er eat to my mind when I eat alone. For our Lady's sake put a spoon into this ragout with me; 'tis not unsavoury, I promise you.”
Gerard dug in. But before he had eaten many bites, he paused and said: “I’m a rude guy, Signor Pietro. I never enjoy my food when I’m eating alone. For our Lady’s sake, please join me and put a spoon into this stew; it’s not bad, I promise.”
Pietro fixed his glittering eye on him.
Pietro locked his sparkling gaze on him.
“What, good youth, thou a stranger, and offerest me thy dinner?”
“What, young man, you’re a stranger and you’re offering me your dinner?”
“Why, see, there is more than one can eat.”
“Look, there’s more than enough to eat.”
“Well, I accept,” said Pietro; and took the dish with some appearance of calmness, and flung the contents out of window.
“Well, I accept,” said Pietro, and took the dish with a semblance of calmness before tossing the contents out the window.
Then he turned, trembling with mortification and ire, and said: “Let that teach thee to offer alms to an artist thou knowest not, master writer.”
Then he turned, shaking with embarrassment and anger, and said: “Let that teach you to give money to an artist you don't know, master writer.”
Gerard's face flushed with anger, and it cost him a bitter struggle not to box this high-souled creature's ears. And then to go and destroy good food! His mother's milk curdled in his veins with horror at such impiety. Finally, pity at Pietro's petulance and egotism, and a touch of respect for poverty-struck pride, prevailed.
Gerard's face turned red with anger, and it was a real battle for him not to slap this noble creature. And then to go waste good food! The thought made him feel sick with horror. In the end, sympathy for Pietro's sulkiness and selfishness, along with a bit of respect for his pride despite his poverty, won out.
However, he said coldly, “Likely what thou hast done might pass in a novel of thy countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but 'twas not honest.”
However, he said coldly, “What you’ve done might be acceptable in a novel by your fellow countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but it wasn’t right.”
“Make that good!” said the painter sullenly.
“Make it good!” said the painter gloomily.
“I offered thee half my dinner; no more. But thou hast ta'en it all. Hadst a right to throw away thy share, but not mine. Pride is well, but justice is better.”
“I offered you half my dinner; nothing more. But you took it all. You had the right to throw away your share, but not mine. Pride is fine, but justice is better.”
Pietro stared, then reflected.
Pietro stared, then thought.
“'Tis well. I took thee for a fool, so transparent was thine artifice. Forgive me! And prithee leave me! Thou seest how 'tis with me. The world hath soured me. I hate mankind. I was not always so. Once more excuse that my discourtesy, and fare thee well.”
“It's fine. I thought you were a fool, your trick was so obvious. Forgive me! Please leave me! You see how I am. The world has turned me bitter. I hate humanity. I wasn’t always like this. Once again, I apologize for my rudeness, and goodbye.”
Gerard sighed, and made for the door.
Gerard sighed and headed for the door.
But suddenly a thought struck him. “Signor Pietro,” said he, “we Dutchmen are hard bargainers. We are the lads 'een eij scheeren,' that is, 'to shave an egg.' Therefore, I, for my lost dinner, do claim to feast mine eyes on your picture, whose face is toward the wall.”
But suddenly a thought hit him. “Signor Pietro,” he said, “we Dutchmen are tough negotiators. We're the guys who 'shave an egg.' So, for my missed dinner, I claim the right to enjoy your painting, which is facing the wall.”
“Nay, nay,” said the painter hastily, “ask me not that; I have already misconducted myself enough towards thee. I would not shed thy blood.”
“No, no,” the painter said quickly, “don't ask me that; I've already misbehaved enough toward you. I wouldn’t want to harm you.”
“Saints forbid! My blood?”
"God forbid! My blood?"
“Stranger,” said Pietro sullenly, “irritated by repeated insults to my picture, which is my child, my heart, I did in a moment of rage make a solemn vow to drive my dagger into the next one that should flout it, and the labour and love that I have given to it.”
“Stranger,” Pietro said gloomily, “annoyed by the constant insults to my artwork, which is like my child, my heart, I made a serious vow in a moment of anger to stab the next person who disrespects it and the effort and love I put into it.”
“What, are all to be slain that will not praise this picture?” and he looked at its back with curiosity.
“What, are all going to be killed if they don’t praise this picture?” and he looked at its back with curiosity.
“Nay, nay; if you would but look at it, and hold your parrot tongues. But you will be talking. So I have turned it to the wall for ever. Would I were dead, and buried in it for my coffin!”
“Nah, nah; if you would just take a look at it and keep your mouths shut. But you'll just keep talking. So I’ve turned it to the wall forever. I wish I were dead and buried in it for my coffin!”
Gerard reflected.
Gerard thought.
“I accept the condition. Show me the picture! I can but hold my peace.”
“I agree to the condition. Show me the picture! I can only stay silent.”
Pietro went and turned its face, and put it in the best light the room afforded, and coiled himself again on his chest, with his eye, and stiletto, glittering.
Pietro turned its face, positioning it in the best light the room had to offer, and curled up again on his chest, with his eye and stiletto shining.
The picture represented the Virgin and Christ, flying through the air in a sort of cloud of shadowy cherubic faces; underneath was a landscape, forty or fifty miles in extent, and a purple sky above.
The image showed the Virgin and Christ soaring through the air in a cloud of shadowy cherubic faces; below was a landscape stretching forty or fifty miles, with a purple sky above.
Gerard stood and looked at it in silence. Then he stepped close, and looked. Then he retired as far off as he could, and looked; but said not a word.
Gerard stood there, staring at it quietly. Then he moved in closer to look. After that, he backed away as far as he could and looked again, but he didn’t say a word.
When he had been at this game half an hour, Pietro cried out querulously and somewhat inconsistently: “well, have you not a word to say about it?”
When he had been at this game for half an hour, Pietro complained loudly and a bit inconsistently: “Well, don’t you have anything to say about it?”
Gerard started. “I cry your mercy; I forgot there were three of us here. Ay, I have much to say.” And he drew his sword.
Gerard jumped. “I'm sorry; I forgot there were three of us here. Yeah, I have a lot to say.” And he drew his sword.
“Alas! alas!” cried Pietro, jumping in terror from his lair. “What wouldst thou?”
“Alas! alas!” cried Pietro, jumping in terror from his hiding place. “What do you want?”
“Marry, defend myself against thy bodkin, signor; and at due odds, being, as aforesaid, a Dutchman. Therefore, hold aloof, while I deliver judgment, or I will pin thee to the wall like a cockchafer.”
“Listen, I’ll defend myself against your dagger, sir; and fairly, since, as mentioned, I’m a Dutchman. So, keep your distance while I deliver my decision, or I’ll pin you to the wall like a beetle.”
“Oh! is that all?” said Pietro, greatly relieved. “I feared you were going to stab my poor picture with your sword, stabbed already by so many foul tongues.”
“Oh! Is that it?” said Pietro, obviously relieved. “I was worried you were going to stab my poor picture with your sword, which has already been pierced by so many nasty comments.”
Gerard “pursued criticism under difficulties.” Put himself in a position of defence, with his sword's point covering Pietro, and one eye glancing aside at the picture. “First, signor, I would have you know that, in the mixing of certain colours, and in the preparation of your oil, you Italians are far behind us Flemings. But let that flea stick. For as small as I am, I can show you certain secrets of the Van Eycks, that you will put to marvellous profit in your next picture. Meantime I see in this one the great qualities of your nation. Verily, ye are solis filii. If we have colour, you have imagination. Mother of Heaven! an he hath not flung his immortal soul upon the panel. One thing I go by is this; it makes other pictures I once admired seem drossy, earth-born things. The drapery here is somewhat short and stiff, why not let it float freely, the figures being in air and motion?
Gerard "faced criticism despite challenges." He positioned himself defensively, with the point of his sword aimed at Pietro, while keeping one eye on the painting. "First, sir, I need you to understand that when it comes to mixing certain colors and preparing your oil, you Italians are far behind us Flemish artists. But let's set that aside. Because as small as I am, I can reveal some secrets of the Van Eycks that you will find incredibly useful for your next painting. In the meantime, I see in this piece the great strengths of your nation. Truly, you are the sons of the sun. If we have color, you have imagination. Good heavens! He has poured his immortal soul onto the canvas. One thing I can say is this: it makes other paintings I once admired look like cheap, earthbound things. The drapery here is a bit short and stiff; why not let it move freely, with the figures in the air and in motion?"
“I will! I will!” cried Pietro eagerly. “I will do anything for those who will but see what I have done.”
“I will! I will!” Pietro exclaimed eagerly. “I will do anything for those who will just see what I’ve done.”
“Humph! This landscape it enlightens me. Henceforth I scorn those little huddled landscapes that did erst content me. Here is nature's very face: a spacious plain, each distance marked, and every tree, house, figure, field, and river smaller and less plain, by exquisite gradation, till vision itself melts into distance. O, beautiful! And the cunning rogue hath hung his celestial figure in air out of the way of his little world below. Here, floating saints beneath heaven's purple canopy. There, far down, earth and her busy hives. And they let you take this painted poetry, this blooming hymn, through the streets of Rome and bring it home unsold. But I tell thee in Ghent or Bruges, or even in Rotterdam, they would tear it out of thy hands. But it is a common saying that a stranger's eye sees clearest. Courage, Pietro Vanucci! I reverence thee and though myself a scurvy painter, do forgive thee for being a great one. Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art; and bow the knee to thee in just homage. Thy picture is immortal, and thou, that hast but a chest to sit on, art a king in thy most royal art. Viva, il maestro! Viva!”
“Wow! This landscape lifts my spirits. From now on, I disregard those small, crowded scenes that used to satisfy me. This is the true face of nature: a wide open plain, every detail clear, with trees, houses, figures, fields, and rivers getting smaller and less distinct through beautiful gradation, until vision itself fades into the distance. Oh, how beautiful! And the clever artist has suspended his heavenly figure in the air, away from the tiny world below. Here, floating saints under heaven's purple canopy. There, far below, earth with her bustling hives. And they let you take this painted poetry, this blossoming hymn, through the streets of Rome and bring it home without paying a dime. But I tell you, in Ghent or Bruges, or even Rotterdam, they would snatch it from your hands. It’s a common saying that a stranger’s eye sees the clearest. Stay strong, Pietro Vanucci! I admire you, and though I see myself as a terrible painter, I forgive you for being a great one. Forgive you? I thank God for you and rare artists like you; I bow to you in true respect. Your painting is timeless, and you, sitting on just a chest, are a king in your most royal art. Long live the master! Long live!”
At this unexpected burst the painter, with all the abandon of his nation, flung himself on Gerard's neck. “They said it was a maniac's dream,” he sobbed.
At this sudden outburst, the painter, with all the passion of his culture, threw himself around Gerard's neck. “They said it was a crazy person's dream,” he cried.
“Maniacs themselves! no, idiots!” shouted Gerard.
“Maniacs! No, you idiots!” shouted Gerard.
“Generous stranger! I will hate men no more since the world hath such as thee. I was a viper to fling thy poor dinner away; a wretch, a monster.”
“Generous stranger! I will no longer hate people now that there are those like you in the world. I was terrible to throw your dinner away; a wretch, a monster.”
“Well, monster, wilt be gentle now, and sup with me?”
“Well, monster, will you be gentle now and eat with me?”
“Ah! that I will. Whither goest thou?”
“Ah! I definitely will. Where are you going?”
“To order supper on the instant. We will have the picture for third man.”
“To order dinner right away. We’ll get the picture for the third guy.”
“I will invite it whiles thou art gone. My poor picture, child of my heart.”
“I will invite it while you're away. My poor picture, child of my heart.”
“Ah, master, 'twill look on many a supper after the worms have eaten you and me.”
“Ah, master, it will watch over many dinners after the worms have consumed you and me.”
“I hope so,” said Pietro.
“I hope so,” Pietro replied.
CHAPTER LVII
About a week after this the two friends sat working together, but not in the same spirit. Pietro dashed fitfully at his, and did wonders in a few minutes, and then did nothing, except abuse it; then presently resumed it in a fury, to lay it down with a groan. Through all which kept calmly working, calmly smiling, the canny Dutchman.
About a week later, the two friends were working together, but not with the same energy. Pietro worked on his project sporadically, achieving impressive results in a few minutes, then doing nothing but complaining about it. He would suddenly pick it up again in a rage, only to drop it with a sigh. Meanwhile, the clever Dutchman continued to work steadily, maintaining a calm smile throughout.
To be plain, Gerard, who never had a friend he did not master, had put his Onagra in harness. The friends were painting playing cards to boil the pot.
To put it simply, Gerard, who had never had a friend he didn't control, had hitched his Onagra to the cart. The friends were painting playing cards to make ends meet.
When done, the indignant master took up his picture to make his daily tour in search of a customer.
When he was done, the frustrated master picked up his painting to go out on his daily search for a buyer.
Gerard begged him to take the cards as well, and try and sell them. He looked all the rattle-snake, but eventually embraced Gerard in the Italian fashion, and took them, after first drying the last-finished ones in the sun, which was now powerful in that happy clime.
Gerard urged him to take the cards too and try to sell them. He acted all tough, but eventually hugged Gerard in the Italian way and took them, after first drying the most recently finished ones in the sun, which was now strong in that lovely area.
Gerard, left alone, executed a Greek letter or two, and then mended a little rent in his hose. His landlady found him thus employed, and inquired ironically whether there were no women in the house.
Gerard, alone, wrote a Greek letter or two, and then fixed a small tear in his hose. His landlady found him this way and asked sarcastically if there were no women in the house.
“When you have done that,” said she “come and talk to Teresa, my friend I spoke to thee of, that hath a husband not good for much, which brags his acquaintance with the great.”
“When you’ve done that,” she said, “come and talk to Teresa, my friend I told you about, who has a husband that isn’t worth much and brags about his connections with important people.”
Gerard went down, and who should Teresa be but the Roman matron.
Gerard went downstairs, and who should Teresa be but the Roman matron.
“Ah, madama,” said he, “is it you? The good dame told me not that. And the little fair-haired boy, is he well is he none the worse for his voyage in that strange boat?”
“Ah, madam,” he said, “is that you? The kind woman didn’t mention that. And the little fair-haired boy, is he okay? Is he not worse for his trip in that strange boat?”
“He is well,” said the matron.
“He’s doing well,” said the matron.
“Why, what are you two talking about?” said the landlady, staring at them both in turn; “and why tremble you so, Teresa mia?”
“Why, what are you two talking about?” the landlady asked, looking back and forth between them. “And why are you trembling so, Teresa mia?”
“He saved my child's life,” said Teresa, making an effort to compose herself.
“He saved my child's life,” Teresa said, trying to pull herself together.
“What! my lodger? and he never told me a word of that. Art not ashamed to look me in the face?”
“What! My tenant? And he never mentioned a word about that. Aren't you ashamed to look me in the eye?”
“Alas! speak not harshly to him,” said the matron. She then turned to her friend and poured out a glowing description of Gerard's conduct, during which Gerard stood blushing like a girl, and scarce recognizing his own performance, gratitude painted it so fair.
“Please! don't speak to him that way,” said the matron. She then turned to her friend and shared a glowing account of Gerard's actions, during which Gerard stood there blushing like a girl, barely able to recognize his own behavior, as gratitude made it seem so much better.
“And to think thou shouldst ask me to serve thy lodger, of whom I knew nought but that he had thy good word, oh, Fiammina; and that was enough for me. Dear youth, in serving thee I serve myself.”
“And to think you would ask me to help your guest, of whom I knew nothing except that you spoke well of him, oh, Fiammina; and that was enough for me. Dear young man, by serving you, I serve myself.”
Then ensued an eager description, by the two women, of what had been done, and what should be done, to penetrate the thick wall of fees, commissions, and chicanery, which stood between the patrons of art and an unknown artist in the Eternal City.
Then followed an eager description by the two women of what had been done and what needed to be done to break through the thick wall of fees, commissions, and deceit that stood between art patrons and an unknown artist in the Eternal City.
Teresa smiled sadly at Gerard's simplicity in leaving specimens of his skill at the doors of the great.
Teresa smiled sadly at Gerard's innocence in leaving samples of his talent at the doors of the influential.
“What!” said she, “without promising the servants a share—without even feeing them, to let the signors see thy merchandise! As well have flung it into Tiber.”
“What!” she exclaimed, “without promising the servants a share—without even giving them a tip, just to let the gentlemen see your goods? You might as well have thrown it into the Tiber.”
“Well-a-day!” sighed Gerard. “Then how is an artist to find a patron? for artists are poor, not rich.”
“Well, what now!” sighed Gerard. “Then how is an artist supposed to find a patron? Because artists are poor, not wealthy.”
“By going to some city nobler and not so greedy as this,” said Teresa. “La corte Romana non vuol' pecora senza lana.”
“By going to a city that's more noble and less greedy than this,” said Teresa. “The Roman court doesn’t want sheep without wool.”
She fell into thought, and said she would come again to-morrow.
She fell deep in thought and said she would come back tomorrow.
The landlady felicitated Gerard. “Teresa has got something in her head,” said she.
The landlady congratulated Gerard. “Teresa has something on her mind,” she said.
Teresa was scarce gone when Pietro returned with his picture, looking black as thunder. Gerard exchanged a glance with the landlady, and followed him upstairs to console him.
Teresa had barely left when Pietro came back with his picture, looking furious. Gerard exchanged a glance with the landlady and followed him upstairs to comfort him.
“What, have they let thee bring home thy masterpiece?”
“What, have they allowed you to bring home your masterpiece?”
“As heretofore.”
“As before.”
“More fools they, then.”
"Then they are more foolish."
“That is not the worse.”
“That is not the worst.”
“Why, what is the matter?”
"What's the matter?"
“They have bought the cards,” yelled Pietro, and hammered the air furiously right and left.
“They've bought the cards,” shouted Pietro, waving his arms wildly in every direction.
“All the better,” said Gerard cheerfully.
“All the better,” Gerard said cheerfully.
“They flew at me for them. They were enraptured with them. They tried to conceal their longing for them, but could not. I saw, I feigned, I pillaged; curse the boobies.”
“They rushed at me for them. They were captivated by them. They tried to hide their desire for them, but couldn’t. I saw, I pretended, I took advantage; damn the fools.”
And he flung down a dozen small silver coins on the floor and jumped on them, and danced on them with basilisk eyes, and then kicked them assiduously, and sent them spinning and flying, and running all abroad. Down went Gerard on his knees, and followed the maltreated innocents directly, and transferred them tenderly to his purse.
And he threw down a dozen small silver coins on the floor and jumped on them, dancing with a fierce look in his eyes. Then he kicked them energetically, sending them spinning and flying everywhere. Gerard dropped to his knees, quickly followed the abused coins, and gently picked them up and put them into his purse.
“Shouldst rather smile at their ignorance, and put it to profit,” said he.
“Instead, you should smile at their ignorance and make the most of it,” he said.
“And so I will,” said Pietro, with concentrated indignation. “The brutes! We will paint a pack a day; we will set the whole city gambling and ruining itself, while we live like princes on its vices and stupidity. There was one of the queens, though, I had fain have kept back. 'Twas you limned her, brother. She had lovely red-brown hair and sapphire eyes, and above all, soul.”
“And so I will,” said Pietro, with focused anger. “Those monsters! We’ll paint a group every day; we’ll get the whole city to gamble and destroy itself while we live like kings off its vices and foolishness. There was one of the queens, though, I would have preferred to hold back. It was you who painted her, brother. She had beautiful red-brown hair and sapphire eyes, and above all, spirit.”
“Pietro,” said Gerard softly, “I painted that one from my heart.”
“Pietro,” Gerard said gently, “I painted that one from my heart.”
The quick-witted Italian nodded, and his eyes twinkled.
The sharp Italian nodded, and his eyes sparkled.
“You love her so well, yet leave her.”
“You love her so much, yet you leave her.”
“Pietro, it is because I love her so dear that I have wandered all this weary road.”
“Pietro, it's because I love her so much that I've traveled this long, tiring road.”
This interesting colloquy was interrupted by the landlady crying from below, “Come down, you are wanted.” He went down, and there was Teresa again.
This interesting conversation was interrupted by the landlady calling from downstairs, “Come down, you’re needed.” He went down, and there was Teresa again.
“Come with me, Ser Gerard.”
"Come with me, Sir Gerard."
CHAPTER LVIII
Gerard walked silently beside Teresa, wondering in his own mind, after the manner of artists, what she was going to do with him; instead of asking her. So at last she told him of her own accord. A friend had informed her of a working goldsmith's wife who wanted a writer. “Her shop is hard by; you will not have far to go.”
Gerard walked quietly next to Teresa, thinking to himself, like artists do, about what she planned to do with him instead of just asking her. Finally, she shared it on her own. A friend had told her about a goldsmith's wife who was looking for a writer. “Her shop is nearby; it won’t be a long walk.”
Accordingly they soon arrived at the goldsmith's wife.
Accordingly, they soon reached the goldsmith's wife.
“Madama,” said Teresa, “Leonora tells me you want a writer: I have brought you a beautiful one; he saved my child at sea. Prithee look on him with favour.”
“Madam,” said Teresa, “Leonora told me you’re looking for a writer: I’ve brought you a great one; he saved my child at sea. Please look upon him favorably.”
The goldsmith's wife complied in one sense. She fixed her eyes on Gerard's comely face, and could hardly take them off again. But her reply was unsatisfactory. “Nay, I have no use for a writer. Ah! I mind now, it is my gossip, Claelia, the sausage-maker, wants one; she told me, and I told Leonora.”
The goldsmith's wife agreed in a way. She focused on Gerard's attractive face and struggled to look away. But her answer was disappointing. “No, I don't need a writer. Oh! I remember now, my friend Claelia, the sausage-maker, is looking for one; she told me, and I passed it on to Leonora.”
Teresa made a courteous speech and withdrew.
Teresa gave a polite speech and stepped away.
Claelia lived at some distance, and when they reached her house she was out. Teresa said calmly, “I will await her return,” and sat so still, and dignified, and statuesque, that Gerard was beginning furtively to draw her, when Claelia returned.
Claelia lived a bit away, and when they got to her house, she wasn't there. Teresa said calmly, “I will wait for her to come back,” and sat so still, dignified, and statuesque that Gerard started to sneakily sketch her when Claelia came back.
“Madama, I hear from the goldsmith's wife, the excellent Olympia, that you need a writer” (here she took Gerard by the hand and led him forward); “I have brought you a beautiful one; he saved my child from the cruel waves. For our Lady's sake look with favour on him.”
“Madam, I heard from the goldsmith's wife, the wonderful Olympia, that you need a writer” (here she took Gerard by the hand and led him forward); “I’ve brought you a great one; he saved my child from the merciless waves. For our Lady's sake, please give him a chance.”
“My good dame, my fair Ser,” said Claelia, “I have no use for a writer; but now you remind me, it was my friend Appia Claudia asked me for one but the other day. She is a tailor, lives in the Via Lepida.”
“My good lady, my fair Ser,” said Claelia, “I don’t need a writer; but now that you mention it, my friend Appia Claudia asked me for one just the other day. She’s a tailor and lives on Via Lepida.”
Teresa retired calmly.
Teresa retired peacefully.
“Madama,” said Gerard, “this is likely to be a tedious business for you.”
“Madam,” said Gerard, “this is probably going to be a boring task for you.”
Teresa opened her eyes.
Teresa woke up.
“What was ever done without a little patience?” She added mildly, “We will knock at every door at Rome but you shall have justice.”
“What has ever been accomplished without a bit of patience?” She added gently, “We will knock on every door in Rome, but you will get justice.”
“But, madama, I think we are dogged. I noticed a man that follows us, sometimes afar, sometimes close.”
“But, madam, I think we’re being followed. I noticed a man tailing us, sometimes from a distance and sometimes quite close.”
“I have seen it,” said Teresa coldly; but her cheek coloured faintly. “It is my poor Lodovico.”
“I've seen it,” Teresa said coldly, though her cheek flushed slightly. “It’s my poor Lodovico.”
She stopped and turned, and beckoned with her finger.
She stopped, turned around, and waved her finger.
A figure approached them somewhat unwillingly.
A figure approached them with some hesitation.
When he came up, she gazed him full in the face, and he looked sheepish.
When he surfaced, she looked him straight in the face, and he seemed embarrassed.
“Lodovico mio,” said she, “know this young Ser, of whom I have so often spoken to thee. Know him and love him, for he it was who saved thy wife and child.”
“Lodovico, my dear,” she said, “you should meet this young man I’ve talked about so much. Get to know him and care for him, because he’s the one who saved your wife and child.”
At these last words Lodovico, who had been bowing and grinning artificially, suddenly changed to an expression of heartfelt gratitude, and embraced Gerard warmly.
At these last words, Lodovico, who had been bowing and smiling with a fake grin, suddenly shifted to a look of genuine gratitude and hugged Gerard tightly.
Yet somehow there was something in the man's original manner, and his having followed his wife by stealth, that made Gerard uncomfortable under this caress. However, he said, “We shall have your company, Ser Lodovico?”
Yet somehow there was something about the man’s initial demeanor, and his sneaky following of his wife, that made Gerard uneasy under this affection. Still, he said, “So, will we have your company, Ser Lodovico?”
“No, signor,” replied Lodovico, “I go not on that side Tiber.”
“No, sir,” replied Lodovico, “I’m not going to that side of the Tiber.”
“Addio, then,” said Teresa significantly.
"Goodbye, then," Teresa said meaningfully.
“When shall you return home, Teresa mia?”
“When are you coming home, my Teresa?”
“When I have done mine errand, Lodovico.”
“When I’ve finished my task, Lodovico.”
They pursued their way in silence. Teresa now wore a sad and almost gloomy air.
They continued on their way in silence. Teresa had a sad and almost gloomy look about her.
To be brief, Appia Claudia was merciful, and did not send them over Tiber again, but only a hundred yards down the street to Lucretia, who kept the glove shop; she it was wanted a writer; but what for, Appia Claudia could not conceive. Lucretia was a merry little dame, who received them heartily enough, and told them she wanted no writer, kept all her accounts in her head. “It was for my confessor, Father Colonna; he is mad after them.”
To keep it short, Appia Claudia was kind and didn’t send them back across the Tiber again, but instead just a hundred yards down the street to Lucretia, who ran the glove shop. She was the one looking for a writer, but Appia Claudia couldn’t understand why. Lucretia was a cheerful little woman who welcomed them warmly and said she didn’t need a writer since she kept all her accounts in her head. “It was for my confessor, Father Colonna; he’s really into them.”
“I have heard of his excellency,” said Teresa.
“I’ve heard of his excellence,” Teresa said.
“Who has not?”
"Who hasn't?"
“But, good dame, he is a friar; he has made vow of poverty. I cannot let the young man write and not be paid. He saved my child at sea.
“But, good lady, he's a friar; he's taken a vow of poverty. I can't let the young man write without being compensated. He saved my child at sea.”
“Did he now?” And Lucretia cast an approving look on Gerard. “Well, make your mind easy; a Colonna never wants for money. The good father has only to say the word, and the princes of his race will pour a thousand crowns into his lap. And such a confessor, dame! the best in Rome. His head is leagues and leagues away all the while; he never heeds what you are saying. Why, I think no more of confessing my sins to him than of telling them to that wall. Once, to try him, I confessed, along with the rest, as how I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her in a pie. Well, when my voice left off confessing, he started out of his dream, and says he, a mustering up a gloom, 'My erring sister, say three Paternosters and three Ave Marias kneeling, and eat no butter nor eggs next Wednesday, and pax vobiscum!' and off a went with his hands behind him, looking as if there was no such thing as me in the world.”
“Did he really?” Lucretia shot Gerard an approving glance. “Well, don’t worry; a Colonna never lacks for money. The good father just has to say the word, and the princes in his family will drop a thousand crowns into his lap. And what a confessor, my dear! The best in Rome. His mind is miles away the whole time; he never pays attention to what you’re saying. Honestly, I think no more of confessing my sins to him than I would of telling them to that wall. Once, just to test him, I confessed, along with everyone else, that I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her into a pie. Well, when I finished confessing, he snapped out of his daydream and said, all somber, ‘My wandering sister, say three Paternosters and three Ave Marias on your knees, and don’t eat butter or eggs next Wednesday, and peace be with you!’ Then he walked off with his hands behind his back, looking as if I didn’t even exist.”
Teresa waited patiently, then calmly brought this discursive lady back to the point: “Would she be so kind as go with this good youth to the friar and speak for him?”
Teresa waited patiently, then calmly brought this chatty woman back to the main point: “Would you be so kind as to go with this good young man to the friar and speak on his behalf?”
“Alack! how can I leave my shop? And what need? His door is aye open to writers, and painters, and scholars, and all such cattle. Why, one day he would not receive the Duke d'Urbino, because a learned Greek was closeted with him, and the friar's head and his so close together over a dusty parchment just come in from Greece, as you could put one cowl over the pair. His wench Onesta told me. She mostly looks in here for a chat when she goes an errand.”
“Alas! How can I leave my shop? And why should I? His door is always open to writers, painters, scholars, and all those kinds of people. One day, he even refused to see the Duke of Urbino because a learned Greek was in his room, and the friar's head was so close to his over a dusty parchment that had just arrived from Greece that you could have covered both with one hood. His girl Onesta told me. She usually stops by here for a chat when she runs an errand.”
“This is the man for thee, my friend,” said Teresa.
“This is the guy for you, my friend,” said Teresa.
“All you have to do,” continued Lucretia, “is to go to his lodgings (my boy shall show them you), and tell Onesta you come from me, and you are a writer, and she will take you up to him. If you put a piece of silver in the wench's hand, 'twill do you no harm: that stands to reason.”
“All you need to do,” continued Lucretia, “is go to his place (my boy will show you where it is), and tell Onesta that you’re coming from me and that you’re a writer, and she’ll take you to him. If you give the girl a bit of silver, it won’t hurt you: that’s just common sense.”
“I have silver,” said Teresa warmly.
“I have silver,” Teresa said with a warm smile.
“But stay,” said Lucretia, “mind one thing. What the young man saith he can do, that he must be able to do, or let him shun the good friar like poison. He is a very wild beast against all bunglers. Why, 'twas but t'other day, one brought him an ill-carved crucifix. Says he, 'Is this how you present “Salvator Mundi?” who died for you in mortal agony; and you go and grudge him careful work. This slovenly gimcrack, a crucifix? But that it is a crucifix of some sort, and I am a holy man, I'd dust your jacket with your crucifix,' says he. Onesta heard every word through the key-hole; so mind.”
“But wait,” said Lucretia, “remember one thing. What the young man claims he can do, he must actually be able to do, or he should avoid the good friar like the plague. He’s a real beast when it comes to incompetence. Just the other day, someone brought him a poorly carved crucifix. He said, ‘Is this how you honor “Salvator Mundi,” who died for you in agony; and you begrudge him proper work? This messy piece is a crucifix? If it wasn’t a crucifix of some kind, and I weren’t a holy man, I’d wipe your jacket with your crucifix,’ he said. Onesta heard every word through the keyhole; so be careful.”
“Have no fears, madama,” said Teresa loftily. “I will answer for his ability; he saved my child.”
“Don’t worry, madam,” Teresa said confidently. “I’ll vouch for his skill; he saved my child.”
Gerard was not subtle enough to appreciate this conclusion; and was so far from sharing Teresa's confidence that he begged a respite. He would rather not go to the friar to-day: would not to-morrow do as well?
Gerard wasn't subtle enough to understand this conclusion, and he was so far from sharing Teresa's confidence that he asked for a delay. He would rather not go to the friar today; could tomorrow work just as well?
“Here is a coward for ye,” said Lucretia.
“Here’s a coward for you,” said Lucretia.
“No, he is not a coward,” said Teresa, firing up; “he is modest.”
“No, he’s not a coward,” Teresa said, getting fired up. “He’s just modest.”
“I am afraid of this high-born, fastidious friar,” said Gerard, “Consider he has seen the handiwork of all the writers in Italy, dear dame Teresa; if you would but let me prepare a better piece of work than yet I have done, and then to-morrow I will face him with it.”
“I’m afraid of this upper-class, picky friar,” said Gerard, “Think about it; he’s seen the work of all the writers in Italy, dear dame Teresa. If you would just let me create a better piece than I’ve done so far, then tomorrow I’ll confront him with it.”
“I consent,” said Teresa.
"I agree," said Teresa.
They walked home together.
They walked home together.
Not far from his own lodging was a shop that sold vellum. There was a beautiful white skin in the window. Gerard looked at it wistfully; but he knew he could not pay for it; so he went on rather hastily. However, he soon made up his mind where to get vellum, and parting with Teresa at his own door, ran hastily upstairs, and took the bond he had brought all the way from Sevenbergen, and laid it with a sigh on the table. He then prepared with his chemicals to erase the old writing; but as this was his last chance of reading it, he now overcame his deadly repugnance to bad writing, and proceeded to decipher the deed in spite of its detestable contractions. It appeared by this deed that Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was to advance some money to Floris Brandt on a piece of land, and was to repay himself out of the rent.
Not far from where he lived, there was a shop that sold vellum. A beautiful white skin caught Gerard’s eye in the window. He looked at it longingly but knew he couldn’t afford it, so he hurried on. However, he soon decided where to get vellum and, after saying goodbye to Teresa at his door, ran upstairs. He took the bond he had brought all the way from Sevenbergen and laid it with a sigh on the table. Then he got his chemicals ready to erase the old writing; but since this was his last chance to read it, he pushed aside his strong dislike for bad handwriting and began to decipher the deed despite its awful abbreviations. The deed revealed that Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was supposed to lend Floris Brandt some money for a piece of land and would pay himself back from the rent.
On this Gerard felt it would be imprudent and improper to destroy the deed. On the contrary, he vowed to decipher every word, at his leisure. He went downstairs, determined to buy a small piece of vellum with his half of the card-money.
On this, Gerard thought it would be unwise and inappropriate to destroy the deed. Instead, he promised to read every word carefully, whenever he had time. He went downstairs, resolved to buy a small piece of vellum with his share of the card money.
At the bottom of the stairs he found the landlady and Teresa talking. At sight of him the former cried, “Here he is. You are caught, donna mia. See what she has bought you?” And whipped out from under her apron the very skin of vellum Gerard had longed for.
At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the landlady and Teresa chatting. As soon as she spotted him, the landlady exclaimed, “There he is. You’re in trouble now, my dear. Look what she has bought you!” And she pulled out from under her apron the very vellum skin Gerard had been wanting for a long time.
“Why, dame! why, donna Teresa!” And he was speechless with pleasure and astonishment.
“Why, ma'am! Why, Ms. Teresa!” And he was left speechless with joy and surprise.
“Dear donna Teresa, there is not a skin in all Rome like it. However came you to hit on this one? 'Tis glamour.”
“Dear Donna Teresa, there isn’t a skin in all of Rome like it. How did you come to choose this one? It’s glamorous.”
“Alas, dear boy, did not thine eye rest on it with desire? and didst thou not sigh in turning away from it? And was it for Teresa to let thee want the thing after that?”
“Alas, dear boy, didn’t your eye linger on it with desire? And didn’t you sigh when you turned away from it? And was it for Teresa to let you want it after that?”
“What sagacity! what goodness, madama! Oh, dame, I never thought I should possess this. What did you pay for it?”
“What wisdom! What kindness, madam! Oh, lady, I never thought I would have this. How much did you pay for it?”
“I forget. Addio, Fiammina. Addio, Ser Gerard. Be happy, be prosperous, as you are good.” And the Roman matron glided away while Gerard was hesitating, and thinking how to offer to pay so stately a creature for her purchase.
“I forget. Goodbye, Fiammina. Goodbye, Sir Gerard. Be happy, be successful, as you are kind.” And the Roman matron gracefully walked away while Gerard hesitated, thinking about how to repay such a noble lady for her purchase.
The next day in the afternoon he went to Lucretia, and her boy took him to Fra Colonna's lodgings. He announced his business, and feed Onesta, and she took him up to the friar. Gerard entered with a beating heart. The room, a large one, was strewed and heaped with objects of art, antiquity, and learning, lying about in rich profusion, and confusion. Manuscripts, pictures, carvings in wood and ivory, musical instruments; and in this glorious chaos sat the friar, poring intently over an Arabian manuscript.
The next day in the afternoon, he went to see Lucretia, and her son took him to Fra Colonna's place. He shared his purpose, and after a brief wait, she led him up to the friar. Gerard walked in with a pounding heart. The room was large and filled with a wealth of art, ancient objects, and books, all scattered in a luxurious mess. There were manuscripts, paintings, wooden and ivory carvings, musical instruments; and in the midst of this beautiful chaos sat the friar, deeply focused on an Arabic manuscript.
He looked up a little peevishly at the interruption. Onesta whispered in his ear.
He looked up a bit annoyed at the interruption. Onesta whispered in his ear.
“Very well,” said he. “Let him be seated. Stay; young man, show me how you write?” And he threw Gerard a piece of paper, and pointed to an inkhorn.
“Alright,” he said. “Let him take a seat. Wait; young man, let me see how you write?” He tossed Gerard a piece of paper and gestured to an inkhorn.
“So please you, reverend father,” said Gerard, “my hand it trembleth too much at this moment; but last night I wrote a vellum page of Greek, and the Latin version by its side, to show the various character.”
“So please you, reverend father,” Gerard said, “my hand is trembling too much right now; but last night I wrote a page of Greek on parchment, with the Latin translation next to it, to show the different style.”
“Show it me?”
"Can you show it to me?"
Gerard brought the work to him in fear and trembling; then stood heart-sick, awaiting his verdict.
Gerard brought the work to him feeling scared and anxious; then stood there, feeling heartbroken, waiting for his judgment.
When it came it staggered him. For the verdict was, a Dominican falling on his neck.
When it came, it shocked him. The verdict was a Dominican throwing himself on his neck.
The next day an event took place in Holland, the effect of which on Gerard's destiny, no mortal at the time, nor even my intelligent reader now, could, I think, foresee.
The next day, an event happened in Holland that would unknowingly impact Gerard's destiny in a way no one could predict, neither the people of that time nor even my sharp reader today.
Marched up to Eli's door a pageant brave to the eye of sense, and to the vulgar judgment noble, but to the philosophic, pitiable more or less.
Marched up to Eli's door was a grand spectacle to the senses, and to the average observer it seemed impressive, but to a philosopher, it was more or less pitiful.
It looked one animal, a centaur; but on severe analysis proved two. The human half were sadly bedizened with those two metals, to clothe his carcass with which and line his pouch, man has now and then disposed of his soul: still the horse was the vainer brute of the two; he was far worse beflounced, bebonneted, and bemantled, than any fair lady regnante crinolina. For the man, under the colour of a warming-pan, retained Nature's outline. But it was subaudi equum! Scarce a pennyweight of honest horse-flesh to be seen. Our crinoline spares the noble parts of women, and makes but the baser parts gigantic (why this preference?); but this poor animal from stem to stern was swamped in finery. His ears were hid in great sheaths of white linen tipped with silver and blue. His body swaddled in stiff gorgeous cloths descending to the ground, except just in front, where they left him room to mince. His tail, though dear to memory, no doubt, was lost to sight, being tucked in heaven knows how. Only his eyes shone out like goggles, through two holes pierced in the wall of haberdashery, and his little front hoofs peeped in and out like rats.
It looked like one creature, a centaur; but upon closer examination, it turned out to be two. The human part was sadly decked out with metals, which man occasionally uses to adorn himself and line his pockets, sometimes at the expense of his soul: yet the horse was the more vain of the two; he was far more overdecorated, bejeweled, and clothed than any stylish lady in crinoline. The man, under all that fluff, still retained some of Nature's shape. But the horse? Not a trace of honest horseflesh to be seen. Our crinoline outfits conceal the noble parts of women and exaggerate their less admirable features (why this bias?); but this poor creature was drowning in extravagance from head to tail. His ears were hidden under huge sheaths of white fabric adorned with silver and blue. His body was wrapped in stiff, extravagant fabrics that touched the ground, except in front, where there was just enough space for him to move. His tail, though likely a source of pride, was undoubtedly hidden, tucked away in who knows what manner. Only his eyes stood out like goggles, peering through two holes cut into this sea of fabric, and his tiny front hooves peeked in and out like little rodents.
Yet did this compound, gorgeous and irrational, represent power; absolute power: it came straight from a tournament at the Duke's court, which being on a progress, lay last night at a neighbouring town—to execute the behests of royalty.
Yet this mixture, beautiful and illogical, represented power; absolute power: it came straight from a tournament at the Duke's court, which, on its way, stayed last night in a nearby town—to carry out the orders of royalty.
“What ho!” cried the upper half, and on Eli emerging, with his wife behind him, saluted them. “Peace be with you, good people. Rejoice! I am come for your dwarf.”
“Hey there!” shouted the upper half, and as Eli stepped out with his wife following him, he greeted them. “Peace be with you, good folks. Rejoice! I have come for your dwarf.”
Eli looked amazed, and said nothing. But Catherine screamed over his shoulder, “You have mistook your road, good man; here abides no dwarf.”
Eli looked stunned and didn’t say anything. But Catherine yelled over his shoulder, “You’ve taken the wrong path, good sir; there’s no dwarf here.”
“Nay, wife, he means our Giles, who is somewhat small of stature: why gainsay what gainsayed may not be?”
“Nah, wife, he’s talking about our Giles, who is a bit short: why argue against what can’t be argued?”
“Ay!” cried the pageant, “that is he, and discourseth like the big taber.
“Ay!” shouted the pageant, “that’s him, and he talks like a big guy.”
“His breast is sound for that matter,” said Catherine sharply.
“His chest is fine about that,” Catherine said sharply.
“And prompt with his fists though at long odds.”
“And quick with his fists even against tough odds.”
“Else how would the poor thing keep his head in such a world as this?”
“Otherwise, how would the poor thing manage to stay sane in a world like this?”
“'Tis well said, dame. Art as ready with thy weapon as he; art his mother, likely. So bring him forth, and that presently. See, they lead a stunted mule for him. The Duke hath need of him, sore need; we are clean out o' dwarven, and tiger-cats, which may not be, whiles earth them yieldeth. Our last hop o' my thumb tumbled down the well t'other day.”
“That's well said, lady. You’re just as ready with your weapon as he is; you’re probably his mother. So bring him out, and do it quickly. Look, they’re bringing a small mule for him. The Duke needs him, really needs him; we’re completely out of dwarves and tiger-cats, which may not happen while the earth still yields them. Our last bit of luck just fell down the well the other day.”
“And think you I'll let my darling go to such an ill-guided house as you, where the reckless trollops of servants close not the well mouth, but leave it open to trap innocents, like wolven?”
“And you think I’m going to let my darling go to such a misguided place as yours, where the reckless servants don’t close the well but leave it open to trap the innocent, like wolves?”
The representative of autocracy lost patience at this unwonted opposition, and with stern look and voice bade her bethink her whether it was the better of the two; “to have your abortion at court fed like a bishop and put on like a prince, or to have all your heads stricken off and borne on poles, with the bellman crying, 'Behold the heads of hardy rebels, which having by good luck a misbegotten son, did traitorously grudge him to the Duke, who is the true father of all his folk, little or mickle?'
The representative of autocracy lost patience with this unexpected opposition and, with a stern look and voice, told her to consider which option was better: “to have your execution at court, treated like a bishop and dressed like a prince, or to have all your heads chopped off and displayed on poles, with the bellman shouting, 'Look at the heads of brave rebels, who, by a stroke of bad luck, had a misbegotten son and traitorously denied him to the Duke, the true father of all his people, big or small?'”
“Nay,” said Eli sadly, “miscall us not. We be true folk, and neither rebels nor traitors. But 'tis sudden, and the poor lad is our true flesh and blood, and hath of late given proof of more sense than heretofore.”
“Please,” Eli said sadly, “don’t mislabel us. We are honest people, not rebels or traitors. But this is sudden, and the poor boy is our own flesh and blood, and he has recently shown more sense than before.”
“Avails not threatening our lives,” whimpered Catherine; “we grudge him not to the Duke; but in sooth he cannot go; his linen is all in holes. So there is an end.”
“It's not worth threatening our lives,” Catherine complained; “we don't begrudge him to the Duke; but honestly, he can't go; his clothes are all torn. So that's that.”
But the male mind resisted this crusher.
But the male mind pushed back against this force.
“Think you the Duke will not find linen, and cloth of gold to boot? None so brave, none so affected, at court, as our monsters, big or wee.”
“Do you really think the Duke won't find linen and gold cloth as well? There’s no one as bold or as pretentious at court as our freaks, big or small.”
How long the dispute might have lasted, before the iron arguments of despotism achieved the inevitable victory, I know not; but it was cut short by a party whom neither disputant had deigned to consult.
How long the dispute might have gone on before the harsh arguments of tyranny won out, I don't know; but it was ended by a group neither side had bothered to consult.
The bone of contention walked out of the house, and sided with monarchy.
The source of conflict left the house and joined the monarchy.
“If my folk are mad, I am not,” he roared. “I'll go with you and on the instant.”
“If my people are crazy, I’m not,” he shouted. “I’ll go with you right now.”
At this Catherine set up a piteous cry. She saw another of her brood escaping from under her wing into some unknown element. Giles was not quite insensible to her distress, so simple yet so eloquent. He said, “Nay, take not on, mother! Why, 'tis a godsend. And I am sick of this, ever since Gerard left it.”
At this, Catherine let out a heartbreaking cry. She saw another one of her children slipping away from her protection into an unknown place. Giles could sense her distress, so straightforward yet so powerful. He said, “Don’t worry, Mom! It’s actually a blessing. And I’ve been tired of this ever since Gerard left.”
“Ah, cruel Giles! Should ye not rather say she is bereaved of Gerard: the more need of you to stay aside her and comfort her.”
“Ah, cruel Giles! Shouldn't you say she is grieving for Gerard: all the more reason for you to stay by her side and comfort her.”
“Oh! I am not going to Rome. Not such a fool. I shall never be farther than Rotterdam; and I'll often come and see you; and if I like not the place, who shall keep me there? Not all the dukes in Christendom.”
“Oh! I’m not going to Rome. I’m not that foolish. I will never be farther than Rotterdam; and I’ll visit you often; and if I don't like the place, who can force me to stay? Not all the dukes in Christendom.”
“Good sense lies in little bulk,” said the emissary approvingly. “Therefore, Master Giles, buss the old folk, and thank them for misbegetting of thee; and ho! you—bring hither his mule.”
“Good sense comes in small packages,” said the envoy with approval. “So, Master Giles, kiss the old folks and thank them for bringing you into the world; and hey! you—bring his mule over here.”
One of his retinue brought up the dwarf mule. Giles refused it with scorn. And on being asked the reason, said it was not just.
One of his entourage brought up the dwarf mule. Giles rejected it with disdain. And when asked why, he said it wasn't right.
“What! would ye throw all into one scale! Put muckle to muckle, and little to wee! Besides, I hate and scorn small things. I'll go on the highest horse here, or not at all.”
“What! Are you really going to weigh everything in one scale? Put big things with big, and small with small! Besides, I can't stand and look down on little things. I'll ride the highest horse here, or not at all.”
The pursuivant eyed him attentively a moment. He then adopted a courteous manner. “I shall study your will in all things reasonable. (Dismount, Eric, yours is the highest horse.) And if you would halt in the town an hour or so, while you bid them farewell, say but the word, and your pleasure shall be my delight.”
The pursuivant watched him closely for a moment. He then took on a polite attitude. “I will respect your wishes in all reasonable matters. (Get down, Eric, yours is the tallest horse.) And if you want to stop in town for an hour or so to say goodbye, just say the word, and what you want will be my pleasure.”
Giles reflected.
Giles thought.
“Master,” said he, “if we wait a month, 'twill be still the same: my mother is a good soul, but her body is bigger than her spirit. We shall not part without a tear or two, and the quicker 'tis done the fewer; so bring yon horse to me.”
“Master,” he said, “if we wait a month, it’ll still be the same: my mother is a good person, but her body is larger than her spirit. We won’t part without shedding a tear or two, and the sooner it’s done, the fewer tears there will be; so bring that horse to me.”
Catherine threw her apron over her face and sobbed. The high horse was brought, and Giles was for swarming up his tail, like a rope; but one of the servants cried out hastily, “Forbear, for he kicketh.” “I'll kick him,” said Giles. “Bring him close beneath this window, and I'll learn you all how to mount a horse which kicketh, and will not be clomb by the tail, the staircase of a horse.” And he dashed into the house, and almost immediately reappeared at an upper window, with a rope in his hand. He fastened an end somehow, and holding the other, descended as swift and smooth as an oiled thunderbolt in a groove, and lighted astride his high horse as unperceived by that animal as a fly settling on him.
Catherine threw her apron over her face and cried. The horse was brought in, and Giles was ready to climb up its tail like it was a rope; but one of the servants shouted quickly, "Stop, he's going to kick!" "I'll kick him," said Giles. "Bring him right under this window, and I'll show you all how to ride a horse that kicks and won't let you climb on by the tail, like a horse's staircase." Then he dashed into the house and almost immediately appeared at an upper window, holding a rope. He somehow tied one end, and holding the other, he slid down quickly and smoothly like an oiled bolt in a groove, and landed on his high horse as unnoticed by the animal as a fly landing on him.
The official lifted his hands to heaven in mawkish admiration. “I have gotten a pearl,” thought he, “and wow but this will be a good day's work for me.”
The official raised his hands to the sky in sentimental admiration. “I’ve found a gem,” he thought, “and wow, this is going to be a great day for me.”
“Come, father, come, mother, buss me, and bless me, and off I go.”
“Come on, Dad, come on, Mom, kiss me, and bless me, and I'm off.”
Eli gave him his blessing, and bade him be honest and true, and a credit to his folk. Catherine could not speak, but clung to him with many sobs and embraces; and even through the mist of tears her eye detected in a moment the little rent in his sleeve he had made getting out of window, and she whipped out her needle and mended it then and there, and her tears fell on his arm the while, unheeded—except by those unfleshly eyes, with which they say the very air is thronged.
Eli gave him his blessing and told him to be honest and true, and to make his family proud. Catherine couldn’t find the words, but she held onto him, crying and embracing him. Even through her tears, she noticed the small tear in his sleeve from when he climbed out the window, and she pulled out her needle and stitched it up right then and there, her tears falling onto his arm without him noticing—except for those otherworldly eyes that say the air is filled with them.
And so the dwarf mounted the high horse, and rode away complacent with the old hand laying the court butter on his back with a trowel.
And so the dwarf got on the tall horse and rode away, satisfied with the old hand spreading the court butter on his back with a trowel.
Little recked Perpusillus of two poor silly females that sat by the bereaved hearth, rocking themselves, and weeping, and discussing all his virtues, and how his mind had opened lately, and blind as two beetles to his faults, who rode away from them, jocund and bold.
Little did Perpusillus care about the two poor silly women sitting by the grieving hearth, rocking themselves, weeping, and talking about all his virtues, and how his mind had opened up recently, completely oblivious to his faults, while he rode away from them, cheerful and confident.
Ingentes animos angusto pectore versans.
Great minds troubled by narrow hearts.
Arrived at court he speedily became a great favourite.
Arriving at court, he quickly became a favorite.
One strange propensity of his electrified the palace; but on account of his small size, and for variety's sake, and as a monster, he was indulged on it. In a word, he was let speak the truth.
One odd characteristic of his energized the palace; but because of his small stature, and for the sake of variety, and as a curiosity, he was allowed to indulge in it. In simple terms, he was permitted to speak the truth.
It is an unpopular thing.
It's an unpopular thing.
He made it an intolerable one.
He made it intolerable.
Bawled it.
Cried about it.
CHAPTER LIX
Happy the man who has two chain-cables: Merit, and Women.
Oh, that I, like Gerard, had a 'chaine des dames' to pull up by.
Oh, how I wish I had a 'chaine des dames' to pull up, just like Gerard.
I would be prose laureat, or professor of the spasmodic, or something, in no time. En attendant, I will sketch the Fra Colonna.
I would be the poetry champion, or a professor of the dramatic, or something like that, in no time. In the meantime, I will sketch the Fra Colonna.
The true revivers of ancient learning and philosophy were two writers of fiction—Petrarch and Boccaccio.
The actual pioneers of ancient knowledge and philosophy were two fictional writers—Petrarch and Boccaccio.
Their labours were not crowned with great, public, and immediate success; but they sowed the good seed; and it never perished, but quickened in the soil, awaiting sunshine.
Their efforts didn’t result in major, public, and instant success; but they planted the good seeds, and those seeds never died. They thrived in the ground, waiting for the sunshine.
From their day Italy was never without a native scholar or two, versed in Greek; and each learned Greek who landed there was received fraternally. The fourteenth century, ere its close, saw the birth of Poggio, Valla, and the elder Guarino; and early in the fifteenth Florence under Cosmo de Medici was a nest of Platonists. These, headed by Gemistus Pletho, a born Greek, began about A.D. 1440 to write down Aristotle. For few minds are big enough to be just to great A without being unjust to capital B.
Since their early days, Italy always had a native scholar or two who knew Greek, and every Greek scholar who arrived there was welcomed warmly. The fourteenth century, before it ended, saw the emergence of Poggio, Valla, and the elder Guarino; and early in the fifteenth century, Florence, under Cosmo de Medici, became a hub for Platonists. Led by Gemistus Pletho, a native Greek, they started around A.D. 1440 to document Aristotle. For not many minds are capable of being fair to great A without being unfair to capital B.
Theodore Gaza defended that great man with moderation; George of Trebizond with acerbity, and retorted on Plato. Then Cardinal Bessarion, another born Greek, resisted the said George, and his idol, in a tract “Adversus calumniatorem Platonis.”
Theodore Gaza defended that great man calmly; George of Trebizond harshly criticized him and hit back at Plato. Then Cardinal Bessarion, another Greek by birth, stood against George and his idol in a piece titled “Adversus calumniatorem Platonis.”
Pugnacity, whether wise or not, is a form of vitality. Born without controversial bile in so zealous an epoch, Francesco Colonna, a young nobleman of Florence, lived for the arts. At twenty he turned Dominican friar. His object was quiet study. He retired from idle company, and faction fights, the humming and the stinging of the human hive, to St. Dominic and the Nine Muses.
Pugnacity, whether it makes sense or not, is a kind of energy. Born without controversial bitterness in such a passionate time, Francesco Colonna, a young nobleman from Florence, lived for the arts. At twenty, he became a Dominican friar. His goal was to study quietly. He distanced himself from pointless socializing, faction battles, and the buzzing chaos of the human world to focus on St. Dominic and the Nine Muses.
An eager student of languages, pictures, statues, chronology, coins, and monumental inscriptions. These last loosened his faith in popular histories.
An enthusiastic learner of languages, images, statues, timelines, coins, and monumental inscriptions. The last ones challenged his belief in popular histories.
He travelled many years in the East, and returned laden with spoils; master of several choice MSS., and versed in Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Syriac. He found his country had not stood still. Other lettered princes besides Cosmo had sprung up. Alfonso King of Naples, Nicolas d'Este, Lionel d'Este, etc. Above all, his old friend Thomas of Sarzana had been made Pope, and had lent a mighty impulse to letters; had accumulated 5000 MSS. in the library of the Vatican, and had set Poggio to translate Diodorus Siculus and Xenophon's Cyropaedia, Laurentius Valla to translate Herodotus and Thucydides, Theodore Gaza, Theophrastus; George of Trebizond, Eusebius, and certain treatises of Plato, etc. etc.
He traveled for many years in the East and returned loaded with treasures; a master of several valuable manuscripts and skilled in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and Syriac. He discovered that his country hadn't stood still. Other educated princes had risen up besides Cosmo. Alfonso, King of Naples, Nicolas d'Este, Lionel d'Este, and others. Above all, his old friend Thomas of Sarzana had become Pope and had given a significant boost to learning; he had gathered 5000 manuscripts in the Vatican library and had tasked Poggio with translating Diodorus Siculus and Xenophon's Cyropaedia, Laurentius Valla with translating Herodotus and Thucydides, Theodore Gaza, Theophrastus; George of Trebizond, Eusebius, and various treatises of Plato, and so on.
The monk found Plato and Aristotle under armistice, but Poggio and Valla at loggerheads over verbs and nouns, and on fire with odium philologicum. All this was heaven; and he settled down in his native land, his life a rosy dream. None so happy as the versatile, provided they have not their bread to make by it. And Fra Colonna was Versatility. He knew seven or eight languages, and a little mathematics; could write a bit, paint a bit, model a bit, sing a bit, strum a bit; and could relish superior excellence in all these branches. For this last trait he deserved to be as happy as he was. For, gauge the intellects of your acquaintances, and you will find but few whose minds are neither deaf, nor blind, nor dead to some great art or science—
The monk discovered Plato and Aristotle in a truce, but Poggio and Valla were at odds over grammar and filled with a burning passion for philology. This was bliss, and he settled down in his hometown, living a dream life. No one is happier than someone who's adaptable, as long as they don't have to rely on it for a living. And Fra Colonna was the epitome of adaptability. He knew seven or eight languages, some math; could write a little, paint a little, sculpt a little, sing a little, play a bit of music; and he could appreciate excellence in all these areas. For this last quality, he deserved to be as happy as he was. When you assess the intellects of the people around you, you'll find that few are truly open to the vastness of any great art or science—
“And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.”
“And wisdom is completely shut out at one entrance.”
And such of them as are conceited as well as stupid shall even parade instead of blushing for the holes in their intellects.
And those who are both arrogant and clueless will show off instead of being embarrassed by their lack of understanding.
A zealot in art, the friar was a sceptic in religion.
A passionate artist, the friar was doubtful when it came to religion.
In every age there are a few men who hold the opinions of another age, past or future. Being a lump of simplicity, his sceptism was as naif as his enthusiasm. He affected to look on the religious ceremonies of his day as his models, the heathen philosophers, regarded the worship of gods and departed heroes: mummeries good for the populace. But here his mind drew unconsciously a droll distinction. Whatever Christian ceremony his learning taught him was of purely pagan origin, that he respected, out of respect for antiquity; though had he, with his turn of mind, been a pagan and its contemporary, he would have scorned it from his philosophic heights.
In every era, there are always a few people who hold the views of a different time, whether it’s from the past or the future. Being quite simple-minded, his skepticism was as naive as his enthusiasm. He pretended to view the religious ceremonies of his time as the heathen philosophers viewed the worship of gods and dead heroes: silly rituals meant for the masses. However, here he unconsciously made a funny distinction. He respected any Christian ceremony he learned about that had purely pagan origins, out of respect for history; yet had he been a pagan and living in that time, he would have looked down on it from his high-minded philosophical perspective.
Fra Colonna was charmed with his new artist, and having the run of half the palaces in Rome, sounded his praises so, that he was soon called upon to resign him. He told Gerard what great princes wanted him. “But I am so happy with you, father,” objected Gerard. “Fiddlestick about being happy with me,” said Fra Colonna; “you must not be happy; you must be a man of the world; the grand lesson I impress on the young is, be a man of the world. Now these Montesini can pay you three times as much as I can, and they shall too-by Jupiter.”
Fra Colonna was really impressed with his new artist, and since he had access to half the palaces in Rome, he praised him so much that it wasn't long before others wanted him. He told Gerard about the great princes who were interested in him. “But I’m so happy with you, father,” Gerard protested. “Forget about being happy with me,” Fra Colonna replied; “you shouldn’t just be happy; you need to be a man of the world. The key lesson I teach the young is to be a man of the world. Now these Montesini can pay you three times what I can, and they definitely will—by Jupiter.”
And the friar clapped a terrific price on Gerard's pen. It was acceded to without a murmur. Much higher prices were going for copying than authorship ever obtained for centuries under the printing press.
And the friar put a huge price on Gerard's pen. It was accepted without complaint. For centuries, the prices for copying had been much higher than what authors ever made under the printing press.
Gerard had three hundred crowns for Aristotle's treatise on rhetoric.
Gerard had three hundred crowns for Aristotle's book on rhetoric.
The great are mighty sweet upon all their pets, while the fancy lasts; and in the rage for Greek MSS. the handsome writer soon became a pet, and nobles of both sexes caressed him like a lap dog.
The powerful are very affectionate toward all their favorites while the trend lasts; and in the excitement over Greek manuscripts, the attractive author quickly became a favorite, with nobles of both genders treating him like a lapdog.
It would have turned a vain fellow's head; but the canny Dutchman saw the steel hand beneath the velvet glove, and did not presume. Nevertheless it was a proud day for him when he found himself seated with Fra Colonna at the table of his present employer, Cardinal Bessarion. They were about a mile from the top of that table; but never mind, there they were and Gerard had the advantage of seeing roast pheasants dished up with all their feathers as if they had just flown out of a coppice instead of off the spit: also chickens cooked in bottles, and tender as peaches. But the grand novelty was the napkins, surpassingly fine, and folded into cocked hats, and birds' wings, and fans, etc., instead of lying flat. This electrified Gerard; though my readers have seen the dazzling phenomenon without tumbling backwards chair and all.
It would have gone to a vain person's head, but the shrewd Dutchman noticed the steel underneath the velvet glove and didn’t overstep. Still, it was a proud day for him when he found himself sitting with Fra Colonna at the table of his current boss, Cardinal Bessarion. They were about a mile from the top of that table, but no matter, there they were, and Gerard had the advantage of seeing roast pheasants served up with all their feathers as if they had just flown out of a thicket instead of off the spit; also, chickens cooked in bottles, and as tender as peaches. But the real novelty was the napkins, incredibly fine, and folded into cocked hats, birds' wings, and fans, instead of lying flat. This amazed Gerard, though my readers have seen this dazzling spectacle without falling backward, chair and all.
After dinner the tables were split in pieces, and carried away, and lo, under each was another table spread with sweetmeats. The signoras and signorinas fell upon them and gormandized; but the signors eyed them with reasonable suspicion.
After dinner, the tables were taken apart and removed, and look, underneath each was another table laid out with sweets. The women and young ladies eagerly dug in, but the men watched them with cautious suspicion.
“But, dear father,” objected Gerard, “I see not the bifurcal daggers, with which men say his excellency armeth the left hand of a man.”
“But, dear father,” Gerard disagreed, “I don’t see the double-edged daggers that people say his excellency gives to a man's left hand.”
“Nay, 'tis the Cardinal Orsini which hath invented yon peevish instrument for his guests to fumble their meat withal. One, being in haste, did skewer his tongue to his palate with it, I hear; O tempora, O mores! The ancients, reclining godlike at their feasts, how had they spurned such pedantries.”
“Nah, it’s Cardinal Orsini who invented that annoying tool for his guests to mess with their food. I heard one person, in a hurry, accidentally stabbed his tongue to the roof of his mouth with it; oh, the times we live in! The ancients, lounging like gods at their feasts, would have scoffed at such nonsense.”
As soon as the ladies had disported themselves among the sugar-plums, the tables were suddenly removed, and the guests sat in a row against the wall. Then came in, ducking and scraping, two ecclesiastics with lutes, and kneeled at the cardinal's feet and there sang the service of the day; then retired with a deep obeisance: In answer to which the cardinal fingered his skull cap as our late Iron Duke his hat: the company dispersed, and Gerard had dined with a cardinal and one that had thrice just missed being pope.
As soon as the ladies finished enjoying the treats, the tables were suddenly cleared away, and the guests sat in a line against the wall. Then, two clergymen entered, bowing and scraping, with lutes in hand. They knelt at the cardinal's feet and sang the day's service, then left with a deep bow. In response, the cardinal adjusted his skullcap like our late Iron Duke would adjust his hat. The guests scattered, and Gerard had just dined with a cardinal and a man who had almost become pope three times.
But greater honour was in store.
But even greater honor was coming.
One day the cardinal sent for him, and after praising the beauty of his work took him in his coach to the Vatican; and up a private stair to a luxurious little room, with a great oriel window. Here were inkstands, sloping frames for writing on, and all the instruments of art. The cardinal whispered a courtier, and presently the Pope's private secretary appeared with a glorious grimy old MS. of Plutarch's Lives. And soon Gerard was seated alone copying it, awe-struck, yet half delighted at the thought that his holiness would handle his work and read it.
One day, the cardinal called for him, and after complimenting the beauty of his work, took him in his coach to the Vatican; up a private staircase to a fancy little room with a large bay window. There were inkstands, sloping writing surfaces, and all the tools of the trade. The cardinal whispered to a courtier, and soon the Pope's private secretary came in with a glorious, grubby old manuscript of Plutarch's Lives. Before long, Gerard found himself alone, copying it, feeling both awed and half-delighted at the thought that His Holiness would handle his work and read it.
The papal inkstands were all glorious externally; but within the ink was vile. But Gerard carried ever good ink, home-made, in a dirty little inkhorn: he prayed on his knees for a firm and skilful hand, and set to work.
The papal inkstands looked impressive on the outside, but the ink inside was terrible. However, Gerard always carried good, homemade ink in a messy little inkhorn. He prayed on his knees for a steady and skilled hand, and then got to work.
One side of his room was nearly occupied by a massive curtain divided in the centre; but its ample folds overlapped. After a while Gerard felt drawn to peep through that curtain. He resisted the impulse. It returned. It overpowered him. He left Plutarch; stole across the matted floor; took the folds of the curtain, and gently gathered them up with his fingers, and putting his nose through the chink ran it against a cold steel halbert. Two soldiers, armed cap-a-pie, were holding their glittering weapons crossed in a triangle. Gerard drew swiftly back; but in that instant he heard the soft murmur of voices, and saw a group of persons cringing before some hidden figure.
One side of his room was almost taken up by a huge curtain split in the middle, but its large folds overlapped. After a while, Gerard felt compelled to peek through that curtain. He tried to ignore the urge. It kept coming back. It overtook him. He left Plutarch behind, quietly crossed the matted floor, took hold of the curtain, and carefully pulled it back with his fingers. When he poked his nose through the gap, it brushed against a cold steel halberd. Two soldiers, fully armed, were holding their shiny weapons crossed in a triangle. Gerard quickly pulled back, but at that moment, he heard soft whispers and saw a group of people cringing before some concealed figure.
He never repeated his attempt to pry through the guarded curtain; but often eyed it. Every hour or so an ecclesiastic peeped in, eyed him, chilled him, and exit. All this was gloomy, and mechanical. But the next day a gentleman, richly armed, bounced in, and glared at him. “What is toward here?” said he.
He never tried to push through the guarded curtain again, but often looked at it. Every hour or so, a church official peeked in, watched him, made him uneasy, and then left. It was all pretty bleak and routine. But the next day, a well-dressed man burst in and glared at him. "What's going on here?" he asked.
Gerard told him he was writing out Plutarch, with the help of the saints. The spark said he did not know the signor in question. Gerard explained the circumstances of time and space that had deprived the Signor Plutarch of the advantage of the spark's conversation.
Gerard told him he was copying Plutarch, with help from the saints. The spark said he didn’t know the person in question. Gerard explained the timing and circumstances that had kept Signor Plutarch from the benefit of the spark's conversation.
“Oh! one of those old dead Greeks they keep such a coil about.”
“Oh! one of those old dead Greeks they make such a fuss over.”
“Ay, signor, one of them, who, being dead, yet live.”
“Yeah, sir, one of them, who, although dead, still lives.”
“I understand you not, young man,” said the noble, with all the dignity of ignorance. “What did the old fellow write? Love stories?” and his eyes sparkled: “merry tales, like Boccaccio.”
“I don’t understand you at all, young man,” said the noble, with all the dignity of ignorance. “What did the old guy write? Love stories?” and his eyes sparkled: “funny tales, like Boccaccio.”
“Nay, lives of heroes and sages.”
“Nah, the lives of heroes and wise people.”
“Soldiers and popes?”
"Soldiers and priests?"
“Soldiers and princes.”
"Soldiers and royalty."
“Wilt read me of them some day?”
“Will you read some of them to me someday?”
“And willingly, signor. But what would they say who employ me, were I to break off work?”
“And of course, sir. But what would the people who hired me say if I were to stop working?”
“Oh, never heed that; know you not who I am? I am Jacques Bonaventura, nephew to his holiness the Pope, and captain of his guards. And I came here to look after my fellows. I trow they have turned them out of their room for you.” Signor Bonaventura then hurried away. This lively companion, however, having acquired a habit of running into that little room, and finding Gerard good company, often looked in on him, and chattered ephemeralities while Gerard wrote the immortal lives.
“Oh, don’t worry about that; don’t you know who I am? I’m Jacques Bonaventura, the Pope’s nephew and captain of his guards. I came here to check on my friends. I think they’ve kicked them out of their room for you.” Signor Bonaventura then rushed off. This lively friend, however, having gotten into the habit of dropping by that little room and enjoying Gerard's company, often stopped in to chat about trivial things while Gerard wrote his timeless works.
One day he came a changed and moody man, and threw himself into chair, crying, “Ah, traitress! traitress!” Gerard inquired what was his ill? “Traitress! traitress!” was the reply. Whereupon Gerard wrote Plutarch. Then says Bonaventura, “I am melancholy; and for our Lady's sake read me a story out of Ser Plutarcho, to soothe my bile: in all that Greek is there nought about lovers betrayed?”
One day he came back a changed and moody man and collapsed into a chair, crying, “Ah, traitor! Traitor!” Gerard asked what was wrong. “Traitor! Traitor!” was the response. Then Gerard wrote about Plutarch. Bonaventura then said, “I’m feeling down; for Our Lady's sake, read me a story from Sir Plutarch to ease my frustration: is there nothing in all that Greek about betrayed lovers?”
Gerard read him the life of Alexander. He got excited, marched about the room, and embracing the reader, vowed to shun “soft delights,” that bed of nettles, and follow glory.
Gerard read him the story of Alexander. He got pumped, walked around the room, and hugging the reader, promised to avoid "soft pleasures," that bed of thorns, and pursue glory.
Who so happy now as Gerard? His art was honoured, and fabulous prices paid for it; in a year or two he should return by sea to Holland, with good store of money, and set up with his beloved Margaret in Bruges, or Antwerp, or dear Augsburg, and end their days in peace, and love, and healthy, happy labour. His heart never strayed an instant from her.
Who is as happy now as Gerard? His art was celebrated, and he received amazing prices for it; in a year or two, he should return by sea to Holland with a good amount of money and start a life with his beloved Margaret in Bruges, Antwerp, or dear Augsburg, and spend their days in peace, love, and fulfilling, joyful work. His heart never wandered for a moment from her.
In his prosperity he did not forget poor Pietro. He took the Fra Colonna to see his picture. The friar inspected it severely and closely, fell on the artist's neck, and carried the picture to one of the Colonnas, who gave a noble price for it.
In his success, he didn't forget poor Pietro. He took Fra Colonna to see his painting. The friar examined it critically and closely, embraced the artist, and then took the painting to one of the Colonnas, who paid a generous price for it.
Pietro descended to the first floor; and lived like a gentleman.
Pietro went down to the first floor and lived like a man of means.
But Gerard remained in his garret. To increase his expenses would have been to postpone his return to Margaret. Luxury had no charms for the single-hearted one, when opposed to love.
But Gerard stayed in his attic. Spending more would have meant delaying his return to Margaret. Luxury held no appeal for him, especially when compared to love.
Jacques Bonaventura made him acquainted with other gay young fellows. They loved him, and sought to entice him into vice, and other expenses. But he begged humbly to be excused. So he escaped that temptation. But a greater was behind.
Jacques Bonaventura introduced him to other fun-loving guys. They liked him and tried to lure him into mischief and spending money. But he politely declined. So he avoided that temptation. But a bigger one was lurking behind.
CHAPTER LX
FRA COLONNA had the run of the Pope's library, and sometimes left off work at the same hour and walked the city with Gerard, on which occasions the happy artist saw all things en beau, and was wrapped up in the grandeur of Rome and its churches, palaces, and ruins.
FRA COLONNA had free access to the Pope's library, and sometimes he would stop working at the same time and stroll through the city with Gerard. During these times, the delighted artist saw everything beautifully and was totally captivated by the magnificence of Rome along with its churches, palaces, and ruins.
The friar granted the ruins, but threw cold water on the rest.
The friar accepted the ruins but dismissed the rest.
“This place Rome? It is but the tomb of mighty Rome.” He showed Gerard that twenty or thirty feet of the old triumphal arches were underground, and that the modern streets ran over ancient palaces, and over the tops of columns; and coupling this with the comparatively narrow limits of the modern city, and the gigantic vestiges of antiquity that peeped aboveground here and there, he uttered a somewhat remarkable simile. “I tell thee this village they call Rome is but as one of those swallows' nests ye shall see built on the eaves of a decayed abbey.”
“This place, Rome? It’s just the grave of great Rome.” He showed Gerard that twenty or thirty feet of the old triumphal arches were buried underground, and that the modern streets were built over ancient palaces and the tops of columns; and combining this with the relatively small size of the modern city, along with the massive remnants of the past that peeked up from the ground here and there, he used a striking comparison. “I tell you, this little town they call Rome is just like one of those swallows' nests you see built on the edges of a falling-down abbey.”
“Old Rome must indeed have been fair then,” said Gerard.
“Old Rome must have been beautiful back then,” said Gerard.
“Judge for yourself, my son; you see the great sewer, the work of the Romans in their very childhood, and shall outlast Vesuvius. You see the fragments of the Temple of Peace. How would you look could you see also the Capitol with its five-and-twenty temples? Do but note this Monte Savello; what is it, an it pleases you, but the ruins of the ancient theatre of Marcellus? and as for Testacio, one of the highest hills in modern Rome, it is but an ancient dust heap; the women of old Rome flung their broken pots and pans there, and lo—a mountain.
“Judge for yourself, my son; you see the great sewer, a feat of the Romans in their early days, and it will outlast Vesuvius. You see the remnants of the Temple of Peace. Imagine how it would look if you could also see the Capitol with its twenty-five temples. Just take a look at Monte Savello; what is it, if you like, but the ruins of the ancient theater of Marcellus? And as for Testacio, one of the highest hills in modern Rome, it’s just an old landfill; the women of ancient Rome tossed their broken pots and pans there, and thus—a mountain.
“'Ex pede Herculem; ex ungue leonem.'”
“'You can tell a lot by looking at a person's feet; you can identify a lion by its claw.'”
Gerard listened respectfully, but when the holy friar proceeded by analogy to imply that the moral superiority of the heathen Romans was proportionally grand, he resisted stoutly. “Has then the world lost by Christ His coming?” said he; but blushed, for he felt himself reproaching his benefactor.
Gerard listened respectfully, but when the holy friar started suggesting that the moral superiority of the pagan Romans was significantly greater, he firmly disagreed. “So, has the world suffered since Christ arrived?” he asked, but he felt a flush of embarrassment, realizing he was criticizing his benefactor.
“Saints forbid!” said the friar. “'Twere heresy to say so.” And having made this direct concession, he proceeded gradually to evade it by subtle circumlocution, and reached the forbidden door by the spiral back staircase. In the midst of all which they came to a church with a knot of persons in the porch. A demon was being exorcised within. Now Fra Colonna had a way of uttering a curious sort of little moan, when things Zeno or Epicurus would not have swallowed were presented to him as facts. This moan conveyed to such as had often heard it not only strong dissent, but pity for human credulity, ignorance, and error, especially of course when it blinded men to the merits of Pagandom.
“God forbid!” said the friar. “It would be heresy to say that.” And after making this clear concession, he slowly began to sidestep it with clever wordplay, eventually reaching the forbidden door by the spiral staircase in the back. In the process, they arrived at a church where a group of people was gathered in the doorway. A demon was being exorcised inside. Fra Colonna had a unique way of making a strange little moan whenever he was confronted with facts that Zeno or Epicurus would have found hard to accept. This moan expressed not only strong disagreement to those who had heard it before but also sympathy for human gullibility, ignorance, and mistakes, especially when they clouded people's understanding of the value of pagan beliefs.
The friar moaned, and said, “Then come away.
The friar groaned and said, "Then let's go."
“Nay, father, prithee! prithee! I ne'er saw a divell cast out.”
“Nah, Dad, please! Please! I've never seen a devil cast out.”
The friar accompanied Gerard into the church, but had a good shrug first. There they found the demoniac forced down on his knees before the altar with a scarf tied round his neck, by which the officiating priest held him like a dog in a chain.
The friar went with Gerard into the church but first gave a good shrug. Inside, they found the demoniac forced down on his knees in front of the altar, with a scarf tied around his neck, which the officiating priest used to hold him like a dog on a leash.
Not many persons were present, for fame had put forth that the last demon cast out in that church went no farther than into one of the company: “as a cony ferreted out of one burrow runs to the next.”
Not many people were there, because it was said that the last demon expelled from that church had only moved into one of the group: “like a rabbit fleeing one burrow to the next.”
When Gerard and the friar came up, the priest seemed to think there were now spectators enough; and began.
When Gerard and the friar arrived, the priest appeared to believe there were now enough spectators and started.
He faced the demoniac, breviary in hand, and first set himself to learn the individual's name with whom he had to deal.
He confronted the demon, holding a prayer book, and first focused on finding out the name of the person he had to confront.
“Come out, Ashtaroth. Oho! it is not you then. Come out, Belial. Come out, Tatzi. Come out, Eza. No; he trembles not. Come out, Azymoth. Come out, Feriander. Come out, Foletho. Come out, Astyma. Come out, Nebul. Aha! what, have I found ye? 'tis thou, thou reptile; at thine old tricks. Let us pray!
“Come out, Ashtaroth. Oh! It’s not you then. Come out, Belial. Come out, Tatzi. Come out, Eza. No; he’s not trembling. Come out, Azymoth. Come out, Feriander. Come out, Foletho. Come out, Astyma. Come out, Nebul. Aha! What, have I found you? It’s you, you snake; up to your old tricks again. Let’s pray!
“Oh, Lord, we pray thee to drive the foul fiend Nebul out of this thy creature: out of his hair, and his eyes, out of his nose, out of his mouth, out of his ears, out of his gums, out of his teeth, out of his shoulders, out of his arms, legs, loins, stomach, bowels, thighs, knees, calves, feet, ankles, finger-nails, toe-nails, and soul. Amen.”
“Oh, Lord, we ask you to drive the wicked spirit Nebul out of this being: out of his hair and eyes, out of his nose, mouth, ears, gums, teeth, shoulders, arms, legs, lower back, stomach, intestines, thighs, knees, calves, feet, ankles, fingernails, toenails, and soul. Amen.”
The priest then rose from his knees, and turning to the company, said, with quiet geniality, “Gentles, we have here as obstinate a divell as you may see in a summer day.” Then, facing the patient, he spoke to him with great rigour, sometimes addressing 'the man and sometimes the fiend, and they answered him in turn through the same mouth, now saying that they hated those holy names the priest kept uttering, and now complaining they did feel so bad in their inside.
The priest then got up from his knees and turned to the group, saying with a friendly tone, “Folks, we have here as stubborn a devil as you might see on a summer day.” Then, facing the person, he spoke to him with strong authority, sometimes addressing the man and sometimes the demon, and they responded alternately through the same mouth, sometimes saying they hated the holy names the priest kept mentioning, and at other times complaining about how bad they felt inside.
It was the priest who first confounded the victim and the culprit in idea, by pitching into the former, cuffing him soundly, kicking him, and spitting repeatedly in his face. Then he took a candle and lighted it, and turned it down, and burned it till it burned his fingers; when he dropped it double quick. Then took the custodial; and showed the patient the Corpus Domini within. Then burned another candle as before, but more cautiously: then spoke civilly to the demoniac in his human character, dismissed him, and received the compliments of the company.
It was the priest who first mixed up the victim and the guilty party in his mind by attacking the former, punching him hard, kicking him, and spitting in his face repeatedly. Then he lit a candle and turned it upside down, burning it until it hurt his fingers; he quickly dropped it. Next, he took the custody and showed the patient the Body of Christ inside. Then he lit another candle like before, but more carefully; then he spoke politely to the possessed man as if he were a human, dismissed him, and accepted the compliments from the audience.
“Good father,” said Gerard, “how you have their names by heart. Our northern priests have no such exquisite knowledge of the hellish squadrons.”
“Good father,” said Gerard, “how you know their names so well. Our northern priests have no such detailed knowledge of the hellish squads.”
“Ay, young man, here we know all their names, and eke their ways, the reptiles. This Nebul is a bitter hard one to hunt out.”
“Aye, young man, here we know all their names and also their ways, the snakes. This Nebul is a tough one to track down.”
He then told the company in the most affable way several of his experiences; concluding with his feat of yesterday, when he drove a great hulking fiend out of a woman by her mouth, leaving behind him certain nails, and pins, and a tuft of his own hair, and cried out in a voice of anguish, “'Tis not thou that conquers me. See that stone on the window sill. Know that the angel Gabriel coming down to earth once lighted on that stone: 'tis that has done my business.”
He then shared some of his experiences with the group in a friendly manner, finishing with his achievement from the day before when he drove a huge, monstrous spirit out of a woman through her mouth, leaving behind a few nails, pins, and a tuft of his own hair. He exclaimed in a voice full of distress, “It’s not you who defeats me. Look at that stone on the windowsill. Understand that the angel Gabriel once touched down on that stone when coming to earth: that’s what has caused my trouble.”
The friar moaned. “And you believed him?”
The friar groaned. “And you seriously believed him?”
“Certes! who but an infidel has discredited a revelation so precise.”
“Surely! Who but a nonbeliever would doubt such a clear revelation?”
“What, believe the father of lies? That is pushing credulity beyond the age.”
“What, believe the father of lies? That’s stretching credulity too far.”
“Oh, a liar does not always lie.”
“Oh, a liar doesn’t always lie.”
“Ay doth he whenever he tells an improbable story to begin, and shows you a holy relic; arms you against the Satanic host. Fiends (if any) be not so simple. Shouldst have answered him out of antiquity—
“Ay does he whenever he begins to tell an unlikely story, and shows you a holy relic; prepares you against the forces of evil. Demons (if any) are not so gullible. You should have answered him in the style of ancient times—
'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.'
"I fear Greeks bearing gifts."
Some blackguard chopped his wife's head off on that stone, young man; you take my word for it.” And the friar hurried Gerard away.
Some scoundrel chopped off his wife's head on that stone, young man; you can trust me on that.” And the friar rushed Gerard away.
“Alack, father, I fear you abashed the good priest.”
“Honestly, Dad, I think you embarrassed the good priest.”
“Ay, by Pollux,” said the friar, with a chuckle; “I blistered him with a single touch of 'Socratic interrogation.' What modern can parry the weapons of antiquity.”
“Ay, by Pollux,” said the friar with a chuckle, “I heated him up with just one touch of 'Socratic questioning.' What modern person can defend against the tools of the past?”
One afternoon, when Gerard had finished his day's work, a fine lackey came and demanded his attendance at the Palace Cesarini. He went, and was ushered into a noble apartment; there was a girl seated in it, working on a tapestry. She rose and left the room, and said she would let her mistress know.
One afternoon, after Gerard had wrapped up his work for the day, a well-dressed servant arrived and asked for him to come to the Palace Cesarini. He went and was shown into an elegant room; there was a girl sitting there, working on a tapestry. She stood up, left the room, and said she would inform her mistress.
A good hour did Gerard cool his heels in that great room, and at last he began to fret. “These nobles think nothing of a poor fellow's time.” However, just as he was making up his mind to slip out, and go about his business, the door opened, and a superb beauty entered the room, followed by two maids. It was the young princess of the house of Cesarini. She came in talking rather loudly and haughtily to her dependents, but at sight of Gerard lowered her voice to a very feminine tone, and said, “Are you the writer, messer?”
Gerard spent a good hour waiting in that large room, and finally, he started to get anxious. “These nobles have no regard for a poor guy's time.” However, just as he was about to leave and go about his business, the door opened, and an incredibly beautiful young woman walked in, followed by two maids. It was the young princess from the house of Cesarini. She entered speaking quite loudly and arrogantly to her attendants, but upon seeing Gerard, she softened her voice to a more delicate tone and asked, “Are you the writer, messer?”
“I am, Signora.
"I'm here, Signora."
“'Tis well.”
"That's good."
She then seated herself; Gerard and her maids remained standing.
She then sat down; Gerard and her maids stayed standing.
“What is your name, good youth?”
“What's your name, dude?”
“Gerard, signora.”
"Gerard, ma'am."
“Gerard? body of Bacchus! is that the name of a human creature?”
“Gerard? Body of Bacchus! Is that the name of a human being?”
“It is a Dutch name, signora. I was born at Tergou, in Holland.”
“It’s a Dutch name, ma’am. I was born in Tergou, in the Netherlands.”
“A harsh name, girls, for so well-favoured a youth; what say you?”
“A harsh name, girls, for such a good-looking young man; what do you think?”
The maids assented warmly.
The maids agreed enthusiastically.
“What did I send for him for?” inquired the lady, with lofty languor. “Ah, I remember. Be seated, Ser Gerardo, and write me a letter to Ercole Orsini, my lover; at least he says so.”
“What did I call him for?” asked the lady, with a casual air. “Ah, I remember. Please sit down, Sir Gerardo, and write me a letter to Ercole Orsini, my lover; that's what he claims, at least.”
Gerard seated himself, took out paper and ink, and looked up to the princess for instructions.
Gerard sat down, pulled out some paper and ink, and looked to the princess for guidance.
She, seated on a much higher chair, almost a throne, looked down at him with eyes equally inquiring.
She sat in a much higher chair, almost like a throne, and looked down at him with equally curious eyes.
“Well, Gerardo.”
“Well, Gerardo.”
“I am ready, your excellence.”
“I’m ready, your excellence.”
“Write, then.”
"Go ahead and write."
“I but await the words.”
“I just wait for the words.”
“And who, think you, is to provide them?”
“And who do you think is going to provide them?”
“Who but your grace, whose letter it is to be?”
“Who else but you, your grace, is this letter for?”
“Gramercy! what, you writers, find you not the words? What avails your art without the words? I doubt you are an impostor, Gerardo.”
“Wow! What’s wrong, writers? Can't you find the words? What’s the point of your craft without the right words? I think you might be a fraud, Gerardo.”
“Nay, Signora, I am none. I might make shift to put your highness's speech into grammar, as well as writing. But I cannot interpret your silence. Therefore speak what is in your heart, and I will empaper it before your eyes.”
“Nah, Signora, I am not. I could manage to turn your highness's words into proper grammar, just like I can write. But I can't understand your silence. So please say what’s in your heart, and I’ll write it down for you.”
“But there is nothing in my heart. And sometimes I think I have got no heart.”
“But there’s nothing in my heart. And sometimes I feel like I don't have a heart at all.”
“What is in your mind, then?”
“What are you thinking about, then?”
“But there is nothing in my mind; nor my head neither.”
"But there's nothing in my mind; my head is empty too."
“Then why write at all?”
"Then why bother writing?"
“Why, indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence seize him! why writeth he not first? then I could say nay to this, and ay to that, withouten headache. Also is it a lady's part to say the first word?”
“Why, really? That’s the first sensible thing either you or I have said, Gerardo. Curse him! Why doesn't he write first? Then I could say no to this and yes to that without a headache. Isn’t it a lady’s job to speak first?”
“No, signora: the last.”
“No, ma’am: the last.”
“It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha! ha! Shalt have a gold piece for thy wit. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the article on the nail a la moyen age. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty, if the wit of man might achieve it. “Signorina,” said he, “these things are only hard because folk attempt too much, are artificial and labour phrases. Do but figure to yourself the signor you love—”
“It’s well said, Gerardo. Ha! ha! You’ll get a gold coin for your cleverness. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the item right then, like back in the day. Money has never stifled enthusiasm. Gerard, after getting a gold coin so easily, felt he had to help her out of her trouble if a man's cleverness could do it. “Miss,” he said, “these things are only tough because people try too hard; they’re artificial and complicated phrases. Just picture the guy you love—”
“I love him not.”
“I don't love him.”
“Well, then, the signor you love not-seated at this table, and dict to me just what you would say to him.”
“Well, then, the man you love not sitting at this table, just tell me exactly what you would say to him.”
“Well, if he sat there, I should say, 'Go away.'”
“Well, if he’s sitting there, I’d say, ‘Go away.’”
Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down with a groan.
Gerard, who was practicing with his pen, set it down with a sigh.
“And when he was gone,” said Floretta, “your highness would say, 'Come back.'”
“And when he was gone,” Floretta said, “you’d say, 'Come back.'”
“Like enough, wench. Now silence, all, and let me think. He pestered me to write, and I promised; so mine honour is engaged. What lie shall I tell the Gerardo to tell the fool?” and she turned her head away from them and fell into deep thought, with her noble chin resting on her white hand, half clenched.
“Probably, girl. Now everyone, be quiet and let me think. He nagged me to write, and I promised; so my honor is at stake. What lie should I tell Gerardo to tell the fool?” She turned her head away from them and fell into deep thought, with her chin resting on her white, half-clenched hand.
She was so lovely and statuesque, and looked so inspired with thoughts celestial, as she sat thus, impregnating herself with mendacity, that Gerard forgot all, except art, and proceeded eagerly to transfer that exquisite profile to paper.
She was so beautiful and graceful, looking so inspired by heavenly thoughts as she sat there, filling herself with falsehood, that Gerard forgot everything except for art and eagerly began to sketch that stunning profile onto paper.
He had very nearly finished when the fair statue turned brusquely round and looked at him.
He was just about done when the beautiful statue suddenly turned around and looked at him.
“Nay, Signora,” said he, a little peevishly; “for Heaven's sake change not your posture—'twas perfect. See, you are nearly finished.”
“Nah, Signora,” he said, a bit irritated; “for heaven's sake, don’t change your position—it was perfect. Look, you’re almost done.”
All eyes were instantly on the work, and all tongues active.
All eyes were immediately on the work, and all mouths were buzzing.
“How like! and done in a minute: nay, methinks her highness's chin is not quite so.”
“How like! And done in a minute: no, I don't think her highness's chin looks exactly like that.”
“Oh, a touch will make that right.”
“Oh, just a little touch will fix that.”
“What a pity 'tis not coloured. I'm all for colours. Hang black and white! And her highness hath such a lovely skin. Take away her skin, and half her beauty is lost.”
“What a shame it’s not colored. I’m all for colors. Forget black and white! And her highness has such beautiful skin. Take away her skin, and half her beauty is gone.”
“Peace. Can you colour, Ser Gerardo?”
“Peace. Can you color, Ser Gerardo?”
“Ay, signorina. I am a poor hand at oils; there shines my friend Pietro; but in this small way I can tint you to the life, if you have time to waste on such vanity.”
“Ay, signorina. I'm not very good with oils; my friend Pietro is the talented one. But in this small way, I can capture your likeness, if you have time to spend on such vanity.”
“Call you this vanity? And for time, it hangs on me like lead. Send for your colours now—quick, this moment—for love of all the saints.”
“Is this what you call vanity? And as for time, it weighs down on me like lead. Get your colors now—hurry, right now—for the love of all the saints.”
“Nay, signorina, I must prepare them. I could come at the same time.”
“Nah, miss, I need to get them ready. I could come at the same time.”
“So be it. And you, Floretta, see that he be admitted at all hours. Alack! Leave my head! leave my head!”
“So be it. And you, Floretta, make sure he can come in at any time. Oh no! Leave my head! leave my head!”
“Forgive me, Signora; I thought to prepare it at home to receive the colours. But I will leave it. And now let us despatch the letter.”
“Sorry, Signora; I thought I’d get it ready at home to take in the colors. But I'll leave it. Now, let’s send the letter.”
“What letter?”
"What letter are you referring to?"
“To the Signor Orsini.”
“To Mr. Orsini.”
“And shall I waste my time on such vanity as writing letters—and to that empty creature, to whom I am as indifferent as the moon? Nay, not indifferent, for I have just discovered my real sentiments. I hate him and despise him. Girls, I here forbid you once for all to mention that signor's name to me again; else I'll whip you till the blood comes. You know how I can lay on when I'm roused.”
“And should I waste my time on something as pointless as writing letters—to that empty person, to whom I feel as indifferent as the moon? No, I'm not indifferent, because I've just realized how I really feel. I hate him and look down on him. Girls, I’m telling you right now, don't ever mention that guy's name to me again; if you do, I’ll beat you until you’re bleeding. You know how fierce I can get when I'm upset.”
“We do. We do.”
“We do. We do.”
“Then provoke me not to it;” and her eye flashed daggers, and she turned to Gerard all instantaneous honey. “Addio, il Gerardo.” And Gerard bowed himself out of this velvet tiger's den.
“Then don’t push me to it,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers, and then she immediately became sweet as honey to Gerard. “Goodbye, Gerardo.” And Gerard bowed as he left this velvet tiger's den.
He came next day and coloured her; and next he was set to make a portrait of her on a large scale; and then a full-length figure; and he was obliged to set apart two hours in the afternoon, for drawing and painting this princess, whose beauty and vanity were prodigious, and candidates for a portrait of her numerous. Here the thriving Gerard found a new and fruitful source of income.
He came the next day and painted her; then he was tasked with creating a large portrait of her, followed by a full-length figure. He had to set aside two hours in the afternoon to draw and paint this princess, whose beauty and vanity were extraordinary, and there were many people wanting a portrait of her. This is where the successful Gerard found a new and profitable source of income.
Margaret seemed nearer and nearer.
Margaret seemed closer and closer.
It was Holy Thursday. No work this day. Fra Colonna and Gerard sat in a window and saw the religious processions. Their number and pious ardour thrilled Gerard with the devotion that now seemed to animate the whole people, lately bent on earthly joys.
It was Holy Thursday. No work today. Fra Colonna and Gerard sat by a window and watched the religious processions. The number of people participating and their heartfelt devotion excited Gerard, as it now seemed to inspire the entire community, which had recently been focused on earthly pleasures.
Presently the Pope came pacing majestically at the head of his cardinals, in a red hat, white cloak, a capuchin of red velvet, and riding a lovely white Neapolitan barb, caparisoned with red velvet fringed and tasselled with gold; a hundred horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, rode behind him with their lances erected, the butt-end resting on the man's thigh. The cardinals went uncovered, all but one, de Medicis, who rode close to the Pope and conversed with him as with an equal. At every fifteen steps the Pope stopped a single moment, and gave the people his blessing, then on again.
Currently, the Pope strode proudly at the front of his cardinals, wearing a red hat, white cloak, a red velvet capuchin, and riding a beautiful white Neapolitan barb, adorned with red velvet trimmed and tasseled with gold; a hundred fully armored horsemen followed him, their lances raised with the butt-end resting on their thighs. The cardinals rode without head coverings, except for one, de Medicis, who was close to the Pope, talking to him as if they were equals. Every fifteen steps, the Pope paused for a moment to bless the crowd, then continued on.
Gerard and the friar now came down, and threading some by-streets reached the portico of one of the seven churches. It was hung with black, and soon the Pope and cardinals, who had entered the church by another door, issued forth, and stood with torches on the steps, separated by barriers from the people; then a canon read a Latin Bull, excommunicating several persons by name, especially such princes as were keeping the Church out of any of her temporal possessions.
Gerard and the friar came down and took some side streets until they reached the entrance of one of the seven churches. It was draped in black, and soon the Pope and cardinals, who had entered through another door, came out and stood on the steps with torches, separated by barriers from the crowd. Then a canon read a Latin Bull, excommunicating several people by name, especially the princes who were preventing the Church from accessing any of its property.
At this awful ceremony Gerard trembled, and so did the people. But two of the cardinals spoiled the effect by laughing unreservedly the whole time.
At this terrible ceremony, Gerard shook with fear, and so did the crowd. But two of the cardinals ruined the mood by laughing openly the entire time.
When this was ended, the black cloth was removed, and revealed a gay panoply; and the Pope blessed the people, and ended by throwing his torch among them: so did two cardinals. Instantly there was a scramble for the torches: they were fought for, and torn in pieces by the candidates, so devoutly that small fragments were gained at the price of black eyes, bloody noses, and burnt fingers; In which hurtling his holiness and suite withdrew in peace.
When this was over, the black cloth was taken away, revealing a colorful display; the Pope blessed the crowd and finished by throwing his torch into the masses, as did two cardinals. Immediately, there was a rush for the torches: they were fiercely contested and ripped apart by the eager participants, with small pieces won at the cost of black eyes, bloody noses, and burnt fingers; in the midst of this chaos, his holiness and his entourage withdrew peacefully.
And now there was a cry, and the crowd rushed to a square where was a large, open stage: several priests were upon it praying. They rose, and with great ceremony donned red gloves. Then one of their number kneeled, and with signs of the lowest reverence drew forth from a shrine a square frame, like that of a mirror, and inside was as it were the impression of a face.
And then there was a shout, and the crowd hurried to a square where there was a large, open stage: several priests were on it praying. They stood up and, with great formality, put on red gloves. Then one of them knelt down and, showing the utmost respect, took out from a shrine a square frame, similar to that of a mirror, and inside was the impression of a face.
It was the Verum icon, or true impression of our Saviour's face, taken at the very moment of His most mortal agony for us. Received as it was without a grain of doubt, imagine how it moved every Christian heart.
It was the Verum icon, or true depiction of our Savior's face, captured at the exact moment of His greatest suffering for us. Accepted without a hint of doubt, just think about how it touched every Christian heart.
The people threw themselves on their faces when the priest raised it on high; and cries of pity were in every mouth, and tears in almost every eye. After a while the people rose, and then the priest went round the platform, showing it for a single moment to the nearest; and at each sight loud cries of pity and devotion burst forth.
The crowd fell to the ground when the priest lifted it up high; everyone was crying out in compassion, and most had tears in their eyes. After a while, they stood up, and then the priest walked around the platform, briefly showing it to those closest. Each time someone saw it, they erupted in loud cries of compassion and devotion.
Soon after this the friends fell in with a procession of Flagellants, flogging their bare shoulders till the blood ran streaming down; but without a sign of pain in their faces, and many of them laughing and jesting as they lashed. The bystanders out of pity offered them wine; they took it, but few drank it; they generally used it to free the tails of the cat, which were hard with clotted blood, and make the next stroke more effective. Most of them were boys, and a young woman took pity on one fair urchin. “Alas! dear child,” said she, “why wound thy white skin so?” “Basta,” said he, laughing, “'tis for your sins I do it, not for mine.”
Soon after this, the friends encountered a group of Flagellants, whipping their bare shoulders until the blood poured down, yet there wasn’t a trace of pain on their faces, and many were laughing and joking as they struck themselves. Out of pity, the onlookers offered them wine; they accepted it, but most didn't drink it. They mostly used it to clean the blood-soaked ends of their whips, making the next blow more painful. Most of them were boys, and a young woman felt sorry for one pretty kid. “Oh no! dear child,” she said, “why hurt your smooth skin like that?” “It’s fine,” he replied with a laugh, “I’m doing this for your sins, not mine.”
“Hear you that?” said the friar. “Show me the whip that can whip the vanity out of man's heart! The young monkey; how knoweth he that stranger is a sinner more than he?”
“Hear that?” said the friar. “Show me the whip that can beat the vanity out of a man’s heart! That young monkey; how does he know that stranger is a sinner more than he is?”
“Father,” said Gerard, “surely this is not to our Lord's mind. He was so pitiful.”
“Dad,” Gerard said, “this can’t be what our Lord wanted. He was so compassionate.”
“Our Lord?” said the friar, crossing himself. “What has He to do with this? This was a custom in Rome six hundred years before He was born. The boys used to go through the streets, at the Lupercalia flogging themselves. And the married women used to shove in, and try and get a blow from the monkeys' scourges; for these blows conferred fruitfulness in those days. A foolish trick this flagellation; but interesting to the bystander; reminds him of the grand old heathen. We are so prone to forget all we owe them.”
“Our Lord?” said the friar, making the sign of the cross. “What does He have to do with this? This was a custom in Rome six hundred years before He was born. The boys used to walk through the streets during the Lupercalia, whipping themselves. And the married women would rush in, trying to get a hit from the monkeys' whips; because those hits were believed to bring fertility back then. It's a silly tradition this flagellation; but it’s fascinating for onlookers; it reminds them of the grand old pagans. We tend to forget how much we owe them.”
Next they got into one of the seven churches, and saw the Pope give the mass. The ceremony was imposing, but again—spoiled by the inconsistent conduct of the cardinals and other prelates, who sat about the altar with their hats on, chattering all through the mass like a flock of geese.
Next, they entered one of the seven churches and watched the Pope conduct the mass. The ceremony was impressive, but once again, it was ruined by the erratic behavior of the cardinals and other bishops, who lounged around the altar wearing their hats, gossiping throughout the mass like a bunch of geese.
The eucharist in both kinds was tasted by an official before the Pope would venture on it; and this surprised Gerard beyond measure. “Who is that base man? and what doth he there?”
The Eucharist in both forms was tasted by an official before the Pope would dare to partake; this astonished Gerard immensely. “Who is that lowly man? And what is he doing there?”
“Oh, that is 'the Preguste,' and he tastes the eucharist by way of precaution. This is the country for poison; and none fall oftener by it than the poor Popes.”
“Oh, that’s 'the Preguste,' and he samples the eucharist just to be safe. This place is notorious for poison, and none fall victim to it more often than the poor Popes.”
“Alas! so I have heard; but after the miraculous change of the bread and wine to Christ His body and blood, poison cannot remain; gone is the bread with all its properties and accidents; gone is the wine.”
“Sadly, I’ve heard that; but after the miraculous transformation of the bread and wine into Christ’s body and blood, poison cannot linger; the bread with all its properties and qualities is gone; the wine is gone.”
“So says Faith; but experience tells another tale. Scores have died in Italy poisoned in the host.”
“So says Faith; but experience tells a different story. Many have died in Italy, poisoned at the feast.”
“And I tell you, father, that were both bread and wine charged with direst poison before his holiness had consecrated them, yet after consecration I would take them both withouten fear.”
“And I tell you, Dad, that even if both the bread and wine were laced with the deadliest poison before his holiness blessed them, I would still take them without any fear after they were blessed.”
“So would I, but for the fine arts.”
“So would I, but for the fine arts.”
“What mean you?”
"What do you mean?"
“Marry, that I would be as ready to leave the world as thou, were it not for those arts, which beautify existence here below, and make it dear to men of sense and education. No; so long as the Nine Muses strew my path with roses of learning and art, me may Apollo inspire with wisdom and caution, that knowing the wiles of my countrymen, I may eat poison neither at God's altar nor at a friend's table, since, wherever I eat it or drink it, it will assuredly cut short my mortal thread; and I am writing a book—heart and soul in it—'The Dream of Polifilo,' the man of many arts. So name not poison to me till that is finished and copied.”
“Truly, I would be just as willing to leave this world as you are, if it weren't for those skills that enhance life here and make it valuable to people of understanding and education. No; as long as the Nine Muses sprinkle my path with the flowers of knowledge and creativity, let Apollo fill me with wisdom and caution, so that, understanding the tricks of my countrymen, I don't consume poison at God's altar or at a friend's table. Because no matter where I encounter it, it will definitely cut my life short; and I'm writing a book—putting my heart and soul into it—'The Dream of Polifilo,' a master of many arts. So don't mention poison to me until that is finished and copied.”
And now the great bells of St. John Lateran's were rung with a clash at short intervals, and the people hurried thither to see the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul.
And now the big bells of St. John Lateran rang loudly at short intervals, and people rushed over to see the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul.
Gerard and the friar got a good place in the church, and there was a great curtain, and after long and breathless expectation of the people, this curtain was drawn by jerks, and at a height of about thirty feet were two human heads with bearded faces, that seemed alive. They were shown no longer than the time to say an Ave Maria, and then the curtain drawn. But they were shown in this fashion three times. St. Peter's complexion was pale, his face oval, his beard grey and forked; his head crowned with a papal mitre. St. Paul was dark skinned, with a thick, square beard; his face also and head were more square and massive, and full of resolution.
Gerard and the friar found a good spot in the church, and there was a big curtain. After a long and breathless wait from the crowd, the curtain was pulled open in fits, revealing two human heads with bearded faces about thirty feet up that looked alive. They were visible just long enough to say an Ave Maria, and then the curtain closed. But they appeared this way three times. St. Peter had a pale complexion, an oval face, and a grey, forked beard; he wore a papal mitre. St. Paul had dark skin, a thick, square beard; his face and head were more square and strong, full of determination.
Gerard was awe-struck. The friar approved after his fashion.
Gerard was amazed. The friar gave his approval in his own way.
“This exhibition of the 'imagines,' or waxen effigies of heroes and demigods, is a venerable custom, and inciteth the vulgar to virtue by great and invisible examples.
“This exhibition of the 'imagines,' or wax figures of heroes and demigods, is an old tradition, and inspires the public to pursue virtue through great and unseen examples.
“Waxen images? What, are they not the apostles themselves, embalmed, or the like?”
“Wax figures? What, are they not the apostles themselves, preserved or something like that?”
The friar moaned.
The friar complained.
“They did not exist in the year 800. The great old Roman families always produced at their funerals a series of these 'imagines,' thereby tying past and present history together, and showing the populace the features of far-famed worthies. I can conceive nothing more thrilling or instructive. But then the effigies were portraits made during life or at the hour of death. These of St. Paul and St. Peter are moulded out of pure fancy.”
“They didn't exist in the year 800. The great old Roman families always displayed a series of these 'imagines' at their funerals, connecting past and present history and showing the public the faces of famous figures. I can’t imagine anything more exciting or educational. But the effigies were portraits created during life or at the time of death. Those of St. Paul and St. Peter are purely imaginative.”
“Ah! say not so, father.”
“Ah! don't say that, dad.”
“But the worst is, this humour of showing them up on a shelf, and half in the dark, and by snatches, and with the poor mountebank trick of a drawn curtain.
“But the worst is, this humor of putting them on a shelf, only partially visible, and in bits and pieces, with the cheap trick of a drawn curtain."
'Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic incredulus odi.'
'Whatever you show me, I will still doubt.'
Enough; the men of this day are not the men of old. Let us have done with these new-fangled mummeries, and go among the Pope's books; there we shall find the wisdom we shall vainly hunt in the streets of modern Rome.”
Enough; the men of today are not like those from the past. Let’s stop with these trendy performances and turn to the Pope's books; there we’ll discover the wisdom we’ll futilely search for in the streets of modern Rome.
And this idea having once taken root, the good friar plunged and tore through the crowd, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, till he had escaped the glories of the holy week, which had brought fifty thousand strangers to Rome; and had got nice and quiet among the dead in the library of the Vatican.
And once this idea took hold, the good friar pushed through the crowd, ignoring everything around him until he had escaped the splendors of Holy Week, which had brought fifty thousand strangers to Rome, and found a nice and quiet spot among the dead in the Vatican library.
Presently, going into Gerard's room, he found a hot dispute afoot between him and Jacques Bonaventura. That spark had come in, all steel from head to toe; doffed helmet, puffed, and railed most scornfully on a ridiculous ceremony, at which he and his soldiers had been compelled to attend the Pope; to wit the blessing of the beasts of burden.
Currently, when he entered Gerard's room, he found a heated argument happening between him and Jacques Bonaventura. Jacques had come in, decked out in full gear; he took off his helmet and angrily mocked a silly ceremony that he and his soldiers had been forced to attend with the Pope, which was the blessing of the pack animals.
Gerard said it was not ridiculous; nothing a Pope did could be ridiculous.
Gerard said it wasn't ridiculous; nothing a Pope does could be ridiculous.
The argument grew warm, and the friar stood grimly neuter, waiting like the stork that ate the frog and the mouse at the close of their combat, to grind them both between the jaws of antiquity; when lo, the curtain was gently drawn, and there stood a venerable old man in a purple skull cap, with a beard like white floss silk, looking at them with a kind though feeble smile.
The argument heated up, and the friar remained emotionless, waiting like the stork that devoured the frog and the mouse after their fight, ready to crush them both in the jaws of time; then, unexpectedly, the curtain was slowly pulled back, revealing an elderly man in a purple skull cap, with a beard like white silky threads, gazing at them with a kind but weak smile.
“Happy youth,” said he, “that can heat itself over such matters.”
“Happy youth,” he said, “that can warm itself over such matters.”
They all fell on their knees. It was the Pope.
They all dropped to their knees. It was the Pope.
“Nay, rise, my children,” said he, almost peevishly. “I came not into this corner to be in state. How goes Plutarch?”
“Nah, get up, my kids,” he said, almost irritably. “I didn’t come to this corner to be in charge. How’s Plutarch doing?”
Gerard brought his work, and kneeling on one knee presented it to his holiness, who had seated himself, the others standing.
Gerard brought his work and, kneeling on one knee, presented it to his holiness, who was seated while the others stood.
His holiness inspected it with interest.
His holiness looked at it with curiosity.
“'Tis excellently writ,” said he.
"That's excellently written," he said.
Gerard's heart beat with delight.
Gerard's heart raced with joy.
“Ah! this Plutarch, he had a wondrous art, Francesco. How each character standeth out alive on his page: how full of nature each, yet how unlike his fellow!”
“Ah! this Plutarch, he had an amazing talent, Francesco. How each character comes alive on his page: how full of life each one is, yet how different from the others!”
Jacques Bonaventura. “Give me the Signor Boccaccio.”
Jacques Bonaventura. “Get me Signor Boccaccio.”
His Holiness. “An excellent narrator, capitano, and writeth exquisite Italian. But in spirit a thought too monotonous. Monks and nuns were never all unchaste: one or two such stories were right pleasant and diverting; but five score paint his time falsely, and sadden the heart of such as love mankind. Moreover, he hath no skill at characters. Now this Greek is supreme in that great art: he carveth them with pen; and turning his page, see into how real and great a world we enter of war, and policy, and business, and love in its own place: for with him, as in the great world, men are not all running after a wench. With this great open field compare me not the narrow garden of Boccaccio, and his little mill-round of dishonest pleasures.”
His Holiness. “He’s a great storyteller, captain, and writes beautiful Italian. But his mindset is a bit too repetitive. Monks and nuns weren't all unchaste: a few stories like that can be really enjoyable and entertaining; but when you have fifty, it misrepresents his time and saddens those who care about humanity. Besides, he lacks skill in character development. This Greek author excels in that art: he brings characters to life with his pen; and as you turn his pages, you enter a vivid and expansive world of war, politics, business, and love in its rightful context: because for him, as in the real world, not everyone is just chasing after a woman. Don’t compare the vastness of this world to the limited garden of Boccaccio and his little cycle of dishonest pleasures.”
“Your holiness, they say, hath not disdained to write a novel.”
“Your holiness, they say, has not hesitated to write a novel.”
“My holiness hath done more foolish things than one, whereof it repents too late. When I wrote novels I little thought to be head of the Church.”
“My holiness has done more foolish things than one, and now I regret them too late. When I wrote novels, I never thought I would end up being the head of the Church.”
“I search in vain for a copy of it to add to my poor library.”
“I’m searching in vain for a copy of it to add to my small collection.”
“It is well. Then the strict orders I gave four years ago to destroy every copy in Italy have been well discharged. However, for your comfort, on my being made Pope, some fool turned it into French: so that you may read it, at the price of exile.”
“It’s all good. So, the strict orders I gave four years ago to destroy every copy in Italy have been carried out. However, just so you know, when I became Pope, some idiot translated it into French: so you can read it, but only at the cost of exile.”
“Reduced to this strait we throw ourselves on your holiness's generosity. Vouchsafe to give us your infallible judgment on it!”
“Reduced to this difficult situation, we appeal to your holiness's generosity. Please grant us your infallible judgment on it!”
“Gently, gently, good Francesco. A Pope's novels are not matters of faith. I can but give you my sincere impression. Well then the work in question had, as far as I can remember, all the vices of Boccaccio, without his choice Italian.”
“Easy now, good Francesco. A Pope's novels aren't about faith. I can only share my honest impression. Well, as far as I can recall, the work in question had, all things considered, all the flaws of Boccaccio, but without his select Italian.”
Fra Colonna. “Your holiness is known for slighting Aeneas Silvius as other men never slighted him. I did him injustice to make you his judge. Perhaps your holiness will decide more justly between these two boys-about blessing the beasts.”
Fra Colonna. “Your holiness is known for dismissing Aeneas Silvius like no one else ever has. I wronged him by making you his judge. Maybe your holiness will judge more fairly between these two boys regarding the blessing of the animals.”
The Pope demurred. In speaking of Plutarch he had brightened up for a moment, and his eye had even flashed; but his general manner was as unlike what youthful females expect in a Pope as you can conceive. I can only describe it in French. Le gentilhomme blase. A highbred, and highly cultivated gentleman, who had done, and said, and seen, and known everything, and whose body was nearly worn out. But double languor seemed to seize him at the father's proposal.
The Pope hesitated. When he talked about Plutarch, he lit up for a moment, and his eyes even sparkled; but his overall demeanor was nothing like what young women expect from a Pope. I can only describe it in French: Le gentilhomme blase. He was a refined, highly educated gentleman who had done, said, seen, and known everything, and his body was almost spent. But a profound weariness seemed to take hold of him at the father's suggestion.
“My poor Francesco,” said he, “bethink thee that I have had a life of controversy, and am sick on't; sick as death. Plutarch drew me to this calm retreat; not divinity.”
“My poor Francesco,” he said, “remember that I’ve spent my life in conflict, and I’m tired of it; tired as can be. Plutarch brought me to this peaceful place; not some divine purpose.”
“Nay, but, your holiness, for moderating of strife between two hot young bloods, {Makarioi oi eirinopioi}.”
“Nah, but, your holiness, for calming the conflict between two hotheaded young guys, {Makarioi oi eirinopioi}.”
“And know you nature so ill, as to think either of these high-mettled youths will reck what a poor old Pope saith?”
“And do you really know nature so poorly that you think either of these spirited young men will care what an old Pope says?”
“Oh! your holiness,” broke in Gerard, blushing and gasping, “sure, here is one who will treasure your words all his life as words from Heaven.”
“Oh! your holiness,” interrupted Gerard, blushing and out of breath, “truly, here is someone who will cherish your words for the rest of his life as if they were from Heaven.”
“In that case,” said the Pope, “I am fairly caught. As Francesco here would say—
“In that case,” said the Pope, “I’m pretty much trapped. As Francesco would say—
{ouk estin ostis est' anyr eleutheos}.
{ouk estin ostis est' anyr eleutheos}.
I came to taste that eloquent heathen, dear to me e'en as to thee, thou paynim monk; and I must talk divinity, or something next door to it. But the youth hath a good and a winning face, and writeth Greek like an angel. Well then, my children, to comprehend the ways of the Church, we should still rise a little above the earth, since the Church is between heaven and earth, and interprets betwixt them.
I got to know that articulate outsider, dear to me just as much as to you, you pagan monk; and I have to discuss God, or something close to it. But the young man has a charming and appealing face, and he writes Greek beautifully. So, my children, to understand the ways of the Church, we need to elevate our thoughts a bit since the Church exists between heaven and earth and serves as a mediator between the two.
“The question is then, not how vulgar men feel, but how the common Creator of man and beast doth feel, towards the lower animals. This, if we are too proud to search for it in the lessons of the Church, the next best thing is to go to the most ancient history of men and animals.”
“The question is not how crude people feel, but how the common Creator of humans and animals feels toward the lower creatures. If we're too proud to find this in the teachings of the Church, the next best option is to look at the oldest history of humans and animals.”
Colonna. “Herodotus.”
Colonna. "Herodotus."
“Nay, nay; in this matter Herodotus is but a mushroom. Finely were we sped for ancient history, if we depended on your Greeks, who did but write on the last leaf of that great book, Antiquity.”
“Nah, nah; in this matter, Herodotus is just a beginner. We would be in real trouble when it comes to ancient history if we relied on your Greeks, who only wrote on the last page of that great book, Antiquity.”
The friar groaned. Here was a Pope uttering heresy against his demigods.
The friar groaned. Here was a Pope speaking heresy against his demigods.
“'Tis the Vulgate I speak of. A history that handles matters three thousand years before him pedants call 'the Father of History.'”
“It's the Vulgate I'm talking about. A history that deals with events three thousand years before what scholars call 'the Father of History.'”
Colonna. “Oh! the Vulgate? I cry your holiness mercy. How you frightened me. I quite forgot the Vulgate.”
Colonna. “Oh! The Vulgate? I beg your pardon, holy one. You scared me. I completely forgot about the Vulgate.”
“Forgot it? art sure thou ever readst it, Francesco mio?”
“Forgot it? Are you sure you ever read it, my Francesco?”
“Not quite, your holiness. 'Tis a pleasure I have long promised myself, the first vacant moment. Hitherto these grand old heathen have left me small time for recreation.”
“Not quite, your holiness. It's a pleasure I’ve been looking forward to for a long time, the first free moment I get. Until now, these grand old pagans have given me little time for relaxation.”
His Holiness. “First then you will find in Genesis that God, having created the animals, drew a holy pleasure, undefinable by us, from contemplating of their beauty. Was it wonderful? See their myriad forms; their lovely hair and eyes, their grace, and of some the power and majesty: the colour of others, brighter than roses, or rubies. And when, for man's sin, not their own, they were destroyed, yet were two of each kind spared.
His Holiness. “First, you will see in Genesis that God, after creating the animals, experienced an indescribable joy from admiring their beauty. Was it amazing? Look at their countless shapes; their beautiful fur and eyes, their elegance, and the strength and majesty of some: the colors of others, more vibrant than roses or rubies. And when, because of man's sin—not theirs—they were destroyed, still, two of each kind were saved.
“And when the ark and its trembling inmates tumbled solitary on the world of water, then, saith the word, 'God remembered Noah, and the cattle that were with him in the ark.'
“And when the ark and its trembling occupants floated alone on the vast ocean, then, according to the word, 'God remembered Noah, and the animals that were with him in the ark.'”
“Thereafter God did write His rainbow in the sky as a bond that earth should be flooded no more; and between whom the bond? between God and man? nay, between God and man, and every living creature of all flesh: or my memory fails me with age. In Exodus God commanded that the cattle should share the sweet blessing of the one day's rest. Moreover He 'forbade to muzzle the ox that trod out the corn. 'Nay, let the poor overwrought soul snatch a mouthful as he goes his toilsome round: the bulk of the grain shall still be for man.' Ye will object perchance that St. Paul, commenting this, saith rudely, 'Doth God care for oxen?' Verily, had I been Peter, instead of the humblest of his successors, I had answered him. 'Drop thy theatrical poets, Paul, and read the Scriptures: then shalt thou know whether God careth only for men and sparrows, or for all his creatures. O, Paul,' had I made bold to say, 'think not to learn God by looking into Paul's heart, nor any heart of man, but study that which he hath revealed concerning himself.'
“After that, God put His rainbow in the sky as a promise that the earth would not be flooded again; and who is this promise between? It's between God and humanity? No, it’s between God, humanity, and every living creature of all flesh: or maybe I’m just forgetting because of my age. In Exodus, God commanded that livestock should also enjoy the sweet blessing of a day’s rest. Furthermore, He forbade muzzling the ox while it treads out the grain. 'Let the weary creature grab a bite as it does its hard work: the majority of the grain will still belong to humans.' You might argue that St. Paul says bluntly, 'Does God care for oxen?' Truly, if I had been Peter, instead of just the most humble of his successors, I would have replied to him. 'Forget your dramatic poets, Paul, and read the Scriptures: only then will you know if God cares only for people and sparrows, or for all His creations. Oh, Paul,' I would have dared to say, 'don’t think you can understand God by looking into your own heart, or any human heart, but focus on what He has revealed about Himself.'”
“Thrice he forbade the Jews to boil the kid in his mother's milk; not that this is cruelty, but want of thought and gentle sentiments, and so paves the way for downright cruelty. A prophet riding on an ass did meet an angel. Which of these two, Paulo judice, had seen the heavenly spirit? marry, the prophet. But it was not so. The man, his vision cloyed with sin, saw nought. The poor despised creature saw all. Nor is this recorded as miraculous. Poor proud things, we overrate ourselves. The angel had slain the prophet and spared the ass, but for that creature's clearer vision of essences divine. He said so, methinks. But in sooth I read it many years agone. Why did God spare repentant Nineveh? Because in that city were sixty thousand children, besides much cattle.
“Three times he told the Jews not to boil a kid in its mother's milk; not because it's cruel, but because it's thoughtless and lacks compassion, which can lead to real cruelty. A prophet riding a donkey met an angel. Which of the two, Paulo judice, had encountered the heavenly spirit? The prophet, right? But that wasn’t the case. The man, blinded by sin, saw nothing. The poor, disregarded creature saw everything. And this isn't noted as a miracle. We, in our pride, tend to overestimate ourselves. The angel killed the prophet but spared the donkey, because that creature had a clearer vision of divine truths. I believe he said that. But to be honest, I read that many years ago. Why did God spare the repentant Nineveh? Because that city had sixty thousand children, along with a lot of cattle.”
“Profane history and vulgar experience add their mite of witness. The cruel to animals end in cruelty to man; and strange and violent deaths, marked with retribution's bloody finger, have in all ages fallen from heaven on such as wantonly harm innocent beasts. This I myself have seen. All this duly weighed, and seeing that, despite this Francesco's friends, the Stoics, who in their vanity say the creatures all subsist for man's comfort, there be snakes and scorpions which kill 'Dominum terra' with a nip, musquitoes which eat him piecemeal, and tigers and sharks which crack him like an almond, we do well to be grateful to these true, faithful, patient, four-footed friends, which, in lieu of powdering us, put forth their strength to relieve our toils, and do feed us like mothers from their gentle dugs.
“Everyday history and common experience provide their bit of evidence. Those who are cruel to animals often end up being cruel to people; strange and violent deaths, marked by the bloody hand of justice, have always fallen from the sky on those who harm innocent creatures for no reason. I've seen this myself. With all this in mind, and considering that, despite what Francesco's Stoic friends claim—who, in their arrogance, believe all creatures exist for human comfort—there are snakes and scorpions that can kill with a bite, mosquitoes that consume us bit by bit, and tigers and sharks that can crush us like an almond, we should be grateful to these true, loyal, and patient four-legged friends who, instead of harming us, use their strength to help us and nourish us like mothers from their gentle bodies.”
“Methinks then the Church is never more divine than in this benediction of our four-footed friends, which has revolted you great theological authority, the captain of the Pope's guards; since here she inculcates humility and gratitude, and rises towards the level of the mind divine, and interprets God to man, God the Creator, parent, and friend of man and beast.
"I think the Church is never more divine than in this blessing of our four-legged friends, which has upset you, the great theological authority, the captain of the Pope's guards; because here it teaches humility and gratitude, elevating to a divine mindset, and explains God to people, God as the Creator, parent, and friend of both humans and animals."
“But all this, young gentles, you will please to receive, not as delivered by the Pope ex cathedra, but uttered carelessly, in a free hour, by an aged clergyman. On that score you will perhaps do well to entertain it with some little consideration. For old age must surely bring a man somewhat, in return for his digestion (his 'dura puerorum ilia,' eh, Francesco!), which it carries away.”
"But all of this, young gentlemen, please take not as if it were spoken by the Pope from his throne, but rather as something casually said during a free moment by an old clergyman. With that in mind, it might be wise to consider it a bit. After all, old age must bring a man some wisdom in exchange for what it takes from him (his 'tough stomach of children,' right, Francesco!)."
Such was the purport of the Pope's discourse but the manner high bred, languid, kindly, and free from all tone of dictation. He seemed to be gently probing the matter in concert with his hearers, not playing Sir Oracle. At the bottom of all which was doubtless a slight touch of humbug, but the humbug that embellishes life; and all sense of it was lost in the subtle Italian grace of the thing.
Such was the essence of the Pope's speech, but his manner was refined, relaxed, kind, and free from any dictatorial tone. He seemed to be gently exploring the topic alongside his audience, not acting like a know-it-all. Underneath it all, there was probably a hint of pretense, but the kind that adds charm to life; and any awareness of that was overshadowed by the subtle Italian elegance of the moment.
“I seem to hear the oracle of Delphi,” said Fra Colonna enthusiastically.
“I think I can hear the oracle of Delphi,” said Fra Colonna excitedly.
“I call that good sense,” shouted Jacques Bonaventura.
“I call that good sense,” shouted Jacques Bonaventura.
“Oh, captain, good sense!” said Gerard, with a deep and tender reproach.
“Oh, captain, common sense!” said Gerard, with a deep and heartfelt disappointment.
The Pope smiled on Gerard. “Cavil not at words; that was an unheard of concession from a rival theologian.” He then asked for all Gerard's work, and took it away in his hand. But before going, he gently pulled Fra Colonna's ear, and asked him whether he remembered when they were school-fellows together and robbed the Virgin by the roadside of the money dropped into her box. “You took a flat stick and applied bird-lime to the top, and drew the money out through the chink, you rogue,” said his holiness severely.
The Pope smiled at Gerard. “Don’t nitpick over words; that was an unprecedented concession from a rival theologian.” He then asked for all of Gerard's work and took it away with him. But before leaving, he gently tugged at Fra Colonna's ear and asked if he remembered when they were schoolmates and stole money from the Virgin's box by the roadside. “You used a flat stick, smeared birdlime on the top, and pulled the money out through the crack, you rascal,” said His Holiness sternly.
“To every signor his own honour,” replied Fra Colonna. “It was your holiness's good wit invented the manoeuvre. I was but the humble instrument.”
“To each person their own honor,” replied Fra Colonna. “It was your holiness's cleverness that came up with the plan. I was just the humble tool.”
“It is well. Doubtless you know 'twas sacrilege.”
"It’s fine. You probably know it was sacrilege."
“Of the first water; but I did it in such good company, it troubles me not.”
“Of the highest quality; but I did it in such great company, it doesn't bother me at all.”
“Humph! I have not even that poor consolation. What did we spend it in, dost mind?”
“Ugh! I don't even have that small comfort. What did we spend it on, do you remember?”
“Can your holiness ask? why, sugar-plums.”
“Can you ask, your holiness? Why, sugar plums.”
“What, all on't?”
“What, all of it?”
“Every doit.”
“Every little bit.”
“These are delightful reminiscences, my Francesco. Alas! I am getting old. I shall not be here long. And I am sorry for it, for thy sake. They will go and burn thee when I am gone. Art far more a heretic than Huss, whom I saw burned with these eyes; and oh, he died like a martyr.”
“These are lovely memories, my Francesco. Unfortunately, I’m getting old. I won’t be here much longer. And I regret that, for your sake. They will go and burn you when I’m gone. You are much more of a heretic than Huss, whom I saw burned with my own eyes; and oh, he died like a martyr.”
“Ay, your holiness; but I believe in the Pope; and Huss did not.”
“Yeah, your holiness; but I believe in the Pope; and Huss didn’t.”
“Fox! They will not burn thee; wood is too dear. Adieu, old playmate; adieu, young gentlemen; an old man's blessing be on you.”
“Fox! They won’t burn you; wood is too precious. Goodbye, old friend; goodbye, young gentlemen; may an old man's blessing be with you.”
That afternoon the Pope's secretary brought Gerard a little bag: in it were several gold pieces.
That afternoon, the Pope's secretary brought Gerard a small bag: inside were several gold coins.
He added them to his store.
He added them to his shop.
Margaret seemed nearer and nearer.
Margaret seemed closer and closer.
For some time past, too, it appeared as if the fairies had watched over him. Baskets of choice provisions and fruits were brought to his door by porters, who knew not who had employed them, or affected ignorance; and one day came a jewel in a letter, but no words.
For a while now, it seemed like the fairies had been looking out for him. Baskets of delicious food and fruit were delivered to his door by porters, who didn't know who had sent them or pretended not to know; and one day, he received a jewel in a letter, but there were no words.
CHAPTER LXI
The Princess Claelia ordered a full-length portrait of herself. Gerard advised her to employ his friend Pietro Vanucci.
The Princess Claelia requested a full-length portrait of herself. Gerard suggested that she hire his friend Pietro Vanucci.
But she declined. “'Twill be time to put a slight on the Gerardo, when his work discontents me.” Then Gerard, who knew he was an excellent draughtsman, but not so good a colourist, begged her to stand to him as a Roman statue. He showed her how closely he could mimic marble on paper. She consented at first; but demurred when this enthusiast explained to her that she must wear the tunic, toga, and sandals of the ancients.
But she refused. “It’ll be time to take a shot at Gerardo when his work doesn’t satisfy me.” Then Gerard, who knew he was a great draftsman but not as skilled with color, asked her to pose for him like a Roman statue. He demonstrated how closely he could imitate marble on paper. She agreed at first but hesitated when this enthusiast explained that she needed to wear the tunic, toga, and sandals of ancient times.
“Why, I had as lieve be presented in my smock,” said she, with mediaeval frankness.
“Honestly, I would just as soon be presented in my undershirt,” she said, with blunt honesty.
“Alack! signorina,” said Gerard, “you have surely never noted the ancient habit; so free, so ample, so simple, yet so noble; and most becoming your highness, to whom Heaven hath given the Roman features, and eke a shapely arm and hand, his in modern guise.”
“Alas! Miss,” said Gerard, “you surely have never noticed the old custom; so relaxed, so generous, so straightforward, yet so dignified; and it suits you perfectly, to whom Heaven has granted the Roman features, as well as a graceful arm and hand, in a modern style.”
“What, can you flatter, like the rest, Gerardo? Well, give me time to think on't. Come o' Saturday, and then I will say ay or nay.”
“What, can you flatter like everyone else, Gerardo? Alright, give me some time to think about it. Come Saturday, and then I’ll let you know yes or no.”
The respite thus gained was passed in making the tunic and toga, etc., and trying them on in her chamber, to see whether they suited her style of beauty well enough to compensate their being a thousand years out of date.
The break they got was spent making the tunic and toga, and trying them on in her room to see if they matched her beauty well enough to make up for being a thousand years out of style.
Gerard, hurrying along to this interview, was suddenly arrested, and rooted to earth at a shop window.
Gerard, rushing to this interview, suddenly stopped and was frozen in place at a shop window.
His quick eye had discerned in that window a copy of Lactantius lying open. “That is fairly writ, anyway,” thought he.
His quick eye caught sight of a copy of Lactantius lying open in that window. “That’s pretty well written, at least,” he thought.
He eyed it a moment more with all his eyes.
He looked at it for a moment with all his attention.
It was not written at all. It was printed.
It wasn't written at all. It was printed.
Gerard groaned.
Gerard sighed.
“I am sped; mine enemy is at the door. The press is in Rome.”
“I’m finished; my enemy is at the door. The press is in Rome.”
He went into the shop, and affecting nonchalance, inquired how long the printing-press had been in Rome. The man said he believed there was no such thing in the city. “Oh, the Lactantius; that was printed on the top of the Apennines.”
He walked into the shop and, trying to act casual, asked how long the printing press had been in Rome. The man replied that he didn’t think there was one in the city. “Oh, the Lactantius; that was printed at the top of the Apennines.”
“What, did the printing-press fall down there out o' the moon?”
“What, did the printing press just drop down from the moon?”
“Nay, messer,” said the trader, laughing; “it shot up there out of Germany. See the title-page!”
“Nah, man,” said the trader, laughing; “it shot up there from Germany. Check out the title page!”
Gerard took the Lactantius eagerly, and saw the following—
Gerard eagerly grabbed the Lactantius and saw the following—
Opera et impensis Sweynheim et Pannartz
Alumnorum Joannis Fust.
Impressum Subiacis. A.D. 1465.
Opera et impensis Sweynheim et Pannartz
Alumnorum Joannis Fust.
Printed in Subiaco. A.D. 1465.“Will ye buy, messer? See how fair and even be the letters. Few are left can write like that; and scarce a quarter of the price.”
“Will you buy, sir? Look how neat and even the letters are. Very few can write like this; and it’s hardly a quarter of the price.”
“I would fain have it,” said Gerard sadly, “but my heart will not let me. Know that I am a caligraph, and these disciples of Fust run after me round the world a-taking the bread out of my mouth. But I wish them no ill. Heaven forbid!” And he hurried from the shop.
“I would really like to have it,” Gerard said sadly, “but my heart won’t allow it. You should know that I’m a calligrapher, and these followers of Fust chase me around the world, taking the bread out of my mouth. But I don’t wish them any harm. God forbid!” And he rushed out of the shop.
“Dear Margaret,” said he to himself, “we must lose no time; we must make our hay while shines the sun. One month more and an avalanche of printer's type shall roll down on Rome from those Apennines, and lay us waste that writers be.”
“Dear Margaret,” he thought to himself, “we can’t waste any time; we need to take advantage of this opportunity while we can. In just a month, a flood of printed words will come pouring down on Rome from the Apennines, and it will leave us, the writers, in ruins.”
And he almost ran to the Princess Claelia.
And he nearly sprinted to Princess Claelia.
He was ushered into an apartment new to him. It was not very large, but most luxurious; a fountain played in the centre, and the floor was covered with the skins of panthers, dressed with the hair, so that no footfall could be heard. The room was an ante-chamber to the princess's boudoir, for on one side there was no door, but an ample curtain of gorgeous tapestry.
He was led into an unfamiliar apartment. It wasn't very big, but it was quite luxurious; a fountain splashed in the center, and the floor was covered with panther skins, fur side up, so that no sound could be heard when walking. The room served as an ante-chamber to the princess's boudoir, as there was no door on one side, just a large curtain made of beautiful tapestry.
Here Gerard was left alone till he became quite uneasy, and doubted whether the maid had not shown him to the wrong place.
Here, Gerard was left alone until he started feeling quite uneasy and began to question whether the maid had taken him to the wrong place.
These doubts were agreeably dissipated.
These doubts were pleasantly cleared.
A light step came swiftly behind the curtain; it parted in the middle, and there stood a figure the heathens might have worshipped. It was not quite Venus, nor quite Minerva; but between the two; nobler than Venus, more womanly than Jupiter's daughter. Toga, tunic, sandals; nothing was modern. And as for beauty, that is of all times.
A light step quickly approached from behind the curtain; it parted in the middle, and there stood a figure that could have been worshipped by the heathens. She wasn’t exactly Venus, nor was she quite Minerva; she was somewhere in between; nobler than Venus, more feminine than Jupiter’s daughter. Toga, tunic, sandals; nothing about her was modern. And as for beauty, it transcends all eras.
Gerard started up, and all the artist in him flushed with pleasure.
Gerard perked up, and all the artist in him filled with joy.
“Oh!” he cried innocently, and gazed in rapture.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed, and stared in awe.
This added the last charm to his model: a light blush tinted her cheeks, and her eyes brightened, and her mouth smiled with delicious complacency at this genuine tribute to her charms.
This added the final touch to his model: a slight blush colored her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, and she had a satisfied smile on her face from this sincere compliment to her beauty.
When they had looked at one another so some time, and she saw Gerard's eloquence was confined to ejaculating and gazing, she spoke. “Well, Gerardo, thou seest I have made myself an antique monster for thee.”
When they had looked at each other for a while, and she noticed that Gerard's eloquence was limited to exclamations and staring, she spoke. “Well, Gerard, you see I've turned myself into an old-fashioned monster for you.”
“A monster? I doubt Fra Colonna would fall down and adore your highness, seeing you so habited.”
“A monster? I doubt Fra Colonna would bow down and worship you, looking the way you do.”
“Nay, I care not to be adored by an old man. I would liever be loved by a young one: of my own choosing.”
“Nah, I don't want to be admired by an old man. I’d rather be loved by a young one: someone I choose myself.”
Gerard took out his pencils, arranged his canvas, which he had covered with stout paper, and set to work; and so absorbed was he that he had no mercy on his model. At last, after near an hour in one posture, “Gerardo,” said she faintly, “I can stand so no more, even for thee.”
Gerard took out his pencils, set up his canvas, which he had covered with thick paper, and got to work; he was so focused that he showed no mercy to his model. Finally, after nearly an hour in one position, she said softly, “Gerardo, I can't hold this pose any longer, even for you.”
“Sit down and rest awhile, Signora.”
“Take a seat and relax for a bit, Signora.”
“I thank thee,” said she; and sinking into a chair turned pale and sighed.
“I thank you,” she said, sinking into a chair, turning pale, and sighing.
Gerard was alarmed, and saw also he had been inconsiderate. He took water from the fountain and was about to throw it in her face; but she put up a white hand deprecatingly: “Nay, hold it to my brow with thine hand: prithee, do not fling it at me!”
Gerard was worried and realized he had been thoughtless. He took water from the fountain and was ready to splash it in her face, but she raised a white hand to stop him: “No, please hold it to my forehead with your hand: I beg you, don’t throw it at me!”
Gerard timidly and hesitating applied his wet hand to her brow.
Gerard nervously and hesitantly placed his damp hand on her forehead.
“Ah!” she sighed, “that is reviving. Again.”
“Ah!” she sighed, “that's refreshing. Again.”
He applied it again. She thanked him, and asked him to ring a little hand-bell on the table. He did so, and a maid came, and was sent to Floretta with orders to bring a large fan.
He applied it again. She thanked him and asked him to ring the little handbell on the table. He did so, and a maid came and was sent to Floretta with orders to bring a large fan.
Floretta speedily came with the fan.
Floretta quickly came with the fan.
She no sooner came near the princess, than that lady's highbred nostrils suddenly expanded like a bloodhorse's. “Wretch!” said she; and rising up with a sudden return to vigour, seized Floretta with her left hand, twisted it in her hair, and with the right hand boxed her ears severely three times.
She barely got close to the princess when the lady's aristocratic nostrils flared wide like a racehorse's. “You wretch!” she exclaimed, suddenly filled with energy. She grabbed Floretta with her left hand, twisted her hair, and with her right hand, slapped her ears hard three times.
Floretta screamed and blubbered; but obtained no mercy.
Floretta screamed and cried, but received no mercy.
The antique toga left quite disengaged a bare arm, that now seemed as powerful as it was beautiful: it rose and fell like the piston of a modern steam-engine, and heavy slaps resounded one after another on Floretta's shoulders; the last one drove her sobbing and screaming through the curtain, and there she was heard crying bitterly for some time after.
The old toga left one arm bare, which now looked as strong as it was beautiful: it moved up and down like the piston of a modern steam engine, and loud slaps rang out one after another on Floretta's shoulders; the last one made her sobbing and screaming as she went through the curtain, and she was heard crying bitterly for a while afterwards.
“Saints of heaven!” cried Gerard, “what is amiss? what has she done?”
“Holy saints!” cried Gerard, “what’s wrong? What has she done?”
“She knows right well. 'Tis not the first time. The nasty toad! I'll learn her to come to me stinking of the musk-cat.”
“She knows full well. This isn’t the first time. That nasty toad! I’ll teach her not to come to me smelling like a musk cat.”
“Alas! Signora, 'twas a small fault, methinks.”
“Unfortunately! Madam, I think it was a minor mistake.”
“A small fault? Nay, 'twas a foul fault.” She added with an amazing sudden descent to humility and sweetness, “Are you wroth with me for beating her, Gerar-do?”
“A small fault? No, it was a terrible mistake.” She added with an astonishing shift to humility and kindness, “Are you angry with me for hitting her, Gerardo?”
“Signora, it ill becomes me to school you; but methinks such as Heaven appoints to govern others should govern themselves.”
“Madam, I feel it’s not my place to teach you, but I believe that those whom Heaven chooses to lead others should be able to lead themselves.”
“That is true, Gerardo. How wise you are, to be so young.” She then called the other maid, and gave her a little purse. “Take that to Floretta, and tell her 'the Gerardo' hath interceded for her; and so I must needs forgive her. There, Gerardo.”
“That’s true, Gerardo. You’re so wise for being so young.” She then called the other maid and gave her a small purse. “Take this to Floretta and tell her that 'Gerardo' has interceded for her, so I have to forgive her. There you go, Gerardo.”
Gerard coloured all over at the compliment; but not knowing how to turn a phrase equal to the occasion, asked her if he should resume her picture.
Gerard blushed all over at the compliment; but not knowing how to respond with an equal level of eloquence, asked her if he should continue with her portrait.
“Not yet; beating that hussy hath somewhat breathed me. I'll sit awhile, and you shall talk to me. I know you can talk, an it pleases you, as rarely as you draw.”
“Not yet; hitting that hussy has worn me out a bit. I'll sit here for a while, and you can talk to me. I know you can talk if you want to, as seldom as you do.”
“That were easily done.
"That was easy."
“Do it then, Gerardo.”
"Go ahead, Gerardo."
Gerard was taken aback.
Gerard was shocked.
“But, signora, I know not what to say. This is sudden.”
“But, ma'am, I don't know what to say. This is unexpected.”
“Say your real mind. Say you wish you were anywhere but here.”
“Speak your true thoughts. Say you wish you were anywhere but here.”
“Nay, signora, that would not be sooth. I wish one thing though.”
“Nah, ma'am, that wouldn't be true. I do wish for one thing, though.”
“Ay, and what is that?” said she gently.
“Ay, and what is that?” she asked softly.
“I wish I could have drawn you as you were beating that poor lass. You were awful, yet lovely. Oh, what a subject for a Pythoness!”
“I wish I could have captured you while you were hitting that poor girl. You were terrible, yet beautiful. Oh, what a perfect subject for a seer!”
“Alas! he thinks but of his art. And why keep such a coil about my beauty, Gerardo? You are far fairer than I am. You are more like Apollo than I to Venus. Also, you have lovely hair and lovely eyes—but you know not what to do with them.”
“Seriously! He only thinks about his craft. And why make such a fuss about my looks, Gerardo? You're way more attractive than I am. You resemble Apollo way more than I do Venus. Plus, you have beautiful hair and gorgeous eyes—but you don’t know how to make the most of them.”
“Ay, do I. To draw you, signora.”
"Ay, I do. To draw you, madam."
“Ah, yes; you can see my features with them; but you cannot see what any Roman gallant had seen long ago in your place. Yet sure you must have noted how welcome you are to me, Gerardo?”
“Ah, yes; you can see my features with them; but you cannot see what any Roman suitor saw here long ago. Yet you must have noticed how welcome you are to me, Gerardo?”
“I can see your highness is always passing kind to me; a poor stranger like me.”
“I can see you’re always so kind to me, your highness; a poor stranger like me.”
“No, I am not, Gerardo. I have often been cold to you; rude sometimes; and you are so simple you see not the cause. Alas! I feared for my own heart. I feared to be your slave. I who have hitherto made slaves. Ah! Gerardo, I am unhappy. Ever since you came here I have lived upon your visits. The day you are to come I am bright. The other days I am listless, and wish them fled. You are not like the Roman gallants. You make me hate them. You are ten times braver to my eye; and you are wise and scholarly, and never flatter and lie. I scorn a man that lies. Gerar-do, teach me thy magic; teach me to make thee as happy by my side as I am still by thine.”
“No, I'm not, Gerardo. I've often been cold to you; sometimes rude; and you’re so straightforward you don’t see why. Unfortunately, I worried for my own heart. I was afraid of becoming your slave. I, who have always made others my slaves. Ah! Gerardo, I’m unhappy. Ever since you got here, I’ve lived for your visits. On the days you’re coming, I feel alive. On the other days, I’m restless and wish they would pass. You’re not like the Roman nobles. You make me dislike them. You seem ten times braver to me; and you’re wise and knowledgeable, never flattering or dishonest. I despise a man who lies. Gerardo, teach me your magic; teach me to make you as happy by my side as I am by yours.”
As she poured out these strange words, the princess's mellow voice sunk almost to a whisper, and trembled with half-suppressed passion, and her white hand stole timidly yet earnestly down Gerard's arm, till it rested like a soft bird upon his wrist, and as ready to fly away at a word.
As she spoke these unusual words, the princess's warm voice dropped almost to a whisper and shook with barely contained emotion. Her pale hand gently yet eagerly moved down Gerard's arm until it came to rest like a delicate bird on his wrist, poised to take flight at any moment.
Destitute of vanity and experience, wrapped up in his Margaret and his art, Gerard had not seen this revelation coming, though it had come by regular and visible gradations.
Devoid of vanity and experience, focused on his Margaret and his art, Gerard hadn't seen this revelation approaching, even though it had unfolded gradually and visibly.
He blushed all over. His innocent admiration of the regal beauty that besieged him, did not for a moment displace the absent Margaret's image. Yet it was regal beauty, and wooing with a grace and tenderness he had never even figured in imagination. How to check her without wounding her?
He turned red all over. His innocent admiration for the royal beauty surrounding him didn’t for a second replace the memory of the absent Margaret. Yet it was a royal beauty, enchanting him with a grace and tenderness he had never even imagined. How could he stop her without hurting her?
He blushed and trembled.
He blushed and shook.
The siren saw, and encouraged him.
The siren noticed him and cheered him on.
“Poor Gerardo,” she murmured, “fear not; none shall ever harm thee under my wing. Wilt not speak to me, Gerar-do mio?”
“Poor Gerardo,” she whispered, “don’t worry; no one will ever hurt you under my protection. Won’t you talk to me, my Gerardo?”
“Signora!” muttered Gerard deprecatingly.
“Lady!” muttered Gerard deprecatingly.
At this moment his eye, lowered in his confusion, fell on the shapely white arm and delicate hand that curled round his elbow like a tender vine, and it flashed across him how he had just seen that lovely limb employed on Floretta.
At that moment, his gaze, dropped in embarrassment, landed on the graceful white arm and delicate hand that wrapped around his elbow like a gentle vine, and it suddenly struck him that he had just seen that beautiful limb used on Floretta.
He trembled and blushed.
He shook and flushed.
“Alas!” said the princess, “I scare him. Am I then so very terrible? Is it my Roman robe? I'll doff it, and habit me as when thou first camest to me. Mindest thou? 'Twas to write a letter to yon barren knight Ercole d'Orsini. Shall I tell thee? 'twas the sight of thee, and thy pretty ways, and thy wise words, made me hate him on the instant. I liked the fool well enough before; or wist I liked him. Tell me now how many times hast thou been here since then. Ah! thou knowest not; lovest me not, I doubt, as I love thee. Eighteen times, Gerardo. And each time dearer to me. The day thou comest not 'tis night, not day, to Claelia. Alas! I speak for both. Cruel boy, am I not worth a word? Hast every day a princess at thy feet? Nay, prithee, prithee, speak to me, Gerar-do.”
“Alas!” said the princess, “Do I scare him? Am I really that terrible? Is it my Roman robe? I’ll take it off and dress like I did when you first came to me. Do you remember? I was writing a letter to that barren knight Ercole d'Orsini. Should I tell you? It was seeing you, and your charming ways, and your wise words that made me hate him right away. I liked the fool well enough before; or at least I thought I did. Tell me now, how many times have you been here since then? Ah! You don’t know; you probably don’t love me as I love you. Eighteen times, Gerardo. And each time, I cherish you more. The day you don't come feels like night, not day, to Claelia. Alas! I speak for both of us. Cruel boy, am I not worth a word? Do you have a princess at your feet every day? No, please, please, speak to me, Gerardo.”
“Signora,” faltered Gerard, “what can I say, that were not better left unsaid? Oh, evil day that ever I came here.”
“Ma'am,” Gerard stammered, “what can I say that would be better left unsaid? Oh, what a terrible day it was when I came here.”
“Ah! say not so. 'Twas the brightest day ever shone on me or indeed on thee. I'll make thee confess so much ere long, ungrateful one.”
“Ah! Don’t say that. It was the brightest day that ever shone on me or even on you. I’ll make you admit that soon, you ungrateful one.”
“Your highness,” began Gerard, in a low, pleading voice.
“Your highness,” began Gerard, in a quiet, pleading voice.
“Call me Claelia, Gerar-do.”
“Call me Claelia, Gerardo.”
“Signora, I am too young and too little wise to know how I ought to speak to you, so as not to seem blind nor yet ungrateful. But this I know, I were both naught and ungrateful, and the worst foe e'er you had, did I take advantage of this mad fancy. Sure some ill spirit hath had leave to afflict you withal. For 'tis all unnatural that a princess adorned with every grace should abase her affections on a churl.”
“Ma’am, I’m too young and not wise enough to know how to talk to you without coming off as blind or ungrateful. But I do know this: I would be both foolish and ungrateful, and the worst enemy you ever had, if I took advantage of this crazy idea. Surely, some bad spirit has been allowed to trouble you. It’s completely unnatural for a princess blessed with every grace to lower her feelings for a jerk.”
The princess withdrew her hand slowly from Gerard's wrist.
The princess slowly pulled her hand away from Gerard's wrist.
Yet as it passed lightly over his arm it seemed to linger a moment at parting.
Yet as it lightly brushed against his arm, it felt like it lingered for a moment before pulling away.
“You fear the daggers of my kinsmen,” said she, half sadly, half contemptuously.
“You're afraid of my family's daggers,” she said, half sadly, half mockingly.
“No more than I fear the bodkins of your women,” said Gerard haughtily. “But I fear God and the saints, and my own conscience.”
“No more than I fear the sharp tongues of your women,” Gerard said arrogantly. “But I fear God, the saints, and my own conscience.”
“The truth, Gerardo, the truth! Hypocrisy sits awkwardly on thee. Princesses, while they are young, are not despised for love of God, but of some other woman. Tell me whom thou lovest; and if she is worthy thee I will forgive thee.”
“The truth, Gerardo, the truth! Hypocrisy looks bad on you. Young princesses aren’t rejected for the love of God, but for some other woman. Tell me who you love; and if she deserves you, I’ll forgive you.”
“No she in Italy, upon my soul.”
“No, she's in Italy, I swear.”
“Ah! there is one somewhere then. Where? where?”
“Ah! So there is one somewhere then. Where? Where?”
“In Holland, my native country.”
“In Holland, my home country.”
“Ah! Marie de Bourgoyne is fair, they say. Yet she is but a child.”
“Ah! They say Marie de Bourgoyne is beautiful. But she is just a child.”
“Princess, she I love is not noble. She is as I am. Nor is she so fair as thou. Yet is she fair; and linked to my heart for ever by her virtues, and by all the dangers and griefs we have borne together, and for one another. Forgive me; but I would not wrong my Margaret for all the highest dames in Italy.”
“Princess, the woman I love isn't of noble birth. She's just like me. She's not as beautiful as you are. Still, she's lovely; and she's forever connected to my heart through her virtues, and all the challenges and sorrows we've faced together, and for one another. Please forgive me; but I wouldn't betray my Margaret for all the most esteemed ladies in Italy.”
The slighted beauty started to her feet, and stood opposite him, as beautiful, but far more terrible than when she slapped Floretta, for then her cheeks were red, but now they were pale, and her eyes full of concentrated fury.
The slighted beauty jumped to her feet and stood across from him, just as beautiful, but much more frightening than when she slapped Floretta. Back then, her cheeks were flushed, but now they were pale, and her eyes were filled with intense rage.
“This to my face, unmannered wretch,” she cried. “Was I born to be insulted, as well as scorned, by such as thou? Beware! We nobles brook no rivals. Bethink thee whether is better, the love of a Cesarini, or her hate: for after all I have said and done to thee, it must be love or hate between us, and to the death. Choose now!”
“This to my face, rude wretch,” she shouted. “Was I born to be insulted, as well as scorned, by someone like you? Watch out! We nobles don't tolerate rivals. Think about whether it's better to have the love of a Cesarini or her hate: because after everything I've said and done to you, it has to be love or hate between us, and it will last until death. Choose now!”
He looked up at her with wonder and awe, as she stood towering over him in her Roman toga, offering this strange alternative.
He looked up at her in amazement and curiosity as she stood above him in her Roman toga, presenting this unusual option.
He seemed to have affronted a goddess of antiquity; he a poor puny mortal.
He seemed to have offended an ancient goddess; he, a weak little human.
He sighed deeply, but spoke not.
He sighed deeply but didn’t say anything.
Perhaps something in his deep and patient sigh touched a tender chord in that ungoverned creature; or perhaps the time had come for one passion to ebb and another to flow. The princess sank languidly into a seat, and the tears began to steal rapidly down her cheeks.
Perhaps something in his deep, patient sigh struck a sensitive note in that wild creature; or maybe it was just the right moment for one feeling to fade away and another to emerge. The princess sank wearily into a chair, and tears started to roll down her cheeks.
“Alas! alas!” said Gerard. “Weep not, sweet lady; your tears they do accuse me, and I am like to weep for company. My kind patron, be yourself; you will live to see how much better a friend I was to you than I seemed.”
“Alas! alas!” said Gerard. “Don’t cry, sweet lady; your tears accuse me, and I might end up crying too. My kind patron, just be yourself; you’ll live to see how much better a friend I was to you than I appeared.”
“I see it now, Gerardo,” said the princess. “Friend is the word! the only word can ever pass between us twain. I was mad. Any other man had ta'en advantage of my folly. You must teach me to be your friend and nothing more.”
“I get it now, Gerardo,” said the princess. “Friend is the word! It’s the only word that can ever exist between us two. I was out of my mind. Any other man would have taken advantage of my mistake. You need to teach me to be your friend and nothing else.”
Gerard hailed this proposition with joy; and told her out of Cicero how godlike a thing was friendship, and how much better and rarer and more lasting than love: to prove to her he was capable of it, he even told her about Denys and himself.
Gerard welcomed this idea with excitement and shared with her, using Cicero, how incredible friendship is, and how it’s much better, rarer, and more enduring than love. To show her he really understood this, he even shared stories about Denys and himself.
She listened with her eyes half shut, watching his words to fathom his character, and learn his weak point.
She listened with her eyes half-closed, watching his words to understand his character and identify his weaknesses.
At last, she addressed him calmly thus: “Leave me now, Gerardo, and come as usual to-morrow. You will find your lesson well bestowed.”
At last, she spoke to him calmly: “Leave me now, Gerardo, and come back like you usually do tomorrow. You'll find your lesson well learned.”
She held out her hand to him: he kissed it; and went away pondering deeply this strange interview, and wondering whether he had done prudently or not.
She stretched out her hand to him: he kissed it; and walked away thinking hard about this unusual meeting, and questioning whether he had acted wisely or not.
The next day he was received with marked distance, and the princess stood before him literally like a statue, and after a very short sitting, excused herself and dismissed him. Gerard felt the chilling difference; but said to himself, “She is wise.” So she was in her way.
The next day, he was greeted with clear distance, and the princess stood in front of him like a statue. After a very brief chat, she excused herself and sent him away. Gerard felt the cold change; but he told himself, “She’s smart.” And she was, in her own way.
The next day he found the princess waiting for him surrounded by young nobles flattering her to the skies. She and they treated him like a dog that could do one little trick they could not. The cavaliers in particular criticised his work with a mass of ignorance and insolence combined that made his cheeks burn.
The next day he found the princess waiting for him, surrounded by young nobles who were showering her with compliments. She and they treated him like a dog that could perform one small trick they couldn't. The knights, in particular, criticized his work with such a mix of ignorance and arrogance that it made his cheeks flush.
The princess watched his face demurely with half-closed eyes at each sting the insects gave him; and when they had fled, had her doors closed against every one of them for their pains.
The princess shyly watched his face with half-closed eyes as each insect stung him; and when they had flown away, she had her doors shut against all of them for their trouble.
The next day Gerard found her alone: cold and silent. After standing to him so some time, she said, “You treated my company with less respect than became you.”
The next day, Gerard found her alone: cold and silent. After standing in front of him for a while, she said, “You treated my company with less respect than you should have.”
“Did I, Signora?”
“Did I, ma'am?”
“Did you? you fired up at the comments they did you the honour to make on your work.”
“Did you? You were really excited about the comments they took the time to make on your work.”
“Nay, I said nought,” observed Gerard.
“Nah, I didn’t say anything,” Gerard noted.
“Oh, high looks speak as plain as high words. Your cheeks were red as blood.”
“Oh, the way you look says just as much as what you say. Your cheeks were as red as blood.”
“I was nettled a moment at seeing so much ignorance and ill-nature together.”
“I was irritated for a moment at seeing so much ignorance and bad temper combined.”
“Now it is me, their hostess, you affront.”
“Now it's me, your hostess, you're disrespecting.”
“Forgive me, Signora, and acquit me of design. It would ill become me to affront the kindest patron and friend I have in Rome but one.”
“Please forgive me, ma'am, and clear me of any bad intentions. It wouldn’t be right for me to upset the kindest patron and friend I have in Rome, other than you.”
“How humble we are all of a sudden. In sooth, Ser Gerardo, you are a capital feigner. You can insult or truckle at will.”
“How humble we are all of a sudden. Truly, Ser Gerardo, you are an excellent pretender. You can insult or flatter whenever you want.”
“Truckle? to whom?”
“Truckle? To who?”
“To me, for one; to one, whom you affronted for a base-born girl like yourself; but whose patronage you claim all the same.”
“To me, for one; to someone whom you insulted for a low-born girl like yourself; but whose support you still claim.”
Gerard rose, and put his hand to his heart. “These are biting words, signora. Have I really deserved them?”
Gerard stood up and placed his hand on his heart. “Those are harsh words, ma'am. Have I truly earned them?”
“Oh, what are words to an adventurer like you? cold steel is all you fear?”
“Oh, what are words to an adventurer like you? Is cold steel all you fear?”
“I am no swashbuckler, yet I have met steel with steel and methinks I had rather face your kinsmen's swords than your cruel tongue, lady. Why do you use me so?”
“I’m not a daring adventurer, but I’ve faced swords before, and honestly, I’d rather deal with your relatives’ blades than your harsh words, lady. Why do you treat me this way?”
“Gerar-do, for no good reason, but because I am wayward, and shrewish, and curst, and because everybody admires me but you.”
“Gerar-do, for no good reason, but because I'm stubborn, difficult, and tough, and because everyone admires me except for you.”
“I admire you too, Signora. Your friends may flatter you more; but believe me they have not the eye to see half your charms. Their babble yesterday showed me that. None admire you more truly, or wish you better, than the poor artist, who might not be your lover, but hoped to be your friend; but no, I see that may not be between one so high as you, and one so low as I.”
“I admire you too, ma'am. Your friends might praise you more, but believe me, they can’t recognize even half of your beauty. Their chatter yesterday made that clear. No one appreciates you more genuinely, or wishes you well, than the struggling artist who may not be your lover, but hopes to be your friend; but no, I see that may not happen between someone as elevated as you and someone as humble as I.”
“Ay! but it shall, Gerardo,” said the princess eagerly. “I will not be so curst. Tell me now where abides thy Margaret; and I will give thee a present for her; and on that you and I will be friends.”
“Ay! but it will, Gerardo,” said the princess eagerly. “I won’t be so cursed. Tell me now where your Margaret is; and I will give you a gift for her; and then you and I will be friends.”
“She is a daughter of a physician called Peter, and they bide at Sevenbergen; ah me, shall I e'er see it again?”
“She is the daughter of a doctor named Peter, and they live in Sevenbergen; oh dear, will I ever see it again?”
“'Tis well. Now go.” And she dismissed him somewhat abruptly.
“Okay, that's enough. Now you can go.” And she sent him away a bit abruptly.
Poor Gerard. He began to wade in deep waters when he encountered this Italian princess; callida et calida selis filia. He resolved to go no more when once he had finished her likeness. Indeed he now regretted having undertaken so long and laborious a task.
Poor Gerard. He started to get in over his head when he met this Italian princess; clever and fiery daughter of Selis. He decided to stop after he finished her portrait. In fact, he now regretted taking on such a long and difficult task.
This resolution was shaken for a moment by his next reception, which was all gentleness and kindness.
This decision was briefly shaken by his next greeting, which was full of gentleness and kindness.
After standing to him some time in her toga, she said she was fatigued, and wanted his assistance in another way: would he teach her to draw a little? He sat down beside her, and taught her to make easy lines. He found her wonderfully apt. He said so.
After standing next to him for a while in her toga, she said she was tired and needed his help in another way: could he teach her to draw a bit? He sat down beside her and showed her how to make simple lines. He found her really quick to learn. He mentioned that to her.
“I had a teacher before thee, Gerar-do. Ay, and one as handsome as thyself.” She then went to a drawer, and brought out several heads drawn with a complete ignorance of the art, but with great patience and natural talent. They were all heads of Gerard, and full of spirit; and really not unlike. One was his very image. “There,” said she. “Now thou seest who was my teacher.”
“I had a teacher before you, Gerardo. Yes, and he was just as handsome as you are.” She then went to a drawer and pulled out several sketches, drawn with little skill but a lot of patience and natural talent. They were all portraits of Gerard and full of character; they really did resemble him. One was exactly like him. “There,” she said. “Now you see who my teacher was.”
“Not I, signora.”
“Not me, ma'am.”
“What, know you not who teaches us women to do all things? 'Tis love, Gerar-do. Love made me draw because thou draweth, Gerar-do. Love prints thine image in my bosom. My fingers touch the pen, and love supplies the want of art, and lo thy beloved features lie upon the paper.”
“What, don't you know who teaches us women to do everything? It's love, Gerar-do. Love made me draw because you draw, Gerar-do. Love imprints your image in my heart. My fingers hold the pen, and love makes up for my lack of skill, and there are your beautiful features on the paper.”
Gerard opened his eyes with astonishment at this return to an interdicted topic. “Oh, Signora, you promised me to be friends and nothing more.”
Gerard opened his eyes in surprise at this return to a forbidden topic. “Oh, Signora, you promised me we would be friends and nothing more.”
She laughed in his face. “How simple you are: who believes a woman promising nonsense, impossibilities? Friendship, foolish boy, who ever built that temple on red ashes? Nay Gerardo,” she added gloomily, “between thee and me it must be love or hate.”
She laughed in his face. “How simple you are: who believes a woman promising nonsense, impossibilities? Friendship, foolish boy, who ever built that temple on red ashes? No, Gerardo,” she added gloomily, “between you and me, it has to be love or hate.”
“Which you will, signora,” said Gerard firmly. “But for me I will neither love nor hate you; but with your permission I will leave you.” And he rose abruptly.
“Which you will, signora,” Gerard said firmly. “But as for me, I won't love or hate you; with your permission, I'm going to leave now.” And he got up abruptly.
She rose too, pale as death, and said, “Ere thou leavest me so, know thy fate; outside that door are armed men who wait to slay thee at a word from me.”
She stood up too, pale as a ghost, and said, “Before you leave me like this, know your fate; outside that door are armed men who are ready to kill you at my command.”
“But you will not speak that word, signora.”
“But you won’t say that word, ma'am.”
“That word I will speak. Nay, more, I shall noise it abroad it was for proffering brutal love to me thou wert slain; and I will send a special messenger to Sevenbergen: a cunning messenger, well taught his lesson. Thy Margaret shall know thee dead, and think thee faithless; now, go to thy grave; a dog's. For a man thou art not.”
“That word I’ll speak. No, more than that, I’ll spread the word that you were killed for offering me cruel love; and I’ll send a special messenger to Sevenbergen: a clever messenger, well-prepared for his task. Your Margaret will know you’re dead and think you were unfaithful; now, go to your grave; like a dog. For you are not a man.”
Gerard turned pale, and stood dumb-stricken. “God have mercy on us both.”
Gerard went pale and stood frozen in shock. “God help us both.”
“Nay, have thou mercy on her, and on thyself. She will never know in Holland what thou dost in Rome; unless I be driven to tell her my tale. Come, yield thee, Gerar-do mio: what will it cost thee to say thou lovest me? I ask thee but to feign it handsomely. Thou art young: die not for the poor pleasure of denying a lady what-the shadow of a heart. Who will shed a tear for thee? I tell thee men will laugh, not weep over thy tombstone-ah!” She ended in a little scream, for Gerard threw himself in a moment at her feet, and poured out in one torrent of eloquence the story of his love and Margaret's. How he had been imprisoned, hunted with bloodhounds for her, driven to exile for her; how she had shed her blood for him, and now pined at home. How he had walked through Europe environed by perils, torn by savage brutes, attacked by furious men with sword and axe and trap, robbed, shipwrecked for her.
“Please, have mercy on her and on yourself. She will never find out in Holland what you’re doing in Rome, unless I’m forced to share my story. Come on, give in, my Gerard: how hard can it be to say you love me? I’m only asking you to pretend it beautifully. You’re young: don’t throw your life away just for the same old thrill of denying a lady what little remains of your heart. Who will shed a tear for you? I’m telling you, people will laugh, not cry at your tombstone—ah!” She ended with a slight scream as Gerard suddenly threw himself at her feet and poured out in a flood of words the story of his love and Margaret's. How he had been imprisoned, hunted with bloodhounds for her, forced into exile for her; how she had shed her blood for him and now suffered at home. How he had traveled through Europe surrounded by danger, attacked by wild beasts, confronted by furious men with swords and axes, robbed, shipwrecked for her.
The princess trembled, and tried to get away from him; but he held her robe, he clung to her, he made her hear his pitiful story and Margaret's; he caught her hand, and clasped it between both his, and his tears fell fast on her hand, as he implored her to think on all the woes of the true lovers she would part; and what but remorse, swift and lasting, could come of so deep a love betrayed, and so false a love feigned, with mutual hatred lurking at the bottom.
The princess shook with fear and tried to escape from him; but he held onto her dress, clung tightly to her, and made her listen to his sad story and Margaret's. He took her hand and held it between both of his, his tears streaming down onto her hand as he begged her to consider all the heartbreak of the true lovers she would separate, and what other than remorse, quick and enduring, could result from such a deep love betrayed and such a fake love pretended, with mutual hatred hidden underneath.
In such moments none ever resisted Gerard.
In those moments, no one ever stood up to Gerard.
The princess, after in vain trying to get away from him, for she felt his power over her, began to waver, and sigh, and her bosom to rise and fall tumultuously, and her fiery eyes to fill.
The princess, after unsuccessfully attempting to escape from him, feeling his hold on her, started to hesitate, sigh, her chest heaving dramatically, and her intense eyes welling up.
“You conquer me,” she sobbed. “You, or my better angel. Leave Rome!”
“You've defeated me,” she cried. “You, or my better self. Leave Rome!”
“I will, I will.”
"I will, I will."
“If you breathe a word of my folly, it will be your last.”
“If you say a word about my mistake, it will be the last thing you do.”
“Think not so poorly of me. You are my benefactress once more. Is it for me to slander you?”
“Don’t think so badly of me. You’re my benefactor again. Why would I speak poorly of you?”
“Go! I will send you the means. I know myself; if you cross my path again, I shall kill you. Addio; my heart is broken.”
“Go! I’ll send you what you need. I know myself; if you come across me again, I’ll kill you. Goodbye; my heart is shattered.”
She touched her bell. “Floretta,” said she, in a choked voice, “take him safe out of the house, through my chamber, and by the side postern.”
She pressed her bell. “Floretta,” she said, her voice trembling, “please take him safely out of the house, through my room, and by the side door.”
He turned at the door; she was leaning with one hand on a chair, crying, with averted head. Then he thought only of her kindness, and ran back and kissed her robe. She never moved.
He turned at the door; she was leaning with one hand on a chair, crying, with her head turned away. Then he thought only of her kindness, ran back, and kissed her dress. She never moved.
Once clear of the house he darted home, thanking Heaven for his escape, soul and body.
Once he got away from the house, he rushed home, grateful to God for his escape, both physically and emotionally.
“Landlady,” said he, “there is one would pick a quarrel with me. What is to be done?”
“Landlady,” he said, “someone is looking to pick a fight with me. What should I do?”
“Strike him first, and at vantage! Get behind him; and then draw.”
“Attack him first, and when you have the upper hand! Get behind him; and then draw your weapon.”
“Alas, I lack your Italian courage. To be serious, 'tis a noble.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have your Italian courage. Seriously, it’s noble.”
“Oh, holy saints, that is another matter. Change thy lodging awhile, and keep snug; and alter the fashion of thy habits.”
“Oh, holy saints, that’s a different story. Change your place for a bit, stay cozy, and switch up your habits.”
She then took him to her own niece, who let lodgings at some little distance, and installed him there.
She then took him to her niece's place, where she rented out rooms at a short distance, and settled him in there.
He had little to do now, and no princess to draw, so he set himself resolutely to read that deed of Floris Brandt, from which he had hitherto been driven by the abominably bad writing. He mastered it, and saw at once that the loan on this land must have been paid over and over again by the rents, and that Ghysbrecht was keeping Peter Brandt out of his own.
He didn't have much to do now, and no princess to draw, so he committed himself to reading that document of Floris Brandt, which he had previously struggled with because of the terrible handwriting. He figured it out and immediately realized that the loan on this land must have been paid repeatedly through the rents, and that Ghysbrecht was keeping Peter Brandt from what was rightfully his.
“Fool! not to have read this before,” he cried. He hired a horse and rode down to the nearest port. A vessel was to sail for Amsterdam in four days.
“Fool! How could you not have read this before?” he shouted. He rented a horse and rode down to the nearest port. A ship was set to leave for Amsterdam in four days.
He took a passage; and paid a small sum to secure it.
He booked a ticket and paid a small fee to confirm it.
“The land is too full of cut-throats for me,” said he; “and 'tis lovely fair weather for the sea. Our Dutch skippers are not shipwrecked like these bungling Italians.”
“The land is too full of cut-throats for me,” he said; “and it’s beautiful weather for the sea. Our Dutch captains don’t get shipwrecked like these clumsy Italians.”
When he returned home there sat his old landlady with her eyes sparkling.
When he got home, his old landlady was sitting there with her eyes sparkling.
“You are in luck, my young master,” said she. “All the fish run to your net this day methinks. See what a lackey hath brought to our house! This bill and this bag.”
“You're in luck, my young master,” she said. “All the fish are running into your net today, I think. Look what a servant has brought to our house! This bill and this bag.”
Gerard broke the seals, and found it full of silver crowns. The letter contained a mere slip of paper with this line, cut out of some MS.:—“La lingua non ha osso, ma fa rompere il dosso.”
Gerard broke the seals and found it filled with silver coins. The letter held just a small piece of paper with this line, taken from some manuscript:—“The tongue has no bone, but it can break a bone.”
“Fear me not!” said Gerard aloud. “I'll keep mine between my teeth.”
“Don’t be afraid of me!” Gerard said loudly. “I’ll keep mine to myself.”
“What is that?”
"What is that?"
“Oh, nothing. Am I not happy, dame? I am going back to my sweetheart with money in one pocket, and land in the other.” And he fell to dancing round her.
“Oh, nothing. Am I not happy, lady? I'm going back to my sweetheart with money in one pocket and land in the other.” And he started dancing around her.
“Well,” said she, “I trow nothing could make you happier.”
“Well,” she said, “I think nothing could make you happier.”
“Nothing, except to be there.”
“Just being there.”
“Well, that is a pity, for I thought to make you a little happier with a letter from Holland.”
“Well, that's too bad, because I thought I could make you a bit happier with a letter from Holland.”
“A letter? for me? where? how? who brought it?—Oh, dame!”
“A letter? For me? Where? How? Who delivered it?—Oh, wow!”
“A stranger; a painter, with a reddish face and an outlandish name; Anselmin, I trow.”
“A stranger; a painter, with a reddish face and a strange name; Anselmin, I guess.”
“Hans Memling! a friend of mine. God bless him!”
“Hans Memling! A buddy of mine. God bless him!”
“Ay, that is it: Anselmin. He could scarce speak a word, but a had the wit to name thee; and a puts the letter down, and a nods and smiles, and I nods and smiles, and gives him a pint o' wine, and it went down him like a spoonful.”
“Ay, that’s it: Anselmin. He could hardly say a word, but he was clever enough to name you; then he puts down the letter, nods and smiles, I nod and smile back, and I give him a pint of wine, and it went down like a spoonful.”
“That is Hans, honest Hans. Oh, dame, I am in luck to-day; but I deserve it. For, I care not if I tell you, I have just overcome a great temptation for dear Margaret's sake.”
"That’s Hans, honest Hans. Oh, lady, I'm lucky today; but I deserve it. Honestly, I don’t mind telling you, I just resisted a huge temptation for dear Margaret's sake."
“Who is she?”
"Who's she?"
“Nay, I'd have my tongue cut out sooner than betray her, but oh, it was a temptation. Gratitude pushing me wrong, Beauty almost divine pulling me wrong: curses, reproaches, and hardest of all to resist, gentle tears from eyes used to command. Sure some saint helped me Anthony belike. But my reward is come.”
“Nah, I’d rather have my tongue cut out than betray her, but oh, it was a temptation. Gratitude pushing me in the wrong direction, beauty that was almost divine pulling me off course: curses, accusations, and hardest of all to resist, gentle tears from eyes that were used to commanding. I’m sure some saint helped me, probably Anthony. But now my reward has come.”
“Ay, is it, lad; and no farther off than my pocket. Come out, Gerard's reward,” and she brought a letter out of her capacious pocket.
“Ay, is it, kid; and not any further than my pocket. Come out, Gerard's reward,” and she pulled a letter out of her big pocket.
Gerard threw his arm round her neck and hugged her.
Gerard wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her in for a hug.
“My best friend,” said he, “my second mother, I'll read it to you.
“My best friend,” he said, “my second mother, I’ll read it to you.
“Ay, do, do.”
"Yeah, go for it."
“Alas! it is not from Margaret. This is not her hand.” And he turned it about.
“Wow! This isn’t from Margaret. This isn’t her handwriting.” And he flipped it over.
“Alack; but maybe her bill is within. The lasses are aye for gliding in their bills under cover of another hand.”
“Maybe her bill is inside. The girls are always sliding their bills under someone else's cover.”
“True. Whose hand is this? sure I have seen it. I trow 'tis my dear friend the demoiselle Van Eyck. Oh, then Margaret's bill will be inside.” He tore it open. “Nay, 'tis all in one writing. 'Gerard, my well beloved son' (she never called me that before that I mind), 'this letter brings thee heavy news from one would liever send thee joyful tidings. Know that Margaret Brandt died in these arms on Thursday sennight last.' (What does the doting old woman mean by that?) 'The last word on her lips was “Gerard:” she said, “Tell him I prayed for him at my last hour; and bid him pray for me.” She died very comfortable, and I saw her laid in the earth, for her father was useless, as you shall know. So no more at present from her that is with sorrowing heart thy loving friend and servant,
“True. Whose hand is this? I know I've seen it before. I bet it’s my dear friend the demoiselle Van Eyck. Oh, then Margaret's bill will be inside.” He tore it open. “No, it’s all in one handwriting. 'Gerard, my beloved son' (she never called me that before, as far as I remember), 'this letter brings you heavy news from someone who would rather send you happy tidings. Know that Margaret Brandt died in my arms last Thursday.' (What does the doting old woman mean by that?) 'The last word on her lips was “Gerard:” she said, “Tell him I prayed for him at my last hour; and ask him to pray for me.” She died peacefully, and I saw her laid in the earth, because her father was useless, as you shall know. So, no more for now from her, who with a sorrowful heart, is your loving friend and servant,
“MARGARET VAN EYCK.'”
“MARGARET VAN EYCK.”
“Ay, that is her signature sure enough. Now what d'ye think of that, dame?” cried Gerard, with a grating laugh. “There is a pretty letter to send to a poor fellow so far from home. But it is Reicht Heynes I blame for humouring the old woman and letting her do it; as for the old woman herself, she dotes, she has lost her head, she is fourscore. Oh, my heart, I'm choking. For all that she ought to be locked up, or her hands tied. Say this had come to a fool; say I was idiot enough to believe this; know ye what I should do? run to the top of the highest church tower in Rome and fling myself off it, cursing Heaven. Woman! woman! what are you doing?” And he seized her rudely by the shoulder. “What are ye weeping for?” he cried, in a voice all unlike his own, and loud and hoarse as a raven. “Would ye scald me to death with your tears? She believes it. She believes it. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!—Then there is no God.”
“Yeah, that's definitely her signature. What do you think about that, lady?” Gerard exclaimed with a harsh laugh. “That’s a nice letter to send to a poor guy so far from home. But I blame Reicht Heynes for indulging the old woman and letting her do this; as for the old woman herself, she’s losing it, she’s eighty years old. Oh, my heart, I’m choking. Still, she should be locked up or have her hands tied. Imagine if this had ended up in the hands of a fool; if I were dumb enough to believe this, do you know what I would do? I'd run to the top of the highest church tower in Rome and jump off it, cursing Heaven. Woman! Woman! What are you doing?” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. “Why are you crying?” he shouted, his voice completely different, loud and hoarse like a raven. “Are you trying to drown me with your tears? She believes it. She believes it. Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!—Then there is no God.”
The poor woman sighed and rocked herself.
The poor woman sighed and rocked back and forth.
“And must be the one to bring it thee all smiling and smirking? I could kill myself for't. Death spares none,” she sobbed. “Death spares none.”
“And do I have to be the one to bring it to you all smiling and smirking? I could kill myself for it. Death spares no one,” she sobbed. “Death spares no one.”
Gerard staggered against the window sill. “But He is master of death,” he groaned. “Or they have taught me a lie. I begin to fear there is no God, and the saints are but dead bones, and hell is master of the world. My pretty Margaret; my sweet, my loving Margaret. The best daughter! the truest lover! the pride of Holland! the darling of the world! It is a lie. Where is this caitiff Hans? I'll hunt him round the town. I'll cram his murdering falsehood down his throat.”
Gerard stumbled against the window ledge. “But He is the master of death,” he groaned. “Or maybe I’ve been taught a lie. I’m starting to fear there’s no God, the saints are just dead bones, and hell controls the world. My dear Margaret; my sweet, loving Margaret. The best daughter! The most loyal lover! The pride of Holland! The darling of the world! It’s a lie. Where is that scoundrel Hans? I’ll search the whole town for him. I’ll force his murderous lies down his throat.”
And he seized his hat and ran furiously about the streets for hours.
And he grabbed his hat and ran wildly through the streets for hours.
Towards sunset he came back white as a ghost. He had not found Memling; but his poor mind had had time to realise the woman's simple words, that Death spares none.
Towards sunset he returned looking pale as a ghost. He hadn’t found Memling; but his troubled mind had taken the time to grasp the woman’s simple words that Death spares no one.
He crept into the house bent, and feeble as an old man, and refused all food. Nor would he speak, but sat, white, with great staring eyes, muttering at intervals, “There is no God.” Alarmed both on his account and on her own (for he looked a desperate maniac), his landlady ran for her aunt.
He sneaked into the house, bent and frail like an old man, and rejected all food. He didn’t speak but sat there, pale, with wide, staring eyes, mumbling occasionally, “There is no God.” Worried about him and herself (since he seemed like a desperate maniac), his landlady rushed to call her aunt.
The good dame came, and the two women, braver together, sat one on each side of him, and tried to soothe him with kind and consoling voices. But he heeded them no more than the chairs they sat on. Then the younger held a crucifix out before him, to aid her. “Maria, mother of heaven, comfort him,” they sighed. But he sat glaring, deaf to all external sounds.
The good lady arrived, and the two women, feeling stronger together, sat on either side of him and tried to comfort him with gentle and reassuring voices. But he paid them no more attention than the chairs they were in. Then the younger woman held out a crucifix in front of him, seeking help. “Maria, mother of heaven, comfort him,” they sighed. But he just sat there glaring, completely oblivious to everything around him.
Presently, without any warning, he jumped up, struck the crucifix rudely out of his way with a curse, and made a headlong dash at the door. The poor women shrieked. But ere he reached the door, something seemed to them to draw him up straight by his hair, and twirl him round like a top. He whirled twice round with arms extended; then fell like a dead log upon the floor, with blood trickling from his nostrils and ears.
Right then, without any warning, he suddenly jumped up, roughly knocked the crucifix out of his way with a curse, and rushed straight for the door. The poor women screamed. But just before he got to the door, it looked like something yanked him up by his hair and spun him around like a top. He twirled twice with his arms out, then crashed down onto the floor like a dead weight, with blood dripping from his nostrils and ears.
CHAPTER XLII
Gerard returned to consciousness and to despair.
On the second day he was raving with fever on the brain.
On the second day, he was delirious with a high fever.
On a table hard by lay his rich auburn hair, long as a woman's.
On a nearby table lay his rich auburn hair, as long as a woman's.
The deadlier symptoms succeeded one another rapidly.
The more serious symptoms followed one after another quickly.
On the fifth day his leech retired and gave him up.
On the fifth day, his doctor gave up on him.
On the sunset of that same day he fell into a deep sleep.
On the evening of that same day, he fell into a deep sleep.
Some said he would wake only to die.
Some said he would wake up only to die.
But an old gossip, whose opinion carried weight (she had been a professional nurse), declared that his youth might save him yet, could he sleep twelve hours.
But an old gossip, whose opinion mattered (she had been a professional nurse), said that his youth might still save him if he could get twelve hours of sleep.
On this his old landlady cleared the room and watched him alone. She vowed a wax candle to the Virgin for every hour he should sleep.
On this, his old landlady cleaned the room and watched him by himself. She promised a wax candle to the Virgin for every hour he would sleep.
He slept twelve hours.
He slept for twelve hours.
The good soul rejoiced, and thanked the Virgin on her knees.
The good soul felt joyful and thanked the Virgin while kneeling.
He slept twenty-four hours.
He slept for a day.
His kind nurse began to doubt. At the thirtieth hour she sent for the woman of art.
His caring nurse started to have doubts. After thirty hours, she called for the skilled practitioner.
“Thirty hours! shall we wake him?”
“Thirty hours! Should we wake him?”
The other inspected him closely for some time.
The other person examined him closely for a while.
“His breath is even, his hand moist. I know there be learned leeches would wake him, to look at his tongue, and be none the wiser; but we that be women should have the sense to let bon Nature alone. When did sleep ever harm the racked brain or the torn heart?”
“His breathing is steady, his hand is warm. I know there are skilled doctors who would wake him to check his tongue, and they still wouldn’t have a clue; but we women should have the sense to leave good nature alone. When has sleep ever harmed a troubled mind or a broken heart?”
When he had been forty-eight hours asleep, it got wind, and they had much ado to keep the curious out. But they admitted only Fra Colonna and his friend the gigantic Fra Jerome.
When he had been asleep for forty-eight hours, news got out, and they had a lot of trouble keeping the curious away. But they allowed in only Fra Colonna and his friend, the enormous Fra Jerome.
These two relieved the women, and sat silent; the former eyeing his young friend with tears in his eyes, the latter with beads in his hand looked as calmly on him as he had on the sea when Gerard and he encountered it hand to hand.
These two comforted the women and sat quietly; the first watched his young friend with tears in his eyes, while the second, holding beads in his hand, looked at him just as calmly as he had looked at the sea when Gerard and he faced it together.
At last, I think it was about the sixtieth hour of this strange sleep, the landlady touched Fra Colonna with her elbow. He looked. Gerard had opened his eyes as gently as if he had been but dozing.
At last, I think it was around the sixtieth hour of this weird sleep, the landlady nudged Fra Colonna with her elbow. He looked. Gerard had opened his eyes as softly as if he had just been dozing.
He stared.
He was staring.
He drew himself up a little in bed.
He sat up a bit in bed.
He put his hand to his head, and found his hair was gone.
He touched his head and realized his hair was gone.
He noticed his friend Colonna, and smiled with pleasure.
He saw his friend Colonna and smiled happily.
But in the middle of smiling his face stopped, and was convulsed in a moment with anguish unspeakable, and he uttered a loud cry, and turned his face to the wall.
But in the middle of smiling, his face suddenly froze and twisted with immense pain, and he let out a loud cry before turning his face to the wall.
His good landlady wept at this. She had known what it is to awake bereaved.
His kind landlady cried at this. She understood what it was like to wake up feeling lost.
Fra Jerome recited canticles, and prayers from his breviary.
Fra Jerome recited hymns and prayers from his prayer book.
Gerard rolled himself in the bed-clothes.
Gerard wrapped himself in the blankets.
Fra Colonna went to him, and whimpering, reminded him that all was not lost. The divine Muses were immortal. He must transfer his affection to them; they would never betray him nor fail him like creatures of clay. The good, simple father then hurried away; for he was overcome by his emotion.
Fra Colonna approached him and, with a whimper, reminded him that all was not lost. The divine Muses were eternal. He needed to shift his affection to them; they would never let him down or disappoint him like fragile beings. The kind, simple father then rushed off, overwhelmed by his feelings.
Fra Jerome remained behind. “Young man,” said he, “the Muses exist but in the brains of pagans and visionaries. The Church alone gives repose to the heart on earth, and happiness to the soul hereafter. Hath earth deceived thee, hath passion broken thy heart after tearing it, the Church opens her arms: consecrate thy gifts to her! The Church is peace of mind.”
Fra Jerome stayed back. “Young man,” he said, “the Muses only live in the minds of non-believers and dreamers. The Church alone brings peace to the heart here, and happiness to the soul afterward. If the world has let you down, if passion has shattered your heart, the Church welcomes you with open arms: dedicate your talents to her! The Church is where you'll find peace of mind.”
He spoke these words solemnly at the door, and was gone as soon as they were uttered.
He said these words seriously at the door and left as soon as he finished speaking.
“The Church!” cried Gerard, rising furiously, and shaking his fist after the friar. “Malediction on the Church! But for the Church I should not lie broken here, and she lie cold, cold, cold, in Holland. Oh, my Margaret! oh, my darling! my darling! And I must run from thee the few months thou hadst to live. Cruel! cruel! The monsters, they let her die. Death comes not without some signs. These the blind selfish wretches saw not, or recked not; but I had seen them, I that love her. Oh, had I been there, I had saved her, I had saved her. Idiot! idiot! to leave her for a moment.”
“The Church!” Gerard shouted, jumping up angrily and shaking his fist at the friar. “Damn the Church! If it weren't for the Church, I wouldn't be lying here broken, and she wouldn't be cold, cold, cold in Holland. Oh, my Margaret! Oh, my darling! my darling! And I have to run from you in the few months you had left to live. It's cruel! So cruel! The monsters let her die. Death doesn’t come without warning signs. Those blind, selfish fools didn't see them, or didn't care; but I saw them because I love her. Oh, if I had been there, I could have saved her. I could have saved her. What an idiot! An idiot! to leave her for even a moment.”
He wept bitterly a long time.
He cried hard for a long time.
Then, suddenly bursting into rage again, he cried vehemently “The Church! for whose sake I was driven from her; my malison be on the Church! and the hypocrites that name it to my broken heart. Accursed be the world! Ghysbrecht lives; Margaret dies. Thieves, murderers, harlots, live for ever. Only angels die. Curse life! curse death! and whosoever made them what they are!”
Then, suddenly erupting with rage again, he shouted fiercely, “The Church! for which I was forced away from her; may my curse be on the Church! and the hypocrites who call it out to my shattered heart. Damn the world! Ghysbrecht lives; Margaret dies. Thieves, murderers, and prostitutes live forever. Only angels die. Damn life! Damn death! and whoever created them to be what they are!”
The friar did not hear these mad and wicked words; but only the yell of rage with which they were flung after him.
The friar didn’t hear those crazy and evil words; he only heard the shout of anger that was aimed at him.
It was as well. For, if he had heard them, he would have had his late shipmate burned in the forum with as little hesitation as he would have roasted a kid.
It was for the best. Because if he had heard them, he would have had his late shipmate burned in the forum without any more hesitation than he would have had in roasting a kid.
His old landlady who had accompanied Fra Colonna down the stair, heard the raised voice, and returned in some anxiety.
His former landlady, who had seen Fra Colonna down the stairs, heard the raised voice and came back feeling a bit worried.
She found Gerard putting on his clothes, and crying.
She found Gerard getting dressed and crying.
She remonstrated.
She protested.
“What avails my lying here?” said he gloomily. “Can I find here that which I seek?”
“What good does it do for me to lie here?” he said gloomily. “Can I find what I'm looking for?”
“Saints preserve us! Is he distraught again? What seek ye?”
"God help us! Is he upset again? What do you want?"
“Oblivion.”
“Nothingness.”
“Oblivion, my little heart? Oh, but y'are young to talk so.”
“Oblivion, my little heart? Oh, but you’re too young to say that.”
“Young or old, what else have I to live for?”
“Young or old, what else is there for me to live for?”
He put on his best clothes.
He dressed in his nicest clothes.
The good dame remonstrated. “My pretty Gerard, know that it is Tuesday, not Sunday.”
The kind lady protested. “My lovely Gerard, just so you know, it’s Tuesday, not Sunday.”
“Oh, Tuesday is it? I thought it had been Saturday.”
“Oh, it's Tuesday? I thought it was Saturday.”
“Nay, thou hast slept long. Thou never wearest thy brave clothes on working days. Consider.”
“Nah, you’ve slept for a long time. You never wear your nice clothes on workdays. Think about it.”
“What I did, when she lived, I did. Now I shall do whatever erst I did not. The past is the past. There lies my hair, and with it my way of life. I have served one Master as well as I could. You see my reward. Now I'll serve another, and give him a fair trial too.”
“What I did when she was alive, I did. Now I’ll do whatever I didn’t do before. The past is the past. There’s my hair, and with it, my way of life. I’ve served one Master as best as I could. You see my reward. Now I’ll serve another and give him a fair shot too.”
“Alas!” sighed the woman, turning pale, “what mean these dark words? and what new master is this whose service thou wouldst try?”
“Alas!” sighed the woman, turning pale, “what do these dark words mean? And what new master is this whose service you want to try?”
“SATAN.”
“SATAN.”
And with this horrible declaration on his lips the miserable creature walked out with his cap and feather set jauntily on one side, and feeble limbs, and a sinister face pale as ashes, and all drawn down as if by age.
And with this terrible statement on his lips, the wretched being walked out with his cap and feather stylishly tilted to one side, weak limbs, and a gloomy face as pale as ashes, all appearing aged and worn.
CHAPTER LXIII
A dark cloud fell on a noble mind.
His pure and unrivalled love for Margaret had been his polar star. It was quenched, and he drifted on the gloomy sea of no hope.
His genuine and unmatched love for Margaret had been his guiding light. It was gone, and he was adrift in a dark ocean of hopelessness.
Nor was he a prey to despair alone, but to exasperation at all his self-denial, fortitude, perils, virtue, wasted and worse than wasted; for it kept burning and stinging him, that, had he stayed lazily, selfishly at home, he should have saved his Margaret's life.
Nor was he just feeling despair; he was also frustrated by all his self-denial, strength, dangers, and virtue that had come to nothing, and even worse than nothing. It constantly burned and stung him that if he had just stayed lazily and selfishly at home, he could have saved Margaret's life.
These two poisons, raging together in his young blood, maddened and demoralized him. He rushed fiercely into pleasure. And in those days, even more than now, pleasure was vice. Wine, women, gambling, whatever could procure him an hour's excitement and a moment's oblivion. He plunged into these things, as men tired of life have rushed among the enemy's bullets.
These two toxins, battling together in his young veins, drove him wild and broke his spirit. He dove headfirst into pleasure. Back then, even more than now, pleasure was a sin. Alcohol, women, gambling—anything that could give him an hour of excitement and a moment of escape. He threw himself into these pursuits, like men weary of life charging into enemy fire.
The large sums he had put by for Margaret gave him ample means for debauchery, and he was soon the leader of those loose companions he had hitherto kept at a distance.
The large amounts he had saved for Margaret gave him plenty of money for partying, and he quickly became the leader of the reckless friends he had previously kept at arm's length.
His heart deteriorated along with his morals.
His heart declined along with his moral values.
He sulked with his old landlady for thrusting gentle advice and warning on him; and finally removed to another part of the town, to be clear of remonstrance and reminiscences. When he had carried this game on some time, his hand became less steady, and he could no longer write to satisfy himself. Moreover, his patience declined as the habits of pleasure grew on him. So he gave up that art, and took likenesses in colours.
He pouted with his old landlady for giving him gentle advice and warnings; eventually, he moved to another part of town to avoid her nagging and memories. After playing this game for a while, his hand became less steady, and he could no longer write to his satisfaction. Plus, his patience wore thin as he indulged in more pleasures. So, he abandoned that skill and started painting portraits in color.
But this he neglected whenever the idle rakes, his companions, came for him.
But he ignored this whenever the lazy guys, his friends, came looking for him.
And so he dived in foul waters, seeking that sorry oyster-shell, Oblivion.
And so he plunged into murky waters, searching for that sad oyster shell, Oblivion.
It is not my business to paint at full length the scenes of coarse vice in which this unhappy young man now played a part. But it is my business to impress the broad truth, that he was a rake, a debauchee, and a drunkard, and one of the wildest, loosest, and wickedest young men in Rome.
It’s not my job to fully describe the crude vices that this unfortunate young man is now involved in. However, it is important to highlight the undeniable truth that he was a womanizer, a party-goer, and an alcoholic, and one of the most reckless, irresponsible, and immoral young men in Rome.
They are no lovers of truth, nor of mankind, who conceal or slur the wickedness of the good, and so by their want of candour rob despondent sinners of hope.
They aren't true lovers of truth or humanity if they hide or downplay the wrongdoing of those who are good, as their lack of honesty steals hope from desperate sinners.
Enough, the man was not born to do things by halves. And he was not vicious by halves.
Enough, the man wasn't born to do things halfway. And he wasn't cruel halfway.
His humble female friends often gossiped about him. His old landlady told Teresa he was going to the bad, and prayed her to try and find out where he was.
His modest female friends often talked about him. His old landlady told Teresa he was going down a bad path and asked her to try and find out where he was.
Teresa told her husband Lodovico his sad story, and bade him look about and see if he could discover the young man's present abode. “Shouldst remember his face, Lodovico mio?”
Teresa told her husband Lodovico her sad story and asked him to look around and see if he could find out where the young man was living now. “Do you remember his face, my Lodovico?”
“Teresa, a man in my way of life never forgets a face, least of all a benefactor's. But thou knowest I seldom go abroad by daylight.”
“Teresa, a man like me never forgets a face, especially not that of a benefactor. But you know I rarely go out during the day.”
Teresa sighed. “And how long is it to be so, Lodovico?”
Teresa sighed. “And how long is it going to be like this, Lodovico?”
“Till some cavalier passes his sword through me. They will not let a poor fellow like me take to any honest trade.”
“Until some knight runs me through with their sword. They won’t let someone like me take up any honest job.”
Pietro Vanucci was one of those who bear prosperity worse than adversity.
Pietro Vanucci was one of those people who handle success worse than challenges.
Having been ignominiously ejected for late hours by their old landlady, and meeting Gerard in the street, he greeted him warmly, and soon after took up his quarters in the same house.
Having been shamefully kicked out for staying out late by their old landlady, and running into Gerard on the street, he welcomed him with enthusiasm, and shortly after, moved into the same building.
He brought with him a lad called Andrea, who ground his colours, and was his pupil, and also his model, being a youth of rare beauty, and as sharp as a needle.
He brought along a boy named Andrea, who mixed his paints and was his student, as well as his model, being an incredibly handsome young man and as sharp as a tack.
Pietro had not quite forgotten old times, and professed a warm friendship for Gerard.
Pietro hadn’t completely forgotten the past and claimed to have a close friendship with Gerard.
Gerard, in whom all warmth of sentiment seemed extinct, submitted coldly to the other's friendship.
Gerard, who appeared completely devoid of any warmth or emotion, coldly accepted the other person's friendship.
And a fine acquaintance it was. This Pietro was not only a libertine, but half a misanthrope, and an open infidel.
And it was quite a good acquaintance. This Pietro was not just a libertine, but also half a misanthrope and openly unfaithful.
And so they ran in couples, with mighty little in common. O, rare phenomenon!
And so they ran in pairs, with very little in common. Oh, what a rare phenomenon!
One day, when Gerard had undermined his health, and taken the bloom off his beauty, and run through most of his money, Vanucci got up a gay party to mount the Tiber in a boat drawn by buffaloes. Lorenzo de' Medici had imported these creatures into Florence about three years before. But they were new in Rome, and nothing would content this beggar on horseback, Vanucci, but being drawn by the brutes up the Tiber.
One day, after Gerard had hurt his health, lost his looks, and spent most of his money, Vanucci organized a fun outing to ride a boat up the Tiber pulled by buffaloes. Lorenzo de' Medici had brought these animals to Florence about three years earlier. But they were new to Rome, and nothing would satisfy this broke guy, Vanucci, except being pulled by the beasts up the Tiber.
Each libertine was to bring a lady and she must be handsome, or he be fined. But the one that should contribute the loveliest was to be crowned with laurel, and voted a public benefactor. Such was their reading of “Vir bonus est quis?” They got a splendid galley, and twelve buffaloes. And all the libertines and their female accomplices assembled by degrees at the place of embarkation. But no Gerard.
Each libertine was required to bring a lady, and she had to be attractive, or he would be fined. However, the one who brought the most beautiful lady would be crowned with a laurel and recognized as a public benefactor. That was their interpretation of “Vir bonus est quis?” They acquired a lavish galley and twelve buffaloes. Gradually, all the libertines and their female companions gathered at the embarkation point. But there was no Gerard.
They waited for him some time, at first patiently, then impatiently.
They waited for him for a while, at first patiently, then restlessly.
Vanucci excused him. “I heard him say he had forgotten to provide himself with a fardingale. Comrades, the good lad is hunting for a beauty fit to take rank among these peerless dames. Consider the difficulty, ladies, and be patient!”
Vanucci let him off the hook. “I heard him say he forgot to bring a hoop skirt. Friends, the poor guy is searching for a beauty worthy of standing alongside these incredible ladies. Think about how tough that must be, ladies, and be patient!”
At last Gerard was seen at some distance with a female in his hand.
At last, Gerard was spotted in the distance with a woman in his hand.
“She is long enough,” said one of her sex, criticising her from afar.
“She is tall enough,” said one of her peers, critiquing her from a distance.
“Gemini! what steps she takes,” said another. “Oh! it is wise to hurry into good company,” was Pietro's excuse.
“Gemini! Look at her go,” said another. “Oh! It’s smart to rush into good company,” Pietro made his excuse.
But when the pair came up, satire was choked.
But when the two showed up, satire was stifled.
Gerard's companion was a peerless beauty; she extinguished the boat-load, as stars the rising sun. Tall, but not too tall; and straight as a dart, yet supple as a young panther. Her face a perfect oval, her forehead white, her cheeks a rich olive with the eloquent blood mantling below and her glorious eyes fringed with long thick silken eyelashes, that seemed made to sweep up sensitive hearts by the half dozen. Saucy red lips, and teeth of the whitest ivory.
Gerard's companion was an unmatched beauty; she outshone the boatload, like stars against the rising sun. She was tall, but not overly so; straight as an arrow, yet graceful like a young panther. Her face was a perfect oval, her forehead pale, her cheeks a warm olive with the vibrant blood showing beneath, and her stunning eyes framed with long, thick, silky eyelashes that seemed designed to captivate sensitive hearts by the handful. She had playful red lips and teeth as white as ivory.
The women were visibly depressed by this wretched sight; the men in ecstasies; they received her with loud shouts and waving of caps, and one enthusiast even went down on his knees upon the boat's gunwale, and hailed her of origin divine. But his chere amie pulling his hair for it—and the goddess giving him a little kick—cotemporaneously, he lay supine; and the peerless creature frisked over his body without deigning him a look, and took her seat at the prow. Pietro Vanucci sat in a sort of collapse, glaring at her, and gaping with his mouth open like a dying cod-fish.
The women were clearly upset by the terrible sight; the men were ecstatic. They welcomed her with loud cheers and waving of their hats, and one enthusiastic guy even knelt on the edge of the boat, calling her divine. But his girlfriend yanked his hair for it—and the goddess gave him a little kick—so he ended up lying flat. The stunning woman skipped over him without even looking at him and took her place at the front of the boat. Pietro Vanucci sat there in shock, staring at her, with his mouth hanging open like a dying fish.
The drover spoke to the buffaloes, the ropes tightened, and they moved up stream.
The cattle driver talked to the buffaloes, the ropes got tighter, and they headed upstream.
“What think ye of this new beef, mesdames?”
“What do you think of this new beef, ladies?”
“We ne'er saw monsters so viley ill-favoured; with their nasty horns that make one afeard, and, their foul nostrils cast up into the air. Holes be they; not nostrils.”
“We never saw monsters so vile and ugly; with their nasty horns that make one afraid, and their foul nostrils pointed up into the air. They are just holes, not nostrils.”
“Signorina, the beeves are a present from Florence the beautiful Would ye look a gift beef i' the nose?”
“Miss, the cattle are a gift from beautiful Florence. Will you look a gift beef in the nose?”
“They are so dull,” objected a lively lady. “I went up Tiber twice as fast last time with but five mules and an ass.”
“They're so boring,” complained a lively woman. “I made it up the Tiber twice as fast last time with just five mules and a donkey.”
“Nay, that is soon mended,” cried a gallant, and jumping ashore he drew his sword, and despite the remonstrances of the drivers, went down the dozen buffaloes goading them.
“Nah, that can be fixed quickly,” shouted a brave man, and jumping onto the shore he pulled out his sword, and despite the protests of the drivers, he went down the line of buffaloes, urging them on.
They snorted and whisked their tails, and went no faster, at which the boat-load laughed loud and long: finally he goaded a patriarch bull, who turned instantly on the sword, sent his long horns clean through the spark, and with a furious jerk of his prodigious neck sent him flying over his head into the air. He described a bold parabola and fell sitting, and unconsciously waving his glittering blade, into the yellow Tiber. The laughing ladies screamed and wrung their hands, all but Gerard's fair. She uttered something very like an oath, and seizing the helm steered the boat out, and the gallant came up sputtering, griped the gunwale, and was drawn in dripping.
They snorted and flicked their tails but didn't go any faster, which made the people in the boat laugh loudly for a long time. Finally, he provoked an old bull, which immediately turned around and charged at him, driving its long horns straight through the spark, and with a furious flip of its massive neck, sent him flying over its head into the air. He made a bold arc and landed sitting down, unconsciously waving his shining sword as he fell into the yellow Tiber. The laughing ladies screamed and wrung their hands, except for Gerard's fair. She said something that sounded a lot like an oath, grabbed the steering wheel, and maneuvered the boat away, while the brave man resurfaced sputtering, held onto the edge of the boat, and was pulled in, soaked.
He glared round him confusedly. “I understand not that,” said he, a little peevishly; puzzled, and therefore, it would seem, discontented. At which, finding he was by some strange accident not slain, his doublet being perforated, instead of his body, they began to laugh again louder than ever.
He looked around him in confusion. “I don't understand that,” he said, a bit irritated; he was puzzled and it seemed he was also unhappy. At this, realizing he had somehow not been killed—his jacket full of holes instead of his body—they started laughing again, louder than ever.
“What are ye cackling at?” remonstrated the spark, “I desire to know how 'tis that one moment a gentleman is out yonder a pricking of African beef, and the next moment—”
“What are you laughing at?” the guy asked. “I want to know how it is that one moment a gentleman is out there hunting for African beef, and the next moment—”
Gerard's lady. “Disporting in his native stream.”
Gerard's lady. “Playing in his own stream.”
“Tell him not, a soul of ye,” cried Vanucci. “Let him find out 's own riddle.”
“Don’t tell him anything, any of you,” shouted Vanucci. “Let him figure out his own puzzle.”
Confound ye all. I might puzzle my brains till doomsday, I should ne'er find it out. Also, where is my sword?
Confound you all. I could rack my brains until the end of time, and I still wouldn't figure it out. Also, where's my sword?
Gerard's lady. “Ask Tiber! Your best way, signor, will be to do it over again; and, in a word, keep pricking of Afric's beef, till your mind receives light. So shall you comprehend the matter by degrees, as lawyers mount heaven, and buffaloes Tiber.”
Gerard's lady. “Talk to Tiber! The best approach, sir, is to go through it again; and basically, keep poking at Afric's beef until you get clarity. This way, you'll gradually understand the situation, just like lawyers ascend to heaven, and buffaloes at Tiber.”
Here a chevalier remarked that the last speaker transcended the sons of Adam as much in wit as she did the daughters of Eve in beauty.
Here, a knight noted that the last speaker surpassed the sons of Adam in wit just as much as she surpassed the daughters of Eve in beauty.
At which, and indeed at all their compliments, the conduct of Pietro Vanucci was peculiar. That signor had left off staring, and gaping bewildered; and now sat coiled up snake-like, on each, his mouth muffled, and two bright eyes fixed on the' lady, and twinkling and scintillating most comically.
At that point, and really at all their compliments, Pietro Vanucci's behavior was unusual. He had stopped staring and looking confused, and now sat curled up like a snake, with his mouth covered and his two bright eyes focused on the lady, sparkling and twinkling in the most comical way.
He did not appear to interest or amuse her in return. Her glorious eyes and eyelashes swept him calmly at times, but scarce distinguished him from the benches and things.
He didn't seem to interest or entertain her back. Her beautiful eyes and long lashes would occasionally glance at him, but they hardly made him stand out from the benches and other objects.
Presently the unanimity of the party suffered a momentary check.
Currently, the unity of the party experienced a brief setback.
Mortified by the attention the cavaliers paid to Gerard's companion, the ladies began to pick her to pieces sotto voce, and audibly.
Mortified by the attention the guys paid to Gerard's companion, the women started to criticize her quietly and openly.
The lovely girl then showed that, if rich in beauty, she was poor in feminine tact. Instead of revenging herself like a true woman through the men, she permitted herself to overhear, and openly retaliate on her detractors.
The beautiful girl then revealed that, while she was rich in looks, she lacked feminine finesse. Instead of getting back at her critics like a real woman through the men, she allowed herself to overhear and openly respond to her detractors.
“There is not one of you that wears Nature's colours,” said she. “Look here,” and she pointed rudely in one's face. “This is the beauty that is to be bought in every shop. Here is cerussa, here is stibium, and here purpurissum. Oh, I know the articles bless you, I use them every day—but not on my face, no thank you.”
“There’s not one of you who wears your natural colors,” she said. “Look here,” and she pointed rudely in someone’s face. “This is the beauty that you can buy in any store. Here’s white lead, here’s antimony, and here’s purple dye. Oh, I know all about these products, believe me, I use them every day—but not on my face, no thanks.”
Here Vanucci's eyes twinkled themselves nearly out of sight.
Here, Vanucci's eyes sparkled so much that they were almost out of sight.
“Why, your lips are coloured, and the very veins in your forehead: not a charm but would come off with a wet towel. And look at your great coarse black hair like a horse's tail, drugged and stained to look like tow. And then your bodies are as false as your heads and your cheeks, and your hearts I trow. Look at your padded bosoms, and your wooden heeled chopines to raise your little stunted limbs up and deceive the world. Skinny dwarfs ye are, cushioned and stultified into great fat giants. Aha, mesdames, well is it said of you, grande—di legni: grosse—di straci: rosse—di bettito: bianche—di calcina.”
“Why, your lips are painted, and the veins on your forehead: not a bit of charm that wouldn’t wipe off with a wet towel. And look at your thick, coarse black hair like a horse’s tail, dyed and stained to look like linen. And then your bodies are as fake as your heads and your cheeks, and probably your hearts too. Look at your padded bosoms and your wooden-heeled shoes to raise your little stunted limbs and trick the world. You are skinny dwarfs, stuffed and made to look like big, fat giants. Aha, ladies, it’s well said of you, big—of wood: fat—of rags: red—of dye: white—of chalk.”
This drew out a rejoinder. “Avaunt, vulgar toad, telling the men everything. Your coarse, ruddy cheeks are your own, and your little handful of African hair. But who is padded more? Why, you are shaped like a fire-shovel.”
This prompted a response. “Get lost, you crude toad, spilling everything to the guys. Your rough, red cheeks belong to you, and so does your tiny patch of African hair. But who’s more stuffed? You look like a fire-shovel.”
“Ye lie, malapert.”
"You're lying, insolent person."
“Oh, the well-educated young person! Where didst pick her up, Ser Gerard?”
“Oh, the well-educated young person! Where did you find her, Ser Gerard?”
“Hold thy peace, Marcia,” said Gerard, awakened by the raised trebles from a gloomy reverie. “Be not so insolent! The grave shall close over thy beauty as it hath over fairer than thee.”
“Be quiet, Marcia,” said Gerard, brought back to reality by the high-pitched voices from his dark thoughts. “Don’t be so disrespectful! The grave will cover your beauty just as it has covered those even more beautiful than you.”
“They began,” said Marcia petulantly.
“They started,” Marcia said irritably.
“Then be thou the first to leave off.”
"Then be the first to stop."
“At thy request, my friend.” She then whispered Gerard, “It was only to make you laugh; you are distraught, you are sad. Judge whether I care for the quips of these little fools, or the admiration of these big fools. Dear Signor Gerard, would I were what they take me for? You should not be so sad.”
“At your request, my friend.” She then whispered to Gerard, “It was just to make you laugh; you seem upset, you seem sad. Decide for yourself whether I care about the jokes of these little fools or the admiration of these big fools. Dear Signor Gerard, if only I were what they think I am? You shouldn't be so sad.”
Gerard sighed deeply; and shook his head. But touched by the earnest young tones, caressed the jet black locks, much as one strokes the head of an affectionate dog.
Gerard let out a deep sigh and shook his head. However, moved by the sincere young voice, he gently stroked the jet-black hair, like one would pet a loving dog.
At this moment a galley drifting slowly down stream got entangled for an instant in their ropes: for, the river turning suddenly, they had shot out into the stream; and this galley came between them and the bank. In it a lady of great beauty was seated under a canopy with gallants and dependents standing behind her.
At that moment, a galley drifting slowly downstream got caught up for a brief moment in their ropes. The river turned suddenly, and they had shot out into the current, which caused the galley to come between them and the bank. Inside, a stunningly beautiful lady was seated under a canopy, with admirers and attendants standing behind her.
Gerard looked up at the interruption. It was the Princess Claelia.
Gerard looked up at the interruption. It was Princess Claelia.
He coloured and withdrew his hand from Marcia's head.
He blushed and pulled his hand away from Marcia's head.
Marcia was all admiration. “Aha! ladies,” said she, “here is a rival an ye will. Those cheeks were coloured by Nature-like mine.”
Marcia was full of admiration. “Aha! ladies,” she said, “here's a rival for you. Those cheeks are colored by Nature—just like mine.”
“Peace, child! peace!” said Gerard. “Make not too free with the great.”
“Calm down, kid! Calm down!” said Gerard. “Don’t be too familiar with the powerful.”
“Why, she heard me not. Oh, Ser Gerard, what a lovely creature!”
“Why, she didn’t hear me. Oh, Ser Gerard, what a beautiful person!”
Two of the females had been for some time past putting their heads together and casting glances at Marcia.
Two of the women had been quietly huddling together and stealing glances at Marcia for a while now.
One of them now addressed her.
One of them spoke to her now.
“Signorina, do you love almonds?”
“Miss, do you love almonds?”
The speaker had a lapful of them.
The speaker had a bunch of them in their lap.
“Yes, I love them; when I can get them,” said Marcia pettishly, and eyeing the fruit with ill-concealed desire; “but yours is not the hand to give me any, I trow.”
“Yes, I love them; when I can get them,” Marcia said, a bit annoyed, while looking at the fruit with barely hidden desire. “But yours isn’t the hand to give me any, I bet.”
“You are much mistook,” said the other. “Here, catch!” And suddenly threw a double handful into Marcia's lap.
“You're mistaken,” said the other. “Here, catch!” And suddenly tossed a double handful into Marcia's lap.
Marcia brought her knees together by an irresistible instinct.
Marcia instinctively brought her knees together.
“Aha! you are caught, my lad,” cried she of the nuts. “'Tis a man; or a boy. A woman still parteth her knees to catch the nuts the surer in her apron; but a man closeth his for fear they should all between his hose. Confess, now, didst never wear fardingale ere to-day?”
“Aha! You’re caught, my boy,” she exclaimed, the one with the nuts. “It’s a man, or maybe a boy. A woman still spreads her legs to catch the nuts more securely in her apron; but a man closes his legs for fear they might all fall between his pants. Admit it, have you never worn a petticoat until today?”
“Give me another handful, sweetheart, and I'll tell thee.”
“Give me another handful, babe, and I’ll tell you.”
“There! I said he was too handsome for a woman.”
“There! I told you he was too good-looking for a woman.”
“Ser Gerard, they have found me out,” observed the Epicaene, calmly cracking an almond.
“Sir Gerard, they’ve figured me out,” said the Epicaene, casually cracking an almond.
The libertines vowed it was impossible, and all glared at the goddess like a battery. But Vanucci struck in, and reminded the gaping gazers of a recent controversy, in which they had, with a unanimity not often found among dunces, laughed Gerard and him to scorn, for saying that men were as beautiful as women in a true artist's eye.
The libertines said it was impossible and all stared at the goddess like a group of onlookers. But Vanucci stepped in and reminded the shocked spectators of a recent debate in which, with an agreement that’s rare among fools, they had mocked Gerard and him for claiming that men were just as beautiful as women in a true artist's view.
“Where are ye now? This is my boy Andrea. And you have all been down on your knees to him. Ha! ha! But oh, my little ladies, when he lectured you and flung your stibium, your cerussa, and your purpurissum back in your faces, 'tis then I was like to burst; a grinds my colours. Ha! ha! he! he! he! ho!”
“Where are you now? This is my boy Andrea. And you have all been down on your knees to him. Ha! ha! But oh, my little ladies, when he lectured you and threw your makeup, your face powder, and your bright red pigment back in your faces, that’s when I almost burst; it grinds my colors. Ha! ha! he! he! he! ho!”
“The little impostor! Duck him!”
“The little impostor! Duck him!”
“What for, signors?” cried Andrea, in dismay, and lost his rich carnation.
“What’s the point, gentlemen?” shouted Andrea, in shock, and lost his vibrant flower.
But the females collected round him, and vowed nobody should harm a hair of his head.
But the women gathered around him and promised that no one would lay a finger on him.
“The dear child! How well his pretty little saucy ways become him.”
“The sweet child! His cute little cheeky ways suit him so well.”
“Oh, what eyes and teeth!”
“Oh, such beautiful eyes and teeth!”
“And what eyebrows and hair!”
“And those eyebrows and hair!”
“And what lashes!”
"And those lashes!"
“And what a nose!”
"And what a nose!"
“The sweetest little ear in the world!”
“The cutest little ear in the world!”
“And what health! Touch but his cheek with a pin the blood should squirt.”
“And what health! Just touch his cheek with a pin and blood would squirt out.”
“Who would be so cruel?”
"Who would be that cruel?"
“He is a rosebud washed in dew.”
“He is a rosebud covered in dew.”
And they revenged themselves for their beaux' admiration of her by lavishing all their tenderness on him.
And they got back at their guys for admiring her by showering him with all their affection.
But one there was who was still among these butterflies, but no longer of them. The sight of the Princess Claelia had torn open his wound.
But there was one who was still among these butterflies, but no longer one of them. The sight of Princess Claelia had reopened his wound.
Scarce three months ago he had declined the love of that peerless creature; a love illicit and insane; but at least refined.
Barely three months ago, he had turned down the love of that extraordinary person; a love that was forbidden and crazy, but at least sophisticated.
How much lower had he fallen now.
How much lower had he fallen now.
How happy he must have been, when the blandishments of Claelia, that might have melted an anchorite, could not tempt him from the path of loyalty!
How happy he must have been when Claelia's flattery, which could have swayed even the most reclusive person, couldn't tempt him away from being loyal!
Now what was he? He had blushed at her seeing him in such company. Yet it was his daily company.
Now, what was he? He had felt embarrassed being seen with her in such company. Yet it was the company he kept every day.
He hung over the boat in moody silence.
He leaned over the boat in a sullen silence.
And from that hour another phase of his misery began; and grew upon him.
And from that moment, another part of his suffering started; and it increased for him.
Some wretched fools try to drown care in drink.
Some miserable fools try to wash away their worries with alcohol.
The fumes of intoxication vanish; the inevitable care remains, and must be faced at last—with an aching head, disordered stomach, and spirits artificially depressed.
The effects of drinking wear off; the unavoidable worries stay and must be confronted at last—with a pounding headache, upset stomach, and spirits that feel artificially low.
Gerard's conduct had been of a piece with these maniacs'. To survive his terrible blow he needed all his forces; his virtue, his health, his habits of labour, and the calm sleep that is labour's satellite; above all, his piety.
Gerard's behavior matched that of these crazies. To get through his awful experience, he needed all his strength: his character, his health, his work ethic, and the peaceful sleep that comes with hard work; most importantly, his faith.
Yet all these balms to wounded hearts he flung away and trusted to moral intoxication.
Yet he rejected all these remedies for wounded hearts and relied on moral intoxication.
Its brief fumes fled; the bereaved heart lay still heavy as lead within his bosom; but now the dark vulture Remorse sat upon it rending it.
Its brief fumes disappeared; the grieving heart lay still, heavy as lead within his chest; but now the dark vulture of Remorse perched upon it, tearing it apart.
Broken health; means wasted; innocence fled; Margaret parted from him by another gulf wider than the grave! The hot fit of despair passed away.
Broken health means wasted, innocence is gone; Margaret is separated from him by a gap wider than the grave! The intense wave of despair faded away.
The cold fit of despair came on.
The cold grip of despair set in.
Then this miserable young man spurned his gay companions, and all the world.
Then this unhappy young man rejected his cheerful friends and everyone else.
He wandered alone. He drank wine alone to stupefy himself; and paralyze a moment the dark foes to man that preyed upon his soul. He wandered alone amidst the temples of old Rome, and lay stony eyed, woebegone, among their ruins, worse wrecked than they.
He roamed by himself. He drank wine alone to numb himself and momentarily freeze the dark enemies of humanity that attacked his spirit. He wandered alone among the ancient temples of Rome, lying there with a blank stare, miserable, among their ruins, more broken than they were.
Last of all came the climax, to which solitude, that gloomy yet fascinating foe of minds diseased, pushes the hopeless.
Last of all came the climax, to which solitude, that dark yet captivating enemy of troubled minds, pushes the hopeless.
He wandered alone at night by dark streams, and eyed them, and eyed them, with decreasing repugnance. There glided peace; perhaps annihilation.
He strolled alone at night along dark streams, watching them with less and less disgust. There flowed peace; maybe even nothingness.
What else was left him?
What else was left for him?
These dark spells have been broken by kind words, by loving and cheerful voices.
These dark spells have been lifted by kind words and by loving, cheerful voices.
The humblest friend the afflicted one possesses may speak, or look, or smile, a sunbeam between him and that worst madness Gerard now brooded.
The most humble friend that the suffering person has might speak, look, or smile, acting as a ray of sunshine between him and the deepest madness Gerard was now contemplating.
Where was Teresa? Where his hearty, kind old landlady?
Where was Teresa? Where was his cheerful, kind old landlady?
They would see with their homely but swift intelligence; they would see and save.
They would notice with their unrefined yet quick intelligence; they would notice and save.
No; they knew not where he was, or whither he was gliding.
No; they didn't know where he was, or where he was going.
And is there no mortal eye upon the poor wretch, and the dark road he is going?
And is there no one watching the poor soul and the dark path he's on?
Yes; one eye there is upon him; watching his every movement; following him abroad; tracking him home.
Yes; one eye is on him; watching his every move; following him around; tracking him home.
And that eye is the eye of an enemy.
And that eye is the eye of an enemy.
An enemy to the death.
A deadly enemy.
CHAPTER LXIV
In an apartment richly furnished, the floor covered with striped and spotted skins of animals, a lady sat with her arms extended before her, and her hands half clenched. The agitation of her face corresponded with this attitude; she was pale and red by turns; and her foot restless.
In a well-furnished apartment, the floor covered with striped and spotted animal skins, a woman sat with her arms stretched out in front of her, her hands partially clenched. The turmoil on her face matched this stance; she alternated between pale and flushed; and her foot was restless.
Presently the curtain was drawn by a domestic.
Presently, a housekeeper pulled the curtain.
The lady's brow flushed.
The woman's face turned red.
The maid said, in an awe-struck whisper: “Altezza, the man is here.”
The maid said, in a stunned whisper: “Your Highness, the man is here.”
The lady bade her admit him, and snatched up a little black mask and put it on; and in a moment her colour was gone, and the contrast between her black mask and her marble cheeks was strange and fearful.
The lady told her to let him in, then grabbed a small black mask and put it on; in an instant, her color drained away, and the contrast between the black mask and her pale cheeks was both strange and frightening.
A man entered bowing and scraping. It was such a figure as crowds seem made of; short hair, roundish head, plain, but decent clothes; features neither comely not forbidding. Nothing to remark in him but a singularly restless eye.
A man walked in, bowing and scraping. He looked like someone from a crowd; short hair, a round head, ordinary but decent clothes; his features were neither attractive nor unpleasant. There was nothing to note about him except for a strangely restless eye.
After a profusion of bows he stood opposite the lady, and awaited her pleasure.
After a lot of bows, he stood in front of the lady and waited for her to speak.
“They have told you for what you are wanted?”
“They’ve told you why you’re needed?”
“Yes, Signora.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“Did those who spoke to you agree as to what you are to receive?”
“Did the people who talked to you agree on what you're supposed to get?”
“Yes, Signora. 'Tis the full price; and purchases the greater vendetta: unless of your benevolence you choose to content yourself with the lesser.”
“Yes, ma'am. That's the full price, and it buys the bigger revenge: unless you’d prefer to settle for the smaller one out of kindness.”
“I understand you not,” said the lady.
"I don't understand you," said the lady.
“Ah; this is the Signora's first. The lesser vendetta, lady, is the death of the body only. We watch our man come out of a church; or take him in an innocent hour; and so deal with him. In the greater vendetta we watch him, and catch him hot from some unrepented sin, and so slay his soul as well as his body. But this vendetta is not so run upon now as it was a few years ago.”
“Ah, this is the Signora's first. The smaller vendetta, madam, only involves the death of the body. We wait for our target to come out of a church or catch him at an innocent moment and deal with him then. In the larger vendetta, we observe him and take him when he's just committed an unrepented sin, ensuring we slay his soul along with his body. However, this kind of vendetta isn’t as common now as it was a few years ago.”
“Man, silence me his tongue, and let his treasonable heart beat no more. But his soul I have no feud with.”
“Man, silence his tongue, and let his traitorous heart beat no longer. But I have no quarrel with his soul.”
“So be it, signora. He who spoke to me knew not the man, nor his name, nor his abode. From whom shall I learn these?”
“So be it, madam. The person who spoke to me didn’t know the man, nor his name, nor where he lives. Who am I supposed to ask about these?”
“From myself.”
“From me.”
At this the man, with the first symptoms of anxiety he had shown, entreated her to be cautious, and particular, in this part of the business.
At this, the man, showing the first signs of anxiety he had displayed, urged her to be careful and specific in this part of the task.
“Fear me not,” said she. “Listen. It is a young man, tall of stature, and auburn hair, and dark blue eyes, and an honest face, would deceive a saint. He lives in the Via Claudia, at the corner house; the glover's. In that house there lodge but three males: he; and a painter short of stature and dark visaged, and a young, slim boy. He that hath betrayed me is a stranger, fair, and taller than thou art.”
“Don’t be afraid of me,” she said. “Listen. There’s a young man, tall, with auburn hair, dark blue eyes, and a genuine face that could fool a saint. He lives on the Via Claudia, in the corner house; the glover’s place. In that house, there are only three men: him; a short, dark-looking painter; and a young, slim boy. The one who betrayed me is a stranger, fair-skinned, and taller than you.”
The bravo listened with all his ears. “It is enough,” said he.
The tough guy listened intently. “That’s enough,” he said.
“Stay, Signora; haunteth he any secret place where I may deal with him?”
“Wait, miss; does he linger in any hidden spot where I can talk to him?”
“My spy doth report me he hath of late frequented the banks of Tiber after dusk; doubtless to meet his light o' love, who calls me her rival; even there slay him! and let my rival come and find him; the smooth, heartless, insolent traitor.”
“My spy tells me he has recently been hanging out by the Tiber after dark, probably to meet his sweetheart, who refers to me as her rival; let me kill him there! Then let my rival come and find him; the smooth, heartless, arrogant traitor.”
“Be calm, signora. He will betray no more ladies.”
“Stay calm, ma'am. He won't betray any more women.”
“I know not that. He weareth a sword, and can use it. He is young and resolute.”
“I don't know about that. He wears a sword and knows how to use it. He is young and determined.”
“Neither will avail him.”
“Neither will help him.”
“Are ye so sure of your hand? What are your weapons?”
“Are you really that confident in your skills? What weapons do you have?”
The bravo showed her a steel gauntlet. “We strike with such force we need must guard our hand. This is our mallet.” He then undid his doublet, and gave her a glimpse of a coat of mail beneath, and finally laid his glittering stiletto on the table with a flourish.
The man showed her a steel glove. “We hit with such force that we need to protect our hand. This is our tool.” He then unfastened his jacket, revealing a coat of armor underneath, and finally placed his shiny dagger on the table with a flourish.
The lady shuddered at first, but presently took it up in her white hand and tried its point against her finger.
The woman hesitated at first, but then picked it up in her pale hand and tested its sharpness by touching it to her finger.
“Beware, madam,” said the bravo.
"Watch out, ma'am," said the thug.
“What, is it poisoned?”
"Is it poisoned?"
“Saints forbid! We steal no lives. We take them with steel point, not drugs. But 'tis newly ground, and I feared for the Signora's white skin.”
“God forbid! We don’t take lives. We end them with steel, not drugs. But this is freshly sharpened, and I was worried about the Signora's fair skin.”
“His skin is as white as mine,” said she, with a sudden gleam of pity. It lasted but a moment. “But his heart is black as soot. Say, do I not well to remove a traitor that slanders me?”
“His skin is as white as mine,” she said, a sudden spark of pity flashing in her eyes. It was only for a moment. “But his heart is as black as soot. Tell me, am I wrong to get rid of a traitor who slanders me?”
“The signora will settle that with her confessor. I am but a tool in noble hands; like my stiletto.”
“The lady will take care of that with her confessor. I'm just a tool in noble hands; like my stiletto.”
The princess appeared not to hear the speaker. “Oh, how I could have loved him; to the death; as now I hate him. Fool! he will learn to trifle with princes; to spurn them and fawn on them, and prefer the scum of the town to them, and make them a by-word.” She looked up. “Why loiter'st thou here? haste thee, revenge me.”
The princess seemed not to hear the speaker. “Oh, how I could have loved him; to the death; just as I now hate him. Fool! He’ll learn not to mess with royalty; to disrespect them and flatter them, choosing the lowest people over them, turning them into a joke.” She looked up. “Why are you hanging around here? Hurry up, get my revenge.”
“It is customary to pay half the price beforehand, Signora.”
“It’s common to pay half the price upfront, Signora.”
“Ah I forgot; thy revenge is bought. Here is more than half,” and she pushed a bag across the table to him. “When the blow is struck, come for the rest.”
“Ah, I forgot; your revenge is paid for. Here’s more than half,” and she pushed a bag across the table to him. “When the deed is done, come for the rest.”
“You will soon see me again, signora.”
“You’ll see me again soon, ma’am.”
And he retired bowing and scraping.
And he left, humbly bowing and scraping.
The princess, burning with jealousy, mortified pride, and dread of exposure (for till she knew Gerard no public stain had fallen on her), sat where he left her, masked, with her arms straight out before her, and the nails of her clenched hand nipping the table.
The princess, consumed by jealousy, embarrassed pride, and fear of being exposed (since she had never faced public shame until meeting Gerard), sat where he had left her, masked, with her arms extended in front of her, her clenched fists digging into the table.
So sat the fabled sphynx: so sits a tigress.
So sat the legendary sphinx: so sits a tigress.
Yet there crept a chill upon her now that the assassin was gone. And moody misgivings heaved within her, precursors of vain remorse. Gerard and Margaret were before their age. This was your true mediaeval. Proud, amorous, vindictive, generous, foolish, cunning, impulsive, unprincipled: and ignorant as dirt.
Yet a chill settled over her now that the assassin was gone. And dark doubts churned within her, signs of empty regret. Gerard and Margaret were ahead of their time. This was the true medieval spirit. Proud, passionate, vindictive, generous, foolish, cunning, impulsive, unprincipled: and as ignorant as dirt.
Power is the curse of such a creature.
Power is the curse of this kind of being.
Forced to do her own crimes, the weakness of her nerves would have balanced the violence of her passions, and her bark been worse than her bite. But power gives a feeble, furious woman, male instruments. And the effect is as terrible as the combination is unnatural.
Forced to commit her own crimes, her nervous weakness would have balanced the intensity of her emotions, making her more talk than action. But power gives a fragile, angry woman male allies. And the result is as horrifying as the mix is unnatural.
In this instance it whetted an assassin's dagger for a poor forlorn wretch just meditating suicide.
In this case, it sharpened a killer's dagger for a poor, lost soul who was thinking about ending their life.
CHAPTER LXV
It happened, two days after the scene I have endeavoured to describe, that Gerard, wandering through one of the meanest streets in Rome, was overtaken by a thunderstorm, and entered a low hostelry. He called for wine, and the rain continuing, soon drank himself into a half stupid condition, and dozed with his head on his hands and his hands upon the table.
It happened two days after the scene I just described that Gerard, wandering through one of the shabbier streets in Rome, was caught in a thunderstorm and went into a low-budget inn. He ordered wine, and as the rain kept pouring, he quickly drank enough to become half-dazed, resting his head on his hands with his hands on the table.
In course of time the room began to fill and the noise of the rude guests to wake him.
Over time, the room started to fill up, and the loud guests woke him.
Then it was he became conscious of two figures near him conversing in a low voice.
Then he became aware of two figures nearby talking in hushed voices.
One was a pardoner. The other by his dress, clean but modest, might have passed for a decent tradesman; but the way he had slouched his hat over his brows, so as to hide all his face except his beard, showed he was one of those who shun the eye of honest men, and of the law. The pair were driving a bargain in the sin market. And by an arrangement not uncommon at that date, the crime to be forgiven was yet to be committed—under the celestial contract.
One was a pardoner. The other, by his attire—clean but modest—could have been seen as a respectable tradesman; however, the way he had tilted his hat down over his forehead to conceal his face except for his beard indicated that he was someone who avoided the gaze of honest folks and the law. The two were haggling in the sin market. And by a common arrangement at that time, the sin to be pardoned was still to be committed—under the heavenly contract.
He of the slouched hat was complaining of the price pardons had reached. “If they go up any higher we poor fellows shall be shut out of heaven altogether.”
He with the slouched hat was grumbling about how high the price of pardons had become. “If they rise any more, us poor guys are going to be completely shut out of heaven.”
The pardoner denied the charge flatly. “Indulgences were never cheaper to good husbandmen.”
The pardoner flatly denied the accusation. “Indulgences were never more affordable for good farmers.”
The other inquired, “Who were they?”
The other asked, “Who were they?”
“Why, such as sin by the market, like reasonable creatures. But if you will be so perverse as go and pick out a crime the Pope hath set his face against, blame yourself, not me!”
“Why, just like sin in the market, like rational beings. But if you're going to be so stubborn as to pick a crime that the Pope is against, blame yourself, not me!”
Then, to prove that crime of one sort or another was within the means of all but the very scum of society, he read out the scale from a written parchment.
Then, to show that anyone but the very worst people in society could commit some kind of crime, he read aloud from a written scroll.
It was a curious list; but not one that could be printed in this book. And to mutilate it would be to misrepresent it. It is to be found in any great library. Suffice it to say that murder of a layman was much cheaper than many crimes my lay readers would deem light by comparison.
It was an interesting list, but not one that could be printed in this book. To cut it down would misrepresent it. You can find it in any major library. It's enough to say that murdering a regular person was a lot cheaper than many crimes my non-professional readers would consider minor by comparison.
This told; and by a little trifling concession on each side, the bargain was closed, the money handed over, and the aspirant to heaven's favour forgiven beforehand for removing one layman. The price for disposing of a clerk bore no proportion.
This was said; and with a small concession from both sides, the deal was finalized, the money exchanged, and the person seeking divine favor was excused in advance for getting rid of one layman. The cost for getting rid of a clerk was completely different.
The word assassination was never once uttered by either merchant.
The word assassination was never mentioned by either merchant.
All this buzzed in Gerard's ear. But he never lifted his head from the table; only listened stupidly.
All this buzzed in Gerard's ear. But he never lifted his head from the table; he just listened blankly.
However, when the parties rose and separated, he half raised his head, and eyed with a scowl the retiring figure of the purchaser.
However, when the parties finished and broke away, he half lifted his head and glared at the departing figure of the buyer.
“If Margaret was alive,” muttered he, “I'd take thee by the throat and throttle thee, thou cowardly stabber. But she is dead; dead; dead. Die all the world; 'tis nought to me: so that I die among the first.”
“If Margaret were alive,” he muttered, “I’d grab you by the throat and choke you, you cowardly stabber. But she’s dead; dead; dead. Let the whole world die; it means nothing to me, as long as I die among the first.”
When he got home there was a man in a slouched hat walking briskly to and fro on the opposite side of the way.
When he got home, there was a man in a slouched hat walking quickly back and forth on the other side of the street.
“Why, there is that cur again,” thought Gerard.
“Look, there’s that jerk again,” thought Gerard.
But in this state of mind, the circumstance made no impression whatever on him.
But in this state of mind, the situation had no effect on him at all.
CHAPTER LXVI
Two nights after this Pietro Vanucci and Andrea sat waiting supper for Gerard.
Two nights later, Pietro Vanucci and Andrea sat waiting for dinner for Gerard.
The former grew peevish. It was past nine o'clock. At last he sent Andrea to Gerard's room on the desperate chance of his having come in unobserved. Andrea shrugged his shoulders and went.
The former became irritable. It was after nine o'clock. Finally, he sent Andrea to Gerard's room in a last-ditch attempt to see if he had returned without anyone noticing. Andrea shrugged and went.
He returned without Gerard, but with a slip of paper. Andrea could not read, as scholars in his day and charity boys in ours understand the art; but he had a quick eye, and had learned how the words Pietro Vanucci looked on paper.
He returned without Gerard, but with a slip of paper. Andrea couldn’t read like scholars in his time and charity boys in ours understand the art; but he had a keen eye and had learned how the words Pietro Vanucci looked on paper.
“That is for you, I trow,” said he, proud of his intelligence.
"That’s for you, I think," he said, proud of his intelligence.
Pietro snatched it, and read it to Andrea, with his satirical comments.
Pietro grabbed it and read it to Andrea, making his sarcastic comments along the way.
“'Dear Pietro, dear Andrea, life is too great a burden.'
“'Dear Pietro, dear Andrea, life is too heavy a burden.'”
“So 'tis, my lad,' but that is no reason for being abroad at supper-time. Supper is not a burden.”
“So it is, my boy, but that’s no excuse for being out at dinner time. Dinner isn’t a hassle.”
“'Wear my habits!'
"Adopt my habits!"
“Said the poplar to the juniper bush.”
“Said the poplar to the juniper bush.”
“'And thou, Andrea, mine amethyst ring; and me in both your hearts a month or two.'
“'And you, Andrea, my amethyst ring; and me in both your hearts for a month or two.'”
“Why, Andrea?”
"Why, Andrea?"
“'For my body, ere this ye read, it will lie in Tiber. Trouble not to look for it. 'Tis not worth the pains. Oh unhappy day that it was born oh happy night that rids me of it.
“'For my body, by the time you read this, it will be lying in the Tiber. Don't bother looking for it. It's not worth the trouble. Oh, unhappy day that it was born, oh, happy night that frees me from it.
“'Adieu! adieu!
"Goodbye! Goodbye!
“'The broken-hearted Gerard.'
"The heartbroken Gerard."
“Here is a sorry jest of the peevish rogue,” said Pietro. But his pale cheek and chattering teeth belied his words. Andrea filled the house with his cries.
“Here is a sorry joke from the cranky trickster,” said Pietro. But his pale cheek and chattering teeth contradicted his words. Andrea filled the house with his screams.
“O, miserable day! O, calamity of calamities! Gerard, my friend, my sweet patron! Help! help! He is killing himself! Oh, good people, help me save him!” And after alarming all the house he ran into the street, bareheaded, imploring all good Christians to help him save his friend.
“O, terrible day! O, worst of all disasters! Gerard, my friend, my dear patron! Help! Help! He’s hurting himself! Oh, good people, please help me save him!” And after alarming everyone in the house, he ran out into the street, without his hat, begging all good Christians to help him save his friend.
A number of persons soon collected.
A group of people quickly gathered.
But poor Andrea could not animate their sluggishness. Go down to the river? No. It was not their business. What part of the river? It was a wild goose chase.
But poor Andrea couldn't get them to shake off their laziness. Go down to the river? No way. It wasn't their concern. What part of the river? It was a wild goose chase.
It was not lucky to go down to the river after sunset. Too many ghosts walked those banks all night.
It wasn't a good idea to head down to the river after sunset. Too many ghosts roamed those shores all night.
A lackey, however, who had been standing some time opposite the house, said he would go with Andrea; and this turned three or four of the younger ones.
A servant, however, who had been standing in front of the house for a while, said he would go with Andrea; and this convinced three or four of the younger ones.
The little band took the way to the river.
The small group headed toward the river.
The lackey questioned Andrea.
The minion questioned Andrea.
Andrea, sobbing, told him about the letter, and Gerard's moody ways of late.
Andrea, crying, told him about the letter and Gerard's bad mood lately.
That lackey was a spy of the Princess Claelia.
That servant was a spy for Princess Claelia.
Their Italian tongues went fast till they neared the Tiber.
Their Italian accents flowed quickly as they got closer to the Tiber.
But the moment they felt the air from the river, and the smell of the stream in the calm spring night, they were dead silent.
But as soon as they felt the breeze from the river and the scent of the stream on the peaceful spring night, they fell completely silent.
The moon shone calm and clear in a cloudless sky. Their feet sounded loud and ominous. Their tongues were hushed.
The moon shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky. Their footsteps echoed loudly and ominously. They fell silent.
Presently hurrying round a corner they met a man. He stopped irresolute at sight of them.
Presently, as they hurried around a corner, they encountered a man. He paused, uncertain, at the sight of them.
The man was bareheaded, and his dripping hair glistened in the moonlight; and at the next step they saw his clothes were drenched with water.
The man was without a hat, and his wet hair shimmered in the moonlight; at the next step, they noticed his clothes were soaked with water.
“Here he is,” cried one of the young men, unacquainted with Gerard's face and figure.
“Here he is,” shouted one of the young men, who didn’t know Gerard's face or build.
The stranger turned instantly and fled.
The stranger turned right away and ran off.
They ran after him might and main, Andrea leading, and the princess's lackey next.
They chased after him as fast as they could, with Andrea in the lead and the princess's servant right behind.
Andrea gained on him; but in a moment he twisted up a narrow alley. Andrea shot by, unable to check himself; and the pursuers soon found themselves in a labyrinth in which it was vain to pursue a quickfooted fugitive who knew every inch of it, and could now only be followed by the ear.
Andrea closed the gap on him; but in an instant, he turned down a narrow alley. Andrea sped past, unable to stop himself; and the pursuers quickly realized they were in a maze where it was pointless to chase a nimble fugitive who was familiar with every corner and could now only be tracked by sound.
They returned to their companions, and found them standing on the spot where the man had stood, and utterly confounded. For Pietro had assured them that the fugitive had neither the features nor the stature of Gerard.
They went back to their friends and found them standing where the man had been, completely bewildered. Pietro had told them that the runaway didn’t have Gerard’s looks or height.
“Are ye verily sure?” said they. “He had been in the river. Why, in the saints' names, fled he at our approach?”
“Are you really sure?” they said. “He had been in the river. Why, for heaven's sake, did he run away when we got closer?”
Then said Vanucci, “Friends, methinks this has nought to do with him we seek. What shall we do, Andrea?”
Then Vanucci said, “Friends, I think this has nothing to do with the person we’re looking for. What should we do, Andrea?”
Here the lackey put in his word. “Let us track him to the water's side, to make sure. See, he hath come dripping all the way.”
Here the servant chimed in. “Let’s follow him to the water's edge to make sure. Look, he’s soaked all the way through.”
This advice was approved, and with very little difficulty they tracked the man's course.
This advice was approved, and with minimal effort, they followed the man's path.
But soon they encountered a new enigma.
But soon they faced a new mystery.
They had gone scarcely fifty yards ere the drops turned away from the river, and took them to the gate of a large gloomy building. It was a monastery.
They had barely walked fifty yards when the drops veered away from the river and led them to the entrance of a large, dark building. It was a monastery.
They stood irresolute before it, and gazed at the dark pile.
They stood uncertainly in front of it and stared at the dark mass.
It seemed to them to hide some horrible mystery.
It seemed to them to conceal some terrible secret.
But presently Andrea gave a shout. “Here be the drops again,” cried he. “And this road leadeth to the river.”
But soon Andrea shouted, “Here come the raindrops again,” he cried. “And this road leads to the river.”
They resumed the chase; and soon it became clear the drops were now leading them home. The track became wetter and wetter, and took them to the Tiber's edge. And there on the bank a bucketful appeared to have been discharged from the stream.
They continued the chase, and soon it was obvious that the drops were now taking them home. The path got wetter and wetter, leading them to the river's edge. And there on the bank, it looked like a bucketful had been spilled from the stream.
At first they shouted, and thought they had made a discovery: but reflection showed them it amounted to nothing. Certainly a man had been in the water, and had got out of it in safety; but that man was not Gerard. One said he knew a fisherman hard by that had nets and drags. They found the fisherman and paid him liberally to sink nets in the river below the place, and to drag it above and below; and promised him gold should he find the body. Then they ran vainly up and down the river which flowed so calm and voiceless, holding this and a thousand more strange secrets. Suddenly Andrea, with a cry of hope, ran back to the house.
At first, they yelled, thinking they had made a big discovery, but after thinking it through, they realized it was nothing. Sure, a man had been in the water and got out safely, but that man wasn't Gerard. One of them said he knew a fisherman nearby who had nets and drags. They found the fisherman and paid him well to drop nets in the river below and to drag it both upstream and downstream, promising him gold if he found the body. Then they ran up and down the river, which flowed calmly and silently, holding this and a thousand other strange secrets. Suddenly, Andrea, with a shout of hope, ran back to the house.
He returned in less than half an hour.
He came back in under thirty minutes.
“No,” he groaned, and wrung his hands.
“No,” he groaned, and twisted his hands.
“What is the hour?” asked the lackey.
“What time is it?” asked the servant.
“Four hours past midnight.”
“4 AM.”
“My pretty lad,” said the lackey solemnly, “say a mass for thy friend's soul: for he is not among living men.”
“My handsome boy,” said the servant seriously, “say a prayer for your friend’s soul: for he is no longer among the living.”
The morning broke. Worn out with fatigue, Andrea and Pietro went home, heart sick.
The morning arrived. Exhausted and drained, Andrea and Pietro headed home, feeling heartbroken.
The days rolled on, mute as the Tiber as to Gerard's fate.
The days passed by, as silent as the Tiber when it came to Gerard's fate.
CHAPTER LXVII
It would indeed have been strange if with such barren data as they possessed, those men could have read the handwriting on the river's bank.
It would have been really odd if those men, with such limited information, could have interpreted the writing on the riverbank.
For there on that spot an event had just occurred, which, take it altogether, was perhaps without a parallel in the history of mankind, and may remain so to the end of time.
For on that spot, something had just happened that, all things considered, might be unmatched in human history, and could remain that way forever.
But it shall be told in a very few words, partly by me, partly by an actor in the scene.
But it will be described in just a few words, partly by me, partly by someone who was there.
Gerard, then, after writing his brief adieu to Pietro and Andrea, had stolen down to the river at nightfall.
Gerard, after quickly saying goodbye to Pietro and Andrea, had slipped down to the river at dusk.
He had taken his measures with a dogged resolution not uncommon in those who are bent on self-destruction. He filled his pockets with all the silver and copper he possessed, that he might sink the surer; and so provided, hurried to a part of the stream that he had seen was little frequented.
He had taken his steps with a determined resolve not unusual for those intent on self-destruction. He filled his pockets with all the change he had, so he could sink more easily; and with that, he rushed to a part of the stream that he noticed was rarely visited.
There are some, especially women, who look about to make sure there is somebody at hand.
There are some people, especially women, who glance around to make sure there's someone nearby.
But this resolute wretch looked about him to make sure there was nobody.
But this determined wretch looked around to make sure there was no one else.
And to his annoyance, he observed a single figure leaning against the corner of an alley. So he affected to stroll carelessly away; but returned to the spot.
And to his annoyance, he saw someone leaning against the corner of an alley. So he pretended to walk away casually but came back to the spot.
Lo! the same figure emerged from a side street and loitered about.
Look! The same figure came out from a side street and hung around.
“Can he be watching me? Can he know what I am here for?” thought Gerard. “Impossible.”
“Is he watching me? Does he know why I'm here?” Gerard thought. “No way.”
He went briskly off, walked along a street or two, made a detour and came back.
He quickly left, strolled down a couple of streets, took a detour, and returned.
The man had vanished. But lo! on Gerard looking all round, to make sure, there he was a few yards behind, apparently fastening his shoe.
The man had disappeared. But wait! As Gerard looked around to confirm, there he was a few yards back, seemingly tying his shoe.
Gerard saw he was watched, and at this moment observed in the moonlight a steel gauntlet in his sentinel's hand.
Gerard noticed he was being watched, and at that moment, he saw in the moonlight a steel gauntlet in the hand of the guard.
Then he knew it was an assassin.
Then he realized it was an assassin.
Strange to say, it never occurred to him that his was the life aimed at. To be sure he was not aware he had an enemy in the world.
Strangely enough, it never crossed his mind that his was the life people were aiming for. He certainly didn't realize he had an enemy in the world.
He turned and walked up to the bravo. “My good friend,” said he eagerly, “sell me thine arm! a single stroke! See, here is all I have;” and he forced his money into the bravo's hands.
He turned and walked up to the tough guy. “My good friend,” he said eagerly, “sell me your arm! Just one strike! Look, this is all I have;” and he pushed his money into the tough guy's hands.
“Oh, prithee! prithee! do one good deed, and rid me of my hateful life!” and even while speaking he undid his doublet and bared his bosom.
“Oh, please! please! do one good thing, and free me from my miserable life!” and even as he spoke, he unfastened his doublet and exposed his chest.
The man stared in his face.
The man stared at his face.
“Why do ye hesitate?” shrieked Gerard. “Have ye no bowels? Is it so much pains to lift your arm and fall it? Is it because I am poor, and can't give ye gold? Useless wretch, canst only strike a man behind; not look one in the face. There, then, do but turn thy head and hold thy tongue!”
“Why are you hesitating?” yelled Gerard. “Do you have no compassion? Is it so hard to lift your arm and let it fall? Is it because I’m poor and can’t give you gold? Useless coward, you can only attack a man from behind; you can’t face him. Just turn your head and be quiet!”
And with a snarl of contempt he ran from him, and flung himself into the water.
And with a contemptuous snarl, he ran away from him and jumped into the water.
“Margaret!”
“Meg!”
At the heavy plunge of his body in the stream the bravo seemed to recover from a stupor. He ran to the bank, and with a strange cry the assassin plunged in after the self-destroyer.
At the heavy splash of his body in the water, the tough guy seemed to snap out of a daze. He rushed to the shore, and with a strange cry, the killer jumped in after the one who was drowning himself.
What followed will be related by the assassin.
What happened next will be told by the assassin.
CHAPTER LXVIII
A woman has her own troubles, as a man has his. And we male writers seldom do more than indicate the griefs of the other sex. The intelligence of the female reader must come to our aid, and fill up our cold outlines. So have I indicated, rather than described, what Margaret Brandt went through up to that eventful day, when she entered Eli's house an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and remained a friend.
A woman has her own struggles, just like a man does. And we male writers often do little more than hint at the sorrows of the other gender. The insight of the female reader has to step in to fill in the gaps of our vague descriptions. So, I've suggested, rather than detailed, what Margaret Brandt experienced leading up to that pivotal day when she walked into Eli's house as an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and left as a friend.
And now a woman's greatest trial drew near, and Gerard far away.
And now a woman's biggest challenge was approaching, with Gerard being far away.
She availed herself but little of Eli's sudden favour; for this reserve she had always a plausible reason ready; and never hinted at the true one, which was this; there were two men in that house at sight of whom she shuddered with instinctive antipathy and dread. She had read wickedness and hatred in their faces, and mysterious signals of secret intelligence. She preferred to receive Catherine and her daughter at home. The former went to see her every day, and was wrapped up in the expected event.
She didn't take much advantage of Eli's sudden favor; she always had a convincing excuse ready for her distance and never mentioned the real reason, which was that there were two men in the house who made her instinctively uncomfortable and filled her with dread. She could see wickedness and hatred in their faces, along with strange signs of secret understanding. She preferred to have Catherine and her daughter visit her at home. Catherine came to see her every day and was completely focused on the upcoming event.
Catherine was one of those females whose office is to multiply, and rear the multiplied: who, when at last they consent to leave off pelting one out of every room in the house with babies, hover about the fair scourges that are still in full swing, and do so cluck, they seem to multiply by proxy. It was in this spirit she entreated Eli to let her stay at Rotterdam, while he went back to Tergou.
Catherine was one of those women whose role is to have kids and raise them: who, when they finally agree to stop continuously having babies in every room in the house, stick around the little ones that are still in full swing, and cluck so much that it seems like they multiply by proxy. It was with this mindset that she asked Eli to let her stay in Rotterdam while he went back to Tergou.
“The poor lass hath not a soul about her, that knows anything about anything. What avail a pair o' soldiers? Why, that sort o' cattle should be putten out o' doors the first, at such an a time.”
“The poor girl doesn’t have anyone around her who knows anything. What good are a couple of soldiers? Honestly, those kinds of people should be kicked out first during times like this.”
Need I say that this was a great comfort to Margaret.
Need I say that this was a great comfort to Margaret?
Poor soul, she was full of anxiety as the time drew near.
Poor soul, she was filled with anxiety as the time approached.
She should die; and Gerard away.
She should die, and Gerard should leave.
But things balance themselves. Her poverty, and her father's helplessness, which had cost her such a struggle, stood her in good stead now.
But things even out. Her poverty and her father's inability, which had caused her so much effort, now worked to her advantage.
Adversity's iron hand had forced her to battle the lassitude that overpowers the rich of her sex, and to be for ever on her feet, working. She kept this up to the last by Catherine's advice.
Adversity's harsh grip had pushed her to fight against the weariness that often affects wealthy women, and to always be on her feet, working. She continued this until the end, following Catherine's advice.
And so it was, that one fine evening, just at sunset, she lay weak as water, but safe; with a little face by her side, and the heaven of maternity opening on her.
And so it was that one beautiful evening, just at sunset, she lay weak as water, but safe; with a tiny face beside her, and the bliss of motherhood unfolding before her.
“Why dost weep, sweetheart? All of a sudden?”
“Why are you crying, sweetheart? All of a sudden?”
“He is not here to see it.”
“He's not here to see it.”
“Ah, well, lass, he will be here ere 'tis weaned. Meantime God hath been as good to thee as to e'er a woman born; and do but bethink thee it might have been a girl; didn't my very own Kate threaten me with one; and here we have got the bonniest boy in Holland, and a rare heavy one, the saints be praised for't.”
"Ah, well, girl, he'll be here before it's weaned. In the meantime, God has been as good to you as to any woman ever born; and just think, it could have been a girl; didn't my very own Kate warn me about one? And here we have the cutest boy in Holland, and a really hefty one, thank the saints for that."
“Ay, mother, I am but a sorry, ungrateful wretch to weep. If only Gerard were here to see it. 'Tis strange; I bore him well enow to be away from me in my sorrow; but oh, it does seem so hard he should not share my joy. Prithee, prithee, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear Gerard!” And she stretched out her feeble arms.
“Ay, mom, I’m just a pathetic, ungrateful mess to be crying like this. If only Gerard were here to see it. It’s strange; I managed to cope with him being away in my sadness; but oh, it really feels tough that he’s not here to share my happiness. Please, please, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear Gerard!” And she stretched out her weak arms.
Catherine hustled about, but avoided Margaret's eyes; for she could not restrain her own tears at hearing her own absent child thus earnestly addressed.
Catherine hurried around, but avoided making eye contact with Margaret; she couldn't help but cry upon hearing her absent child being addressed so earnestly.
Presently, turning round, she found Margaret looking at her with a singular expression. “Heard you nought?”
Presently, turning around, she found Margaret looking at her with a strange expression. “Haven’t you heard anything?”
“No, my lamb. What?”
“No, my lamb. What’s up?”
“I did cry on Gerard, but now.”
“I did cry on Gerard, but not anymore.”
“Ay, ay, sure I heard that.”
“Ay, ay, yeah I heard that.”
“Well, he answered me.”
"Well, he replied to me."
“Tush, girl: say not that.”
"Come on, girl: don't say that."
“Mother, as sure as I lie here, with his boy by my side, his voice came back to me, 'Margaret!' So. Yet methought 'twas not his happy voice. But that might be the distance. All voices go off sad like at a distance. Why art not happy, sweetheart? and I so happy this night? Mother, I seem never to have felt a pain or known a care.” And her sweet eyes turned and gloated on the little face in silence.
“Mother, as I lie here with his boy next to me, I can hear his voice calling me, 'Margaret!' But it doesn’t sound like his joyful voice. Maybe it’s just the distance. All voices sound sad from far away. Why aren’t you happy, sweetheart? I’m so happy tonight. Mother, I don’t think I’ve ever felt pain or worry.” And her sweet eyes turned, gazing in silence at the little face.
That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And that very hour she heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws and despair's.
That same night, Gerard jumped into the Tiber. And at that exact hour, she heard him call her name as he cried out in the grips of death and despair.
“Margaret!”
"Margaret!"
Account for it those who can. I cannot.
Account for it those who can. I can't.
CHAPTER LXIX
In the guest chamber of a Dominican convent lay a single stranger, exhausted by successive and violent fits of nausea, which had at last subsided, leaving him almost as weak as Margaret lay that night in Holland.
In the guest room of a Dominican convent, a lone stranger rested, drained from repeated and intense waves of nausea that had finally faded, leaving him almost as weak as Margaret was that night in Holland.
A huge wood fire burned on the hearth, and beside it hung the patient's clothes.
A big wood fire blazed on the hearth, and next to it hung the patient's clothes.
A gigantic friar sat by his bedside, reading pious collects aloud from his breviary.
A huge friar sat by his bedside, reading prayers from his breviary out loud.
The patient at times eyed him, and seemed to listen: at others closed his eyes and moaned.
The patient sometimes looked at him and seemed to pay attention; other times, he shut his eyes and groaned.
The monk kneeled down with his face touching the ground and prayed for him; then rose and bade him farewell. “Day breaks,” said he; “I must prepare for matins.”
The monk knelt down with his face to the ground and prayed for him; then he got up and said goodbye. “Day is breaking,” he said; “I need to get ready for morning prayers.”
“Good Father Jerome, before you go, how came I hither?”
“Good Father Jerome, before you leave, how did I get here?”
“By the hand of Heaven. You flung away God's gift. He bestowed it on you again. Think on it! Hast tried the world and found its gall. Now try the Church! The Church is peace. Pax vobiscum.”
“By the hand of Heaven. You threw away God's gift. He gave it back to you again. Think about it! You’ve tried the world and found its bitterness. Now try the Church! The Church is peace. Peace be with you.”
He was gone. Gerard lay back, meditating and wondering, till weak and wearied he fell into a doze.
He was gone. Gerard lay back, thinking and reflecting, until he became too tired and dozed off.
When he awoke again he found a new nurse seated beside him. It was a layman, with an eye as small and restless as Friar Jerome's was calm and majestic.
When he woke up again, he found a new nurse sitting beside him. It was a regular person, with an eye as small and restless as Friar Jerome's was calm and dignified.
The man inquired earnestly how he felt.
The man asked seriously how he was feeling.
“Very, very weak. Where have I seen you before, messer?”
“Really, really weak. Where have I seen you before, buddy?”
“None the worse for my gauntlet?” inquired the other, with considerable anxiety; “I was fain to strike you withal, or both you and I should be at the bottom of Tiber.”
“Are you sure you're okay after my challenge?” the other asked, clearly worried. “I really had to hit you, or both of us would be at the bottom of the Tiber.”
Gerard stared at him. “What, 'twas you saved me? How?”
Gerard stared at him. “What, you saved me? How?”
“Well, signor, I was by the banks of Tiber on-on an errand, no matter what. You came to me and begged hard for a dagger stroke. But ere I could oblige you, ay, even as you spoke to me, I knew you for the signor that saved my wife and child upon the sea.”
“Well, sir, I was by the banks of the Tiber on an errand, but that's not important. You came to me and pleaded hard for a dagger strike. But before I could help you, yes, even as you were speaking to me, I recognized you as the man who saved my wife and child at sea.”
“It is Teresa's husband. And an assassin?!!?”
“It’s Teresa’s husband. And a hitman?!!?”
“At your service. Well, Ser Gerard, the next thing was, you flung yourself into Tiber, and bade me hold aloof.”
“At your service. So, Ser Gerard, the next thing is, you jumped into the Tiber and told me to stay away.”
“I remember that.”
"I remember that."
“Had it been any but you, believe me I had obeyed you, and not wagged a finger. Men are my foes. They may all hang on one rope, or drown in one river for me. But when thou, sinking in Tiber, didst cry 'Margaret!'”
“Had it been anyone else, believe me, I would have obeyed you and not lifted a finger. Men are my enemies. They can all hang by one rope or drown in one river for all I care. But when you, drowning in the Tiber, cried out 'Margaret!'”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“My heart it cried 'Teresa!' How could I go home and look her in the face, did I let thee die, and by the very death thou savedst her from? So in I went; and luckily for us both I swim like a duck. You, seeing me near, and being bent on destruction, tried to grip me, and so end us both. But I swam round thee, and (receive my excuses) so buffeted thee on the nape of the neck with my steel glove; that thou lost sense, and I with much ado, the stream being strong, did draw thy body to land, but insensible and full of water. Then I took thee on my back and made for my own home. 'Teresa will nurse him, and be pleased with me,' thought I. But hard by this monastery, a holy friar, the biggest e'er I saw, met us and asked the matter. So I told him. He looked hard at thee. 'I know the face,' quoth he. ''Tis one Gerard, a fair youth from Holland.' 'The same,' quo' I. Then said his reverence, 'He hath friends among our brethren. Leave him with us! Charity, it is our office.'
"My heart cried 'Teresa!' How could I go home and look her in the face if I let you die, and by the very death you saved her from? So I went in; and luckily for us both, I swim like a duck. You, seeing me nearby and set on destruction, tried to grab me and end us both. But I swam around you and (please accept my apologies) knocked you on the back of the neck with my steel glove, causing you to lose consciousness, and I, with great effort, managed to drag your body to shore, but you were unconscious and full of water. Then I carried you on my back and headed for my home. 'Teresa will take care of him and be pleased with me,' I thought. But just near this monastery, a holy friar, the biggest I ever saw, met us and asked what was going on. So I told him. He looked closely at you. 'I recognize the face,' he said. 'It’s Gerard, a fine young man from Holland.' 'That’s right,' I replied. Then the friar said, 'He has friends among our brethren. Leave him with us! It’s our duty to help.'”
“Also he told me they of the convent had better means to tend thee than I had. And that was true enow. So I just bargained to be let in to see thee once a day, and here thou art.”
“Also, he told me that the people at the convent had better resources to take care of you than I did. And that was certainly true. So I just negotiated to be allowed to see you once a day, and here you are.”
And the miscreant cast a strange look of affection and interest upon Gerard.
And the troublemaker gave Gerard a weird look of fondness and curiosity.
Gerard did not respond to it. He felt as if a snake were in the room. He closed his eyes.
Gerard didn’t reply to it. He felt like there was a snake in the room. He closed his eyes.
“Ah, thou wouldst sleep,” said the miscreant eagerly. “I go.” And he retired on tip-toe with a promise to come every day.
“Ah, you want to sleep,” said the villain eagerly. “I’m leaving.” And he quietly tiptoed away with a promise to come every day.
Gerard lay with his eyes closed: not asleep, but deeply pondering.
Gerard lay with his eyes closed: not asleep, but lost in thought.
Saved from death, by an assassin
Saved from death by an assassin
Was not this the finger of Heaven?
Wasn't this the hand of Heaven?
Of that Heaven he had insulted, cursed, and defied.
Of that Heaven he had insulted, cursed, and challenged.
He shuddered at his blasphemies. He tried to pray.
He shivered at his wrongdoings. He attempted to pray.
He found he could utter prayers. But he could not pray.
He realized he could say prayers. But he couldn't actually pray.
“I am doomed eternally,” he cried, “doomed, doomed.”
“I’m doomed forever,” he cried, “doomed, doomed.”
The organ of the convent church burst on his ear in rich and solemn harmony.
The organ of the convent church filled the air with rich and powerful harmony.
Then rose the voices of the choir chanting a full service.
Then the choir's voices rose, chanting a complete service.
Among them was one that seemed to hover above the others, and tower towards heaven; a sweet boy's voice, full, pure, angelic.
Among them was one that seemed to float above the others, reaching toward the sky; a sweet boy's voice, rich, clear, and heavenly.
He closed his eyes and listened. The days of his own boyhood flowed back upon him in those sweet, pious harmonies. No earthly dross there, no foul, fierce passions, rending and corrupting the soul.
He shut his eyes and listened. The days of his own childhood came rushing back to him in those sweet, gentle harmonies. There was no earthly garbage there, no ugly, intense emotions tearing and corrupting the soul.
Peace, peace; sweet, balmy peace.
Peace, peace; sweet, soothing peace.
“Ay,” he sighed, “the Church is peace of mind. Till I left her bosom I ne'er knew sorrow, nor sin.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “the Church is peace of mind. Until I left her embrace, I never knew sorrow or sin.”
And the poor torn, worn creature wept.
And the poor, tattered, exhausted being cried.
And even as he wept, there beamed on him the sweet and reverend face of one he had never thought to see again. It was the face of Father Anselm.
And even as he cried, the kind and respectful face of someone he never expected to see again shone down on him. It was Father Anselm's face.
The good father had only reached the convent the night before last. Gerard recognized him in a moment, and cried to him, “Oh, Father Anselm, you cured my wounded body in Juliers: now cure my hurt soul in Rome! Alas, you cannot.”
The good father had only arrived at the convent the night before last. Gerard recognized him immediately and called out, “Oh, Father Anselm, you healed my wounded body in Juliers: now heal my wounded soul in Rome! Alas, you cannot.”
Anselm sat down by the bedside, and putting a gentle hand on his head, first calmed him with a soothing word or two.
Anselm sat down by the bedside and gently placed a hand on his head, first calming him with a few soothing words.
He then (for he had learned how Gerard came there) spoke to him kindly but solemnly, and made him feel his crime, and urged him to repentance, and gratitude to that Divine Power which had thwarted his will to save his soul.
He then (since he learned how Gerard ended up there) spoke to him kindly yet seriously, making him aware of his wrongdoing, encouraging him to repent, and to feel grateful to that Divine Power that had stopped him from acting on his desires to save his soul.
“Come, my son,” said he, “first purge thy bosom of its load.”
“Come, my son,” he said, “first clear your heart of its burden.”
“Ah, father,” said Gerard, “in Juliers I could; then I was innocent but now, impious monster that I am, I dare not confess to you.”
“Ah, dad,” said Gerard, “I could in Juliers; back then I was innocent, but now, the wicked monster that I am, I can’t bring myself to confess to you.”
“Why not, my son? Thinkest thou I have not sinned against Heaven in my time, and deeply? oh, how deeply! Come, poor laden soul, pour forth thy grief, pour forth thy faults, hold back nought! Lie not oppressed and crushed by hidden sins.”
“Why not, my son? Do you think I haven't sinned against Heaven in my time, and deeply? Oh, how deeply! Come, poor burdened soul, share your grief, share your faults, hold nothing back! Don’t remain oppressed and crushed by hidden sins.”
And soon Gerard was at Father Anselm's knees confessing his every sin with sighs and groans of penitence.
And soon Gerard was at Father Anselm's feet, confessing all his sins with sighs and groans of remorse.
“Thy sins are great,” said Anselm. “Thy temptation also was great, terribly great. I must consult our good prior.”
“Your sins are significant,” said Anselm. “Your temptation was also intense, incredibly intense. I need to talk to our good prior.”
The good Anselm kissed his brow, and left him, to consult the superior as to his penance.
The good Anselm kissed his forehead and left to discuss his penance with the superior.
And lo! Gerard could pray now.
And look! Gerard could pray now.
And he prayed with all his heart.
And he prayed earnestly.
The phase, through which this remarkable mind now passed, may be summed in a word—Penitence.
The phase that this remarkable mind is currently going through can be summed up in one word—Regret.
He turned with terror and aversion from the world, and begged passionately to remain in the convent. To him, convent nurtured, it was like a bird returning wounded, wearied, to its gentle nest.
He turned away from the world in fear and disgust, and pleaded intensely to stay in the convent. For him, raised in the convent, it felt like a wounded, exhausted bird returning to its safe nest.
He passed his novitiate in prayer, and mortification, and pious reading and meditation.
He spent his training period in prayer, self-discipline, devotional reading, and reflection.
The Princess Claelia's spy went home and told her that Gerard was certainly dead, the manner of his death unknown at present.
The Princess Claelia's spy went home and informed her that Gerard was definitely dead, though the details of his death were still unknown.
She seemed literally stunned. When, after a long time, she found breath to speak at all, it was to bemoan her lot, cursed with such ready tools. “So soon,” she sighed; “see how swift these monsters are to do ill deeds. They come to us in our hot blood, and first tempt us with their venal daggers, then enact the mortal deeds we ne'er had thought on but for them.”
She looked completely shocked. When she finally found the words to speak after a long pause, she lamented her situation, burdened with such easy means. “So soon,” she sighed; “look how quickly these monsters are to do bad things. They come to us when we’re fired up, first tempting us with their corrupt knives, then committing the deadly acts we never would have considered if it weren’t for them.”
Ere many hours had passed, her pity for Gerard and hatred of his murderer had risen to fever heat; which with this fool was blood heat.
Before long, her pity for Gerard and hatred for his killer had reached a boiling point; for this fool, it was a matter of blood.
“Poor soul! I cannot call thee back to life. But he shall never live that traitorously slew thee.”
“Poor thing! I can’t bring you back to life. But that traitor who killed you will never live.”
And she put armed men in ambush, and kept them on guard all day, ready, when Lodovico should come for his money, to fall on him in a certain antechamber and hack him to pieces.
And she set up armed men in ambush and kept them on watch all day, ready to attack Lodovico when he came for his money, so they could overpower him in a specific antechamber and cut him to pieces.
“Strike at his head,” said she, “for he weareth a privy coat of mail; and if he goes hence alive your own heads shall answer it.”
“Hit him in the head,” she said, “because he's wearing a hidden coat of mail; and if he leaves here alive, you all will be held responsible.”
And so she sat weeping her victim, and pulling the strings of machines to shed the blood of a second for having been her machine to kill the first.
And so she sat crying for her victim, pulling the strings of machines to take the life of another for being the one that enabled her to kill the first.
CHAPTER LXX
One of the novice Gerard's self-imposed penances was to receive Lodovico kindly, feeling secretly as to a slimy serpent.
One of the beginner Gerard's self-imposed punishments was to welcome Lodovico warmly, while secretly feeling like he was dealing with a slimy snake.
Never was self-denial better bestowed; and like most rational penances, it soon became no penance at all. At first the pride and complacency, with which the assassin gazed on the one life he had saved, was perhaps as ludicrous as pathetic; but it is a great thing to open a good door in a heart. One good thing follows another through the aperture. Finding it so sweet to save life, the miscreant went on to be averse to taking it; and from that to remorse; and from remorse to something very like penitence. And here Teresa cooperated by threatening, not for the first time, to leave him unless he would consent to lead an honest life. The good fathers of the convent lent their aid, and Lodovico and Teresa were sent by sea to Leghorn, where Teresa had friends, and the assassin settled down and became a porter.
Never was self-denial more well-earned; and like most reasonable sacrifices, it soon felt like no sacrifice at all. At first, the pride and satisfaction with which the assassin admired the one life he had saved was just as ridiculous as it was touching; but it’s a big deal to open a good door in someone’s heart. One positive action leads to another through that opening. Realizing how rewarding it was to save a life, the villain developed a dislike for taking them; and from that grew remorse; and from remorse came something like repentance. And here Teresa helped out by threatening, not for the first time, to leave him unless he agreed to live an honest life. The kind fathers of the convent supported them, and Lodovico and Teresa were sent by sea to Leghorn, where Teresa had friends, and the assassin settled down and became a porter.
He found it miserably dull work at first; and said so.
He thought it really boring at first and said so.
But methinks this dull life of plodding labour was better for him, than the brief excitement of being hewn in pieces by the Princess Claelia's myrmidons. His exile saved the unconscious penitent from that fate; and the princess, balked of her revenge, took to brooding, and fell into a profound melancholy; dismissed her confessor, and took a new one with a great reputation for piety, to whom she confided what she called her griefs. The new confessor was no other than Fra Jerome. She could not have fallen into better hands.
But I think this boring life of hard work was better for him than the quick thrill of being chopped up by Princess Claelia's soldiers. His exile saved the unaware sinner from that fate; and the princess, denied her revenge, started brooding and fell into a deep sadness. She dismissed her confessor and picked a new one known for his strong piety, to whom she entrusted what she called her sorrows. The new confessor was none other than Fra Jerome. She couldn’t have ended up in better hands.
He heard her grimly out. Then took her and shook the delusions out of her as roughly as if she had been a kitchen-maid. For, to do this hard monk justice, on the path of duty he feared the anger of princes as little as he did the sea. He showed her in a few words, all thunder and lightning, that she was the criminal of criminals.
He listened to her seriously. Then he grabbed her and shook her misconceptions out of her as roughly as if she were a servant. To give him credit, he didn't fear the anger of powerful people any more than he feared the ocean when it came to doing what he believed was right. In just a few intense words, he made it clear that she was the worst of the worst.
“Thou art the devil, that with thy money hath tempted one man to slay his fellow, and then, blinded with self-love, instead of blaming and punishing thyself, art thirsting for more blood of guilty men, but not so guilty as thou.”
“You're the devil who has tempted a man with your money to kill his fellow, and then, blinded by self-love, instead of blaming and punishing yourself, you're thirsting for more blood of guilty men, but not as guilty as you are.”
At first she resisted, and told him she was not used to be taken to task by her confessors. But he overpowered her, and so threatened her with the Church's curse here and hereafter, and so tore the scales off her eyes, and thundered at her, and crushed her, that she sank down and grovelled with remorse and terror at the feet of the gigantic Boanerges.
At first she resisted and told him she wasn't used to being confronted by her confessors. But he overpowered her, threatened her with the Church's curse now and in the afterlife, tore the scales from her eyes, shouted at her, and crushed her spirit, making her sink down and grovel with remorse and fear at the feet of the enormous Boanerges.
“Oh, holy father, have pity on a poor weak woman, and help me save my guilty soul. I was benighted for want of ghostly counsel like thine, good father. I waken as from a dream.
“Oh, holy father, have mercy on a poor, weak woman, and help me save my guilty soul. I was lost without the spiritual guidance of someone like you, good father. I wake up as if from a dream."
“Doff thy jewels,” said Fra Jerome sternly.
“Take off your jewels,” said Fra Jerome sternly.
“I will. I will.”
"I will. I will."
“Doff thy silk and velvet; and in humbler garb than wears thy meanest servant, wend thou instant to Loretto.”
“Take off your silk and velvet; and in simpler clothes than your lowest servant wears, go immediately to Loretto.”
“I will,” said the princess faintly.
“I will,” said the princess softly.
“No shoes; but a bare sandal.'
“No shoes; just a bare sandal.”
“No father.”
"No dad."
“Wash the feet of pilgrims both going and coming; and to such of them as be holy friars tell thy sin, and abide their admonition.”
“Wash the feet of travelers who are arriving and leaving; and to those who are holy friars, confess your sins to them, and follow their guidance.”
“Oh, holy father, let me wear my mask.”
“Oh, holy father, please let me wear my mask.”
“Humph!”
"Ugh!"
“Oh, mercy! Bethink thee! My features are known through Italy.”
“Oh, wow! Think about it! My face is recognized all over Italy.”
“Ay. Beauty is a curse to most of ye. Well, thou mayst mask thine eyes; no more.”
“Aye. Beauty is a curse for most of you. Well, you can hide your eyes; no more.”
On this concession she seized his hand, and was about to kiss it; but he snatched it rudely from her.
On this concession, she grabbed his hand and was about to kiss it, but he jerked it away from her roughly.
“What would ye do? That hand handled the eucharist but an hour agone: is it fit for such as thou to touch it?”
“What would you do? That hand touched the Eucharist just an hour ago: is it appropriate for someone like you to touch it?”
“Ah, no. But oh, go not without giving your penitent daughter your blessing.”
“Ah, no. But please don’t leave without giving your sorry daughter your blessing.”
“Time enow to ask it when you come back from Loretto.”
“Now's the time to ask it when you come back from Loretto.”
Thus that marvellous occurrence by Tiber's banks left its mark on all the actors, as prodigies are said to do. The assassin, softened by saving the life he was paid to take, turned from the stiletto to the porter's knot. The princess went barefoot to Loretto, weeping her crime and washing the feet of base-born men.
Thus, that amazing event by the Tiber River left an impression on everyone involved, just as miracles are said to do. The assassin, softened by saving the life he was supposed to take, turned from the dagger to a humble life. The princess walked barefoot to Loretto, crying over her crime and washing the feet of common men.
And Gerard, carried from the Tiber into that convent a suicide, now passed for a young saint within its walls.
And Gerard, brought from the Tiber to that convent as a suicide, was now seen as a young saint within its walls.
Loving but experienced eyes were on him.
Loving yet experienced eyes were on him.
Upon a shorter probation than usual he was admitted to priest's orders.
After a shorter probation period than usual, he was admitted to the priesthood.
And soon after took the monastic vows, and became a friar of St. Dominic.
And soon after took the monastic vows and became a friar of St. Dominic.
Dying to the world, the monk parted with the very name by which he had lived in it, and so broke the last link of association with earthly feelings.
Dying to the world, the monk let go of the very name he had lived by, breaking the final connection with worldly emotions.
Here Gerard ended, and Brother Clement began.
Here Gerard finished, and Brother Clement started.
CHAPTER LXXI
“As is the race of leaves so is that of men.” And a great man budded unnoticed in a tailor's house at Rotterdam this year, and a large man dropped to earth with great eclat.
“As the species of leaves, so is that of men.” And a remarkable person emerged quietly in a tailor's home in Rotterdam this year, while a prominent figure made a grand entrance into the world.
Philip, Duke of Burgundy, Earl of Holland, etc., etc., lay sick at Bruges. Now paupers got sick and got well as Nature pleased; but woe betided the rich in an age when, for one Mr. Malady killed three fell by Dr. Remedy.
Philip, Duke of Burgundy, Earl of Holland, etc., etc., was sick in Bruges. While the poor would get sick and recover as Nature intended, the rich faced a terrible fate in a time when one person suffering from an illness resulted in three more being harmed by a doctor’s treatment.
The Duke's complaint, nameless then, is now diphtheria. It is, and was, a very weakening malady, and the Duke was old; so altogether Dr. Remedy bled him.
The Duke's complaint, unknown at the time, is now identified as diphtheria. It is, and always has been, a very debilitating disease, and the Duke was old; so Dr. Remedy decided to bleed him.
The Duke turned very cold: wonderful!
The Duke became really cold: amazing!
Then Dr. Remedy had recourse to the arcana of science.
Then Dr. Remedy turned to the secrets of science.
“Ho! This is grave. Flay me an ape incontinent, and clap him to the Duke's breast!”
“Hey! This is serious. Skin me a monkey right away, and put it in the Duke's arms!”
Officers of state ran septemvious, seeking an ape, to counteract the bloodthirsty tomfoolery of the human species.
Officers of the state ran around, looking for an ape, to counteract the violent foolishness of humanity.
Perdition! The duke was out of apes. There were buffaloes, lizards, Turks, leopards; any unreasonable beast but the right one.
Perdition! The duke was out of apes. There were buffaloes, lizards, Turks, leopards; every crazy animal except the right one.
“Why, there used to be an ape about,” said one. “If I stand here I saw him.”
“Yeah, there used to be an ape around,” said one. “If I stand here, I saw him.”
So there used; but the mastiff had mangled the sprightly creature for stealing his supper; and so fulfilled the human precept, “Soyez de votre siecle!”
So there were; but the mastiff had torn apart the lively creature for stealing his dinner; and thus he fulfilled the human saying, “Be of your time!”
In this emergency the seneschal cast his despairing eyes around; and not in vain. A hopeful light shot into them.
In this crisis, the seneschal looked around in despair, and it wasn’t in vain. A spark of hope lit up his eyes.
“Here is this,” said he, sotto voce. “Surely this will serve: 'tis altogether apelike, doublet and hose apart.”
“Here’s this,” he said in a low voice. “This should work: it’s completely monkey-like, aside from the jacket and pants.”
“Nay,” said the chancellor peevishly, “the Princess Marie would hang us. She doteth on this.”
“Nah,” said the chancellor irritably, “Princess Marie would have us hanged. She’s obsessed with this.”
Now this was our friend Giles, strutting, all unconscious, in cloth of gold.
Now this was our friend Giles, strutting around, completely unaware, in golden fabric.
Then Dr. Remedy grew impatient, and bade flay a dog.
Then Dr. Remedy got impatient and ordered to skin a dog.
“A dog is next best to an ape; only it must be a dog all of one colour.”
“A dog is the next best thing to an ape; it just has to be one solid color.”
So they flayed a liver-coloured dog, and clapped it, yet palpitating, to their sovereign's breast and he died.
So they skinned a liver-colored dog and pressed it, still beating, against their ruler's chest, and he died.
Philip the Good, thus scientifically disposed of, left thirty-one children: of whom one, somehow or another, was legitimate; and reigned in his stead.
Philip the Good, thus scientifically sorted out, left thirty-one children: of whom one, for some reason, was legitimate; and ruled in his place.
The good duke provided for nineteen out of the other thirty; the rest shifted for themselves.
The good duke took care of nineteen out of the other thirty; the rest managed on their own.
According to the Flemish chronicle the deceased prince was descended from the kings of Troy through Thierry of Aquitaine, and Chilperic, Pharamond, etc., the old kings of Franconia.
According to the Flemish chronicle, the late prince was descended from the kings of Troy through Thierry of Aquitaine, and Chilperic, Pharamond, and others, the ancient kings of Franconia.
But this in reality was no distinction. Not a prince of his day have I been able to discover who did not come down from Troy. “Priam” was mediaeval for “Adam.”
But in reality, this was no distinction. I haven't found a single prince from that time who didn't descend from Troy. “Priam” was medieval for “Adam.”
The good duke's, body was carried into Burgundy, and laid in a noble mausoleum of black marble at Dijon.
The good duke's body was taken to Burgundy and placed in an impressive mausoleum made of black marble in Dijon.
Holland rang with his death; and little dreamed that anything as famous was born in her territory that year. That judgment has been long reversed. Men gaze at the tailor's house, here the great birth of the fifteenth century took place. In what house the good duke died “no one knows and no one cares,” as the song says.
Holland echoed with his death; and no one could have imagined that something so renowned was born in her land that year. That assessment has long been changed. People look at the tailor's house, where the significant event of the fifteenth century occurred. As for where the good duke died, "no one knows and no one cares," as the song goes.
And why?
And why is that?
Dukes Philip the Good come and go, and leave mankind not a halfpenny wiser, nor better, nor other than they found it.
Dukes Philip the Good come and go, and leave humanity not a dime wiser, nor better, nor any different than they found it.
But when, once in three hundred years, such a child is born to the world as Margaret's son, lo! a human torch lighted by fire from heaven; and “FIAT LUX” thunder's from pole to pole.
But when, once every three hundred years, a child is born into the world like Margaret's son, behold! a human torch ignited by fire from heaven; and "LET THERE BE LIGHT" resonates from one end of the earth to the other.
CHAPTER LXXII
The Cloister
The Dominicans, or preaching friars, once the most powerful order in Europe, were now on the wane; their rivals and bitter enemies, the Franciscans, were overpowering them throughout Europe; even in England, a rich and religious country, where under the name of the Black Friars, they had once been paramount.
The Dominicans, or preaching friars, once the strongest order in Europe, were now declining; their rivals and fierce enemies, the Franciscans, were outpacing them across the continent; even in England, a wealthy and devout country, where they had once been dominant under the title of the Black Friars.
Therefore the sagacious men, who watched and directed the interests of the order, were never so anxious to incorporate able and zealous sons and send them forth to win back the world.
Therefore, the wise men who observed and guided the interests of the order were always eager to bring in capable and passionate members and send them out to reclaim the world.
The zeal and accomplishments of Clement, especially his rare mastery of language (for he spoke Latin, Italian, French, high and low Dutch), soon transpired, and he was destined to travel and preach in England, corresponding with the Roman centre.
The enthusiasm and achievements of Clement, particularly his unique command of language (as he spoke Latin, Italian, French, high and low Dutch), quickly became known, and he was meant to travel and preach in England, keeping in touch with the Roman center.
But Jerome, who had the superior's ear, obstructed this design.
But Jerome, who had the superior's attention, blocked this plan.
“Clement,” said he, “has the milk of the world still in his veins, its feelings, its weaknesses let not his new-born zeal and his humility tempt us to forego our ancient wisdom. Try him first, and temper him, lest one day we find ourselves leaning on a reed for a staff.
“Clement,” he said, “still has the essence of the world in his veins, its emotions, its vulnerabilities—let not his fresh enthusiasm and humility lead us to ignore our long-held wisdom. Evaluate him first, and refine him, or we might find ourselves relying on a weak support one day.”
“It is well advised,” said the prior. “Take him in hand thyself.”
“It’s a good idea,” said the prior. “You should handle it yourself.”
Then Jerome, following the ancient wisdom, took Clement and tried him.
Then Jerome, following the age-old wisdom, took Clement and tested him.
One day he brought him to a field where the young men amused themselves at the games of the day; he knew this to be a haunt of Clement's late friends.
One day he took him to a field where the young men were having fun with the games of the day; he recognized this place as a hangout for Clement's old friends.
And sure enough ere long Pietro Vanucci and Andrea passed by them, and cast a careless glance on the two friars. They did not recognize their dead friend in a shaven monk.
And sure enough, before long, Pietro Vanucci and Andrea walked by them and gave a quick glance at the two friars. They didn’t recognize their deceased friend in a shaved monk.
Clement gave a very little start, and then lowered his eyes and said a paternoster.
Clement jumped slightly, then looked down and said a prayer.
“Would ye not speak with them, brother?” said Jerome, trying him.
“Won't you talk to them, brother?” said Jerome, testing him.
“No brother: yet was it good for me to see them. They remind me of the sins I can never repent enough.”
“No brother: but it was good for me to see them. They remind me of the sins I can never fully atone for.”
“It is well,” said Jerome, and he made a cold report in Clement's favour.
“It’s fine,” said Jerome, and he gave a cool report in Clement's favor.
Then Jerome took Clement to many death-beds. And then into noisome dungeons; places where the darkness was appalling, and the stench loathsome, pestilential; and men looking like wild beasts lay coiled in rags and filth and despair. It tried his body hard; but the soul collected all its powers to comfort such poor wretches there as were not past comfort. And Clement shone in that trial. Jerome reported that Clement's spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak.
Then Jerome took Clement to many deathbeds. And then into filthy dungeons; places where the darkness was horrifying, and the stench disgusting and disease-ridden; and men who looked like wild animals lay curled up in rags, dirt, and despair. It was a tough test for his body, but the soul gathered all its strength to comfort those poor souls who were still able to be comforted. And Clement shone in that challenge. Jerome reported that Clement's spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak.
“Good!” said Anselm; “his flesh is weak, but his spirit is willing.”
“Good!” said Anselm; “his body is weak, but his spirit is strong.”
But there was a greater trial in store.
But there was a bigger challenge ahead.
I will describe it as it was seen by others.
I’ll describe it the way others saw it.
One morning a principal street in Rome was crowded, and even the avenues blocked up with heads. It was an execution. No common crime had been done, and on no vulgar victim.
One morning, a main street in Rome was packed with people, and even the side streets were filled with spectators. It was an execution. This wasn't due to a typical crime, and the victim was anything but ordinary.
The governor of Rome had been found in his bed at daybreak, slaughtered. His hand, raised probably in self-defence, lay by his side severed at the wrist; his throat was cut, and his temples bruised with some blunt instrument. The murder had been traced to his servant, and was to be expiated in kind this very morning.
The governor of Rome was discovered in his bed at dawn, murdered. His hand, likely raised in self-defense, lay by his side, severed at the wrist; his throat was cut, and his temples were bruised from some blunt object. The murder was linked to his servant, and retribution was set to happen this very morning.
Italian executions were not cruel in general. But this murder was thought to call for exact and bloody retribution.
Italian executions weren't typically harsh. However, this murder was seen as requiring precise and brutal revenge.
The criminal was brought to the house of the murdered man and fastened for half an hour to its wall. After this foretaste of legal vengeance his left hand was struck off, like his victim's. A new-killed fowl was cut open and fastened round the bleeding stump; with what view I really don't know; but by the look of it, some mare's nest of the poor dear doctors; and the murderer, thus mutilated and bandaged, was hurried to the scaffold; and there a young friar was most earnest and affectionate in praying with him, and for him, and holding the crucifix close to his eyes.
The criminal was taken to the house of the murdered man and tied to the wall for half an hour. After this taste of legal punishment, his left hand was chopped off, just like his victim's. A freshly killed fowl was cut open and wrapped around the bleeding stump; I honestly don’t know why; but it looked like some bizarre idea from the poor doctors. The murderer, now mutilated and bandaged, was rushed to the scaffold, where a young friar was very earnest and caring as he prayed with him, for him, and held the crucifix close to his eyes.
Presently the executioner pulled the friar roughly on one side, and in a moment felled the culprit with a heavy mallet, and falling on him, cut his throat from ear to ear.
Currently, the executioner yanked the friar to the side and, in an instant, brought down the culprit with a heavy mallet. He then jumped on him and slit his throat from ear to ear.
There was a cry of horror from the crowd.
There was a scream of terror from the crowd.
The young friar swooned away.
The young friar fainted.
A gigantic monk strode forward, and carried him off like a child.
A huge monk stepped forward and picked him up like a child.
Brother Clement went back to the convent sadly discouraged. He confessed to the prior, with tears of regret.
Brother Clement returned to the convent feeling sadly discouraged. He confessed to the prior, tears of regret in his eyes.
“Courage, son Clement,” said the prior. “A Dominican is not made in a day. Thou shalt have another trial. And I forbid thee to go to it fasting.” Clement bowed his head in token of obedience. He had not long to wait. A robber was brought to the scaffold; a monster of villainy and cruelty, who had killed men in pure wantonness, after robbing them. Clement passed his last night in prison with him, accompanied him to the scaffold, and then prayed with him and for him so earnestly that the hardened ruffian shed tears and embraced him Clement embraced him too, though his flesh quivered with repugnance; and held the crucifix earnestly before his eyes. The man was garotted, and Clement lost sight of the crowd, and prayed loud and earnestly while that dark spirit was passing from earth. He was no sooner dead than the hangman raised his hatchet and quartered the body on the spot. And, oh, mysterious heart of man! the people who had seen the living body robbed of life with indifference, almost with satisfaction, uttered a piteous cry at each stroke of the axe upon his corpse that could feel nought. Clement too shuddered then, but stood firm, like one of those rocks that vibrate but cannot be thrown down. But suddenly Jerome's voice sounded in his ear.
“Courage, son Clement,” said the prior. “A Dominican isn’t made in a day. You will have another test. And I forbid you to go into it on an empty stomach.” Clement lowered his head in acknowledgment. He didn’t have to wait long. A robber was brought to the scaffold; a true villain and cruel man, who had killed people out of sheer malice, after robbing them. Clement spent his last night in prison with him, accompanied him to the scaffold, and then prayed with him and for him so sincerely that the hardened criminal shed tears and hugged him. Clement hugged him back, although he felt disgusted; and held the crucifix earnestly before the man’s eyes. The man was executed by garrote, and Clement lost sight of the crowd, praying loudly and fervently as that dark spirit left the earth. As soon as he was dead, the executioner raised his hatchet and quartered the body right there. And, oh, mysterious heart of man! the people who had watched the living body lose its life with indifference, almost satisfaction, let out a pitiful cry at each strike of the axe on his corpse that could feel nothing. Clement felt a shudder then, but remained steadfast, like one of those rocks that tremble but cannot be toppled. But suddenly, Jerome's voice rang in his ear.
“Brother Clement, get thee on that cart and preach to the people. Nay, quickly! strike with all thy force on all this iron, while yet 'tis hot, and souls are to be saved.”
“Brother Clement, get on that cart and preach to the people. Hurry! Hit that iron with all your strength while it’s still hot, and souls need to be saved.”
Clement's colour came and went; and he breathed hard. But he obeyed, and with ill-assured step mounted the cart, and preached his first sermon to the first crowd he had ever faced. Oh, that sea of heads! His throat seemed parched, his heart thumped, his voice trembled.
Clement's color fluctuated, and he breathed heavily. But he followed instructions, and with unsteady steps climbed onto the cart, delivering his first sermon to the very first crowd he had ever confronted. Oh, that ocean of faces! His throat felt dry, his heart raced, and his voice shook.
By-and-by the greatness of the occasion, the sight of the eager upturned faces, and his own heart full of zeal, fired the pale monk. He told them this robber's history, warm from his own lips in the prison, and showed his hearers by that example the gradations of folly and crime, and warned them solemnly not to put foot on the first round of that fatal ladder. And as alternately he thundered against the shedders of blood, and moved the crowd to charity and pity, his tremors left him, and he felt all strung up like a lute, and gifted with an unsuspected force; he was master of that listening crowd, could feel their very pulse, could play sacred melodies on them as on his psaltery. Sobs and groans attested his power over the mob already excited by the tragedy before them. Jerome stared like one who goes to light a stick; and fires a rocket. After a while Clement caught his look of astonishment, and seeing no approbation in it, broke suddenly off, and joined him.
Soon enough, the significance of the event, the sight of the eager faces looking up at him, and his own heart filled with passion inspired the pale monk. He shared the story of the robber, freshly told from his own experience in prison, illustrating for his audience the steps of foolishness and crime, and solemnly warned them not to take the first step on that dangerous path. As he alternately railed against those who spill blood and stirred the crowd toward charity and compassion, his nervousness disappeared, and he felt energized and powerful, like a lute ready to play music. He became the master of that attentive crowd, sensing their very heartbeat, able to evoke sacred melodies from them as if they were his instrument. Sobs and groans reflected his influence over the crowd already stirred by the tragedy before them. Jerome watched in disbelief, like someone ready to light a spark and ignite a firework. After a while, Clement noticed his look of shock and, seeing no approval in it, abruptly stopped and went over to him.
“It was my first endeavour,” said he apologetically. “Your behest came on me like a thunderbolt. Was I?—Did I?—Oh, correct me, and aid me with your experience, Brother Jerome.”
“It was my first attempt,” he said apologetically. “Your request hit me like a bolt from the blue. Was I?—Did I?—Oh, please correct me and help me with your experience, Brother Jerome.”
“Humph!” said Jerome doubtfully. He added, rather sullenly after long reflection, “Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; my opinion is thou art an orator born.”
“Humph!” Jerome said with uncertainty. After a long pause, he added somewhat gloomily, “Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; I believe you’re a born orator.”
He reported the same at headquarters, half reluctantly. For he was an honest friar though a disagreeable one.
He reported the same at headquarters, somewhat reluctantly. He was an honest friar, even if he was a bit unpleasant.
One Julio Antonelli was accused of sacrilege; three witnesses swore they saw him come out of the church whence the candle-sticks were stolen, and at the very time. Other witnesses proved an alibi for him as positively. Neither testimony could be shaken. In this doubt Antonelli was permitted the trial by water, hot or cold. By the hot trial he must put his bare arm into boiling water, fourteen inches deep, and take out a pebble; by the cold trial his body must be let down into eight feet of water. The clergy, who thought him innocent, recommended the hot water trial, which, to those whom they favoured, was not so terrible as it sounded. But the poor wretch had not the nerve, and chose the cold ordeal. And this gave Jerome another opportunity of steeling Clement. Antonelli took the sacrament, and then was stripped naked on the banks of the Tiber, and tied hand and foot, to prevent those struggles by which a man, throwing his arms out of the water, sinks his body.
One Julio Antonelli was accused of sacrilege; three witnesses testified they saw him exit the church where the candlesticks were stolen, and at the exact moment. Other witnesses provided a strong alibi for him as well. Neither account could be discredited. In light of this uncertainty, Antonelli was allowed to undergo trial by water, either hot or cold. In the hot trial, he would have to submerge his bare arm into boiling water, fourteen inches deep, and retrieve a pebble; in the cold trial, his body would be submerged in eight feet of water. The clergy, believing he was innocent, recommended the hot water trial, which, for those they favored, was not as horrifying as it seemed. But the poor man lacked the courage and opted for the cold ordeal. This gave Jerome another chance to strengthen Clement. Antonelli took the sacrament and was then stripped naked on the banks of the Tiber, where he was bound hand and foot to prevent the struggles that would allow a man to throw his arms out of the water and sink.
He was then let down gently into the stream, and floated a moment, with just his hair above water. A simultaneous roar from the crowd on each bank proclaimed him guilty. But the next moment the ropes, which happened to be new, got wet, and he settled down. Another roar proclaimed his innocence. They left him at the bottom of the river the appointed time, rather more than half a minute, then drew him up, gurgling and gasping, and screaming for mercy; and after the appointed prayers, dismissed him, cleared of the charge.
He was gently lowered into the stream and floated for a moment, his hair the only part above water. A loud roar from the crowd on both banks declared him guilty. But in the next moment, the ropes, which were new, got wet, and he sank down. Another roar announced his innocence. They left him at the bottom of the river for the designated time, a bit more than half a minute, then pulled him up, gurgling and gasping, while screaming for mercy; and after the required prayers, they released him, cleared of all charges.
During the experiment Clement prayed earnestly on the bank.
During the experiment, Clement prayed sincerely on the shore.
When it was over he thanked God in a loud but slightly quavering voice.
When it was over, he thanked God in a loud, somewhat shaky voice.
By-and-by he asked Jerome whether the man ought not to be compensated.
Eventually, he asked Jerome if the man should be compensated.
“For what?”
"Why?"
“For the pain, the dread, the suffocation. Poor soul, he liveth, but hath tasted all the bitterness of death. Yet he had done no ill.”
“For the pain, the dread, the suffocation. Poor soul, he lives, but has tasted all the bitterness of death. Yet he has done no wrong.”
“He is rewarded enough in that he is cleared of his fault.”
“He is rewarded enough by being exonerated from his mistake.”
“But being innocent of that fault, yet hath he drunk Death's cup, though not to the dregs; and his accusers, less innocent than he, do suffer nought.”
“But being innocent of that fault, he has still tasted Death's cup, though not completely; and his accusers, who are less innocent than he, suffer nothing.”
Jerome replied somewhat sternly—
Jerome replied a bit sternly—
“It is not in this world men are really punished, Brother Clement. Unhappy they who sin yet suffer not. And happy they who suffer such ills as earth hath power to inflict; 'tis counted to them above, ay, and a hundred-fold.”
“It’s not in this world that people are truly punished, Brother Clement. Unfortunate are those who sin but don’t suffer. And fortunate are those who endure the troubles that this Earth can inflict; it’s counted for them in the afterlife, yes, and a hundred times more.”
Clement bowed his head submissively.
Clement bowed his head.
“May thy good words not fall to the ground, but take root in my heart, Brother Jerome.”
“May your kind words not go unheard, but take root in my heart, Brother Jerome.”
But the severest trial Clement underwent at Jerome's hands was unpremeditated. It came about thus. Jerome, in an indulgent moment, went with him to Fra Colonna, and there “The Dream of Polifilo” lay on the table just copied fairly. The poor author, in the pride of his heart, pointed out a master-stroke in it.
But the toughest challenge Clement faced from Jerome was unexpected. It happened like this: Jerome, in a generous mood, accompanied him to Fra Colonna, and there "The Dream of Polifilo" was lying on the table, freshly copied. The poor author, brimming with pride, highlighted a brilliant part of it.
“For ages,” said he, “fools have been lavishing poetic praise and amorous compliment on mortal women, mere creatures of earth, smacking palpably of their origin; Sirens at the windows, where our Roman women in particular have by lifelong study learned the wily art to show their one good feature, though but an ear or an eyelash, at a jalosy, and hide all the rest; Magpies at the door, Capre n' i giardini, Angeli in Strada, Sante in chiesa, Diavoli in casa. Then come I and ransack the minstrels' lines for amorous turns, not forgetting those which Petrarch wasted on that French jilt Laura, the sliest of them all; and I lay you the whole bundle of spice at the feet of the only females worthy amorous incense; to wit, the Nine Muses.”
“For ages,” he said, “fools have been showering poetic praise and romantic compliments on mortal women, mere creatures of the earth, clearly reflecting their origin; Sirens at the windows, where our Roman women, in particular, have studied for a lifetime the clever art of showcasing their one good feature, whether an ear or an eyelash, through a crack, while hiding everything else; Magpies at the door, Capre n' i giardini, Angels in the street, Saints in church, Devils at home. Then I come and search through the poets' lines for romantic expressions, not forgetting those that Petrarch wasted on that French deceiver Laura, the slyest of them all; and I present the whole collection of charm at the feet of the only women deserving of romantic praise; namely, the Nine Muses.”
“By which goodly stratagem,” said Jerome, who had been turning the pages all this time, “you, a friar of St. Dominic, have produced an obscene book.” And he dashed Polifilo on the table.
“By what clever trick,” said Jerome, who had been flipping through the pages all this time, “have you, a friar of St. Dominic, managed to create an obscene book?” And he slammed Polifilo down on the table.
“Obscene? thou discourteous monk!” And the author ran round the table, snatched Polifilo away, locked him up, and trembling with mortification, said, “My Gerard, pshaw! Brother What's-his-name had not found Polifilo obscene. Puris omnia pura.”
“Obscene? You rude monk!” And the author rushed around the table, grabbed Polifilo, locked him up, and, shaking with embarrassment, said, “My Gerard, please! Brother What's-his-name didn't think Polifilo was obscene. To the pure, all things are pure.”
“Such as read your Polifilo—Heaven grant they may be few—will find him what I find him.”
“Anyone who reads your Polifilo—God help them if there are many—will find him just as I do.”
Poor Colonna gulped down this bitter pill as he might; and had he not been in his own lodgings, and a high-born gentleman as well as a scholar, there might have been a vulgar quarrel.
Poor Colonna swallowed this bitter pill as best he could; and if he hadn't been in his own place, and a nobleman as well as a scholar, there might have been a petty argument.
As it was, he made a great effort, and turned the conversation to a beautiful chrysolite the Cardinal Colonna had lent him; and while Clement handled it, enlarged on its moral virtues: for he went the whole length of his age as a worshipper of jewels.
As it turned out, he put in a lot of effort and shifted the conversation to a beautiful chrysolite that Cardinal Colonna had lent him; and while Clement handled it, he went on about its moral virtues: he fully embraced his role as a gem enthusiast of his time.
But Jerome did not, and expostulated with him for believing that one dead stone could confer valour on its wearer, another chastity, another safety from poison, another temperance.
But Jerome didn't, and he argued with him for thinking that one lifeless stone could give bravery to its wearer, another could provide purity, another could protect against poison, and another could bring moderation.
“The experience of ages proves they do,” said Colonna. “As to the last virtue you have named, there sits a living proof. This Gerard—I beg pardon, Brother Thingemy—comes from the north, where men drink like fishes; yet was he ever most abstemious. And why? Carried an amethyst, the clearest and fullest coloured e'er I saw on any but noble finger. Where, in Heaven's name, is thine amethyst? Show it this unbeliever!”
“The experience of ages proves they do,” said Colonna. “As for the last virtue you mentioned, here’s a living example. This Gerard—I’m sorry, Brother Thingemy—comes from the north, where people drink like fish; yet he has always been very temperate. And why? He wore an amethyst, the clearest and most vividly colored one I’ve ever seen on anyone but a noble’s finger. Where, in Heaven’s name, is your amethyst? Show it to this nonbeliever!”
“And 'twas that amethyst made the boy temperate?” asked Jerome ironically.
“And that amethyst made the boy calm?” asked Jerome ironically.
“Certainly. Why, what is the derivation and meaning of amethyst? {a} negative, and {methua} to tipple. Go to, names are but the signs of things. A stone is not called {amethustos} for two thousand years out of mere sport, and abuse of language.”
“Of course. So, what’s the origin and meaning of amethyst? {a} It comes from the word for negative and {methua} meaning to drink. Come on, names are just signs for things. A stone isn’t called {amethustos} for two thousand years just for fun or language misuse.”
He then went through the prime jewels, illustrating their moral properties, especially of the ruby, the sapphire, the emerald, and the opal, by anecdotes out of grave historians.
He then examined the main jewels, explaining their moral qualities, particularly of the ruby, the sapphire, the emerald, and the opal, using stories from serious historians.
“These be old wives' fables,” said Jerome contemptuously. “Was ever such credulity as thine?”
“These are just old wives' tales,” Jerome said with contempt. “Have you ever seen such gullibility as yours?”
Now credulity is a reproach sceptics have often the ill-luck to incur; but it mortifies them none the less for that.
Now, being gullible is a criticism that skeptics often end up facing; but it still bothers them regardless.
The believer in stones writhed under it, and dropped the subject. Then Jerome, mistaking his silence, exhorted him to go a step farther, and give up from this day his vain pagan lore, and study the lives of the saints. “Blot out these heathen superstitions from thy mind, brother, as Christianity hath blotted them from the earth.”
The believer in stones squirmed under it and dropped the topic. Then Jerome, misreading his silence, encouraged him to take a further step and abandon his useless pagan beliefs from this day forward, focusing instead on the lives of the saints. “Erase these pagan superstitions from your mind, brother, just as Christianity has erased them from the earth.”
And in this strain he proceeded, repeating, incautiously, some current but loose theological statements. Then the smarting Polifilo revenged himself. He flew out, and hurled a mountain of crude, miscellaneous lore upon Jerome, of which, partly for want of time, partly for lack of learning, I can reproduce but a few fragments.
And in this way, he went on, carelessly repeating some popular but vague theological ideas. Then the irritated Polifilo got his revenge. He burst out and dumped a bunch of random, unrefined knowledge on Jerome, from which, partly due to time constraints and partly due to lack of understanding, I can only share a few bits and pieces.
“The heathen blotted out? Why, they hold four-fifths of the world. And what have we Christians invented without their aid? painting? sculpture? these are heathen arts, and we but pigmies at them. What modern mind can conceive and grave so god-like forms as did the chief Athenian sculptors, and the Libyan Licas, and Dinocrates of Macedon, and Scopas, Timotheus, Leochares, and Briaxis; Chares, Lysippus, and the immortal three of Rhodes, that wrought Laocoon from a single block? What prince hath the genius to turn mountains into statues, as was done at Bagistan, and projected at Athos? What town the soul to plant a colossus of brass in the sea, for the tallest ships to sail in and out between his legs? Is it architecture we have invented? Why, here too we are but children. Can we match for pure design the Parthenon, with its clusters of double and single Doric columns? (I do adore the Doric when the scale is large), and for grandeur and finish, the theatres of Greece and Rome, or the prodigious temples of Egypt, up to whose portals men walked awe-struck through avenues a mile long of sphinxes, each as big as a Venetian palace. And all these prodigies of porphyry cut and polished like crystal, not rough hewn as in our puny structures. Even now their polished columns and pilasters lie o'erthrown and broken, o'ergrown with acanthus and myrtle, but sparkling still, and flouting the slovenly art of modern workmen. Is it sewers, aqueducts, viaducts?
“The heathen wiped out? Really, they hold four-fifths of the world. And what have we Christians created without their help? Painting? Sculpture? Those are heathen arts, and we are just novices at them. What modern mind can imagine and carve such god-like forms as the great Athenian sculptors, and the Libyan Licas, and Dinocrates of Macedon, and Scopas, Timotheus, Leochares, and Briaxis; Chares, Lysippus, and the immortal trio of Rhodes, who created Laocoon from a single block? What prince has the creativity to transform mountains into statues, like was done at Bagistan and planned at Athos? What city has the spirit to erect a colossal statue of bronze in the sea, for the tallest ships to sail in and out between its legs? Is it architecture we’ve invented? Well, here too we are just children. Can we match the pure design of the Parthenon, with its clusters of double and single Doric columns? (I truly admire the Doric when it's grand), and for magnificence and detail, the theaters of Greece and Rome, or the massive temples of Egypt, where men entered through a mile-long avenue of sphinxes, each as big as a Venetian palace? And all these marvels of porphyry polished like crystal, not roughly hewn like in our small structures. Even now their polished columns and pilasters lay toppled and broken, overgrown with acanthus and myrtle, yet still shining, mocking the sloppy work of modern craftsmen. Is it sewers, aqueducts, viaducts?"
“Why, we have lost the art of making a road—lost it with the world's greatest models under our very eye. Is it sepulchres of the dead? Why, no Christian nation has ever erected a tomb, the sight of which does not set a scholar laughing. Do but think of the Mausoleum, and the Pyramids, and the monstrous sepulchres of the Indus and Ganges, which outside are mountains, and within are mines of precious stones. Ah, you have not seen the East, Jerome, or you could not decry the heathen.”
“Look, we’ve completely lost the skill of building roads—lost it while having the world’s greatest examples right in front of us. Is it about tombs for the dead? Well, no Christian nation has ever built a tomb that doesn’t make a scholar laugh. Just think of the Mausoleum, the Pyramids, and the gigantic tombs of the Indus and Ganges, which are mountains on the outside and treasure troves of precious stones on the inside. Ah, you haven’t seen the East, Jerome, or you wouldn’t speak poorly of the pagans.”
Jerome observed that these were mere material things. True greatness was in the soul.
Jerome realized that these were just physical possessions. True greatness lay within the soul.
“Well then,” replied Colonna, “in the world of mind, what have we discovered? Is it geometry? Is it logic? Nay, we are all pupils of Euclid and Aristotle. Is it written characters, an invention almost divine? We no more invented it than Cadmus did. Is it poetry? Homer hath never been approached by us, nor hath Virgil, nor Horace. Is it tragedy or comedy? Why, poets, actors, theatres, all fell to dust at our touch. Have we succeeded in reviving them? Would you compare our little miserable mysteries and moralities, all frigid personification, and dog Latin, with the glories of a Greek play (on the decoration of which a hundred thousand crowns had been spent) performed inside a marble miracle, the audience a seated city, and the poet a Sophocles?
“Well then,” replied Colonna, “in the realm of thought, what have we discovered? Is it geometry? Is it logic? No, we are all students of Euclid and Aristotle. Is it written characters, an almost divine invention? We didn’t create it any more than Cadmus did. Is it poetry? We’ve never come close to Homer, nor to Virgil, nor to Horace. Is it tragedy or comedy? Well, poets, actors, theaters, all turned to dust at our touch. Have we managed to bring them back? Would you really compare our little pathetic mysteries and moralities, all cold personification and bad Latin, to the greatness of a Greek play (on the decoration of which a hundred thousand crowns were spent) performed inside a marble wonder, with the audience as a seated city, and the poet being a Sophocles?
“What then have we invented? Is it monotheism? Why, the learned and philosophical among the Greeks and Romans held it; even their more enlightened poets were monotheists in their sleeves.
“What have we really invented? Is it monotheism? Well, the educated and philosophical people among the Greeks and Romans believed in it; even their more enlightened poets quietly embraced monotheism.”
{Zeus estin ouranos, Zeus te gy Zeus toi panta}
saith the Greek, and Lucan echoes him:
'Jupiter est quod cunque vides quo cunque moveris.'
{Zeus is the sky, and Zeus is everything}
says the Greek, and Lucan echoes him:
'Jupiter is whatever you see and wherever you go.'“Their vulgar were polytheists; and what are ours? We have not invented 'invocation of the saints.' Our sancti answers to their Daemones and Divi, and the heathen used to pray their Divi or deified mortal to intercede with the higher divinity; but the ruder minds among them, incapable of nice distinctions, worshipped those lesser gods they should have but invoked. And so do the mob of Christians in our day, following the heathen vulgar or by unbroken tradition. For in holy writ is no polytheism of any sort or kind.
“Their uncultured people were polytheists; and what about ours? We haven't created 'invocation of the saints.' Our saints correspond to their Daemones and Divi, and the pagans used to pray to their Divi or deified mortals to intercede with the higher divinity; but the simpler minds among them, who couldn't make fine distinctions, worshipped those lesser gods when they should have only called upon them. And that's what the crowd of Christians today are doing, following the unrefined traditions of the pagans. For in sacred scripture, there is no polytheism of any kind.”
“We have not invented so much as a form or variety of polytheism. The pagan vulgar worshipped all sorts of deified mortals, and each had his favourite, to whom he prayed ten times for once to the Omnipotent. Our vulgar worship canonized mortals, and each has his favourite, to whom he prays ten times for once to God. Call you that invention? Invention is confined to the East. Among the ancient vulgar only the mariners were monotheists; they worshipped Venus; called her 'Stella maris,' and 'Regina caelorum.' Among our vulgar only the mariners are monotheists; they worship the Virgin Mary, and call her the 'Star of the Sea,' and the 'Queen of Heaven.' Call you theirs a new religion? An old doubtlet with a new button. Our vulgar make images, and adore them, which is absurd; for adoration is the homage due from a creature to its creator; now here man is the creator; so the statues ought to worship him, and would, if they had brains enough to justify a rat in worshipping them. But even this abuse, though childish enough to be modern, is ancient. The pagan vulgar in these parts made their images, then knelt before them, adorned them with flowers, offered incense to them, lighted tapers before them, carried them in procession, and made pilgrimages to them just to the smallest tittle as we their imitators do.”
“We haven’t come up with anything new in terms of polytheism. The common people worshipped all sorts of deified humans, and each had their favorite, praying ten times to them for every prayer to the Almighty. Today, the common people canonize humans, and each has their favorite to whom they pray ten times for every prayer to God. Is that what you call invention? True invention is found in the East. Among the ancient common folk, only sailors were monotheists; they worshipped Venus, calling her 'Star of the Sea' and 'Queen of Heaven.' Among our common people, only sailors are monotheists; they worship the Virgin Mary, calling her the 'Star of the Sea' and the 'Queen of Heaven.' Do you consider that a new religion? It’s just an old practice with a new label. Our common people make images and worship them, which is ridiculous; because adoration should be directed from a creature to its creator; here, man is the creator, so the statues should be worshipping him, and they would, if they had enough sense to justify a rat worshipping them. But even this silly behavior, though childish enough to be modern, is quite ancient. The ancient common folk in these parts made their images, then knelt before them, decorated them with flowers, offered incense, lit candles in front of them, carried them in processions, and went on pilgrimages to them just like we do as their imitators.”
Jerome here broke in impatiently, and reminded him that the images the most revered in Christendom were made by no mortal hand, but had dropped from heaven.
Jerome interrupted impatiently and reminded him that the most revered images in Christianity were created by no human hand, but had come down from heaven.
“Ay,” cried Colonna, “such are the tutelary images of most great Italian towns. I have examined nineteen of them, and made drafts of them. If they came from the sky, our worst sculptors are our angels. But my mind is easy on that score. Ungainly statue or villainous daub fell never yet from heaven to smuggle the bread out of capable workmen's mouths. All this is Pagan, and arose thus. The Trojans had Oriental imaginations, and feigned that their Palladium, a wooden statue three cubits long, fell down from heaven. The Greeks took this fib home among the spoils of Troy, and soon it rained statues on all the Grecian cities, and their Latin apes. And one of these Palladia gave St. Paul trouble at Ephesus; 'twas a statue of Diana that fell down from Jupiter: credat qui credere possit.”
“Yeah,” shouted Colonna, “these are the protective images of most major Italian cities. I’ve studied nineteen of them and made sketches. If they came from the sky, our worst sculptors would be our angels. But I’m not worried about that. Awkward statues or terrible paintings have never fallen from heaven to take bread out of hard-working people’s mouths. This is all Pagan and it happened like this. The Trojans had vivid imaginations and made up that their Palladium, a wooden statue about three feet tall, fell from heaven. The Greeks brought this tale home among the spoils of Troy, and soon statues were raining down on all the Greek cities and their Latin imitators. One of these Palladia even caused trouble for St. Paul in Ephesus; it was a statue of Diana that fell from Jupiter: let those who can believe it, believe.”
“What, would you cast your profane doubts on that picture of our blessed Lady, which scarce a century agone hung lustrous in the air over this very city, and was taken down by the Pope and bestowed in St. Peter's Church?”
“What, would you cast your disrespectful doubts on that image of our blessed Lady, which barely a century ago hung brilliantly in the air over this very city, and was taken down by the Pope and placed in St. Peter's Church?”
“I have no profane doubts on the matter, Jerome. This is the story of Numa's shield, revived by theologians with an itch for fiction, but no talent that way; not being orientals. The 'ancile' or sacred shield of Numa hung lustrous in the air over this very city, till that pious prince took it down and hung it in the temple of Jupiter. Be just, swallow both stories or neither. The 'Bocca della Verita' passes for a statue of the Virgin, and convicted a woman of perjury the other day; it is in reality an image of the goddess Rhea, and the modern figment is one of its ancient traditions; swallow both or neither.
“I have no doubts about this, Jerome. This is the story of Numa's shield, revived by theologians with a taste for storytelling, but lacking the talent; they aren't from the East. The 'ancile' or sacred shield of Numa was once displayed above this very city until that devout prince took it down and placed it in the temple of Jupiter. Be fair and accept both stories or reject them both. The 'Bocca della Verita' is said to be a statue of the Virgin, and it recently caught a woman lying; in reality, it's an image of the goddess Rhea, and the modern tale is just one of its ancient traditions; accept both or reject them both.”
'Qui Bavium non odit amet tua carmina, Mavi.'
'Whoever doesn't hate your songs, Mavi, is just a fool.'
“But indeed we owe all our Palladiuncula, and all our speaking, nodding, winking, sweating, bleeding statues, to these poor abused heathens; the Athenian statues all sweated before the battle of Chaeronea, so did the Roman statues during Tully's consulship, viz., the statue of Victory at Capua, of Mars at Rome, and of Apollo outside the gates. The Palladium itself was brought to Italy by Aeneas, and after keeping quiet three centuries, made an observation in Vesta's Temple: a trivial one, I fear, since it hath not survived; Juno's statue at Veii assented with a nod to go to Rome. Antony's statue on Mount Alban bled from every vein in its marble before the fight of Actium. Others cured diseases: as that of Pelichus, derided by Lucian; for the wiser among the heathen believed in sweating marble, weeping wood, and bleeding brass—as I do. Of all our marks and dents made in stone by soft substances, this saint's knee, and that saint's finger, and t'other's head, the original is heathen. Thus the footprints of Hercules were shown on a rock in Scythia. Castor and Pollux fighting on white horses for Rome against the Latians, left the prints of their hoofs on a rock at Regillum. A temple was built to them on the spot, and the marks were to be seen in Tully's day. You may see, near Venice, a great stone cut nearly in half by St. George's sword. This he ne'er had done but for the old Roman who cut the whetstone in two with his razor.
"But we truly owe all our small statues, along with all our speaking, nodding, winking, sweating, and bleeding sculptures, to these poor mistreated heathens. The Athenian statues all sweated before the Battle of Chaeronea, just like the Roman statues during Cicero's consulship, including the statue of Victory at Capua, the statue of Mars in Rome, and the statue of Apollo outside the gates. The Palladium itself was brought to Italy by Aeneas, and after being silent for three centuries, made a comment in Vesta's Temple: a trivial one, I fear, since it hasn’t survived; Juno's statue at Veii nodded in agreement to go to Rome. Antony's statue on Mount Alban bled from every vein in its marble before the Battle of Actium. Others even healed diseases, like that of Pelichus, mocked by Lucian; for the wiser among the pagans believed in sweating marble, weeping wood, and bleeding brass—as I do. Of all the marks and dents made in stone by soft materials, this saint's knee, that saint's finger, and another's head, the original is pagan. Thus, the footprints of Hercules were shown on a rock in Scythia. Castor and Pollux, fighting on white horses for Rome against the Latins, left the prints of their hooves on a rock at Regillum. A temple was built to them on that spot, and the marks could still be seen in Cicero's day. You can see, near Venice, a large stone cut nearly in half by St. George's sword. He would never have done this without the old Roman who split the whetstone in two with his razor."
'Qui Bavium non odit amet tua carmina, Mavi.'
'Who doesn't love your songs, Mavi?'
“Kissing of images, and the Pope's toe, is Eastern Paganism. The Egyptians had it of the Assyrians, the Greeks of the Egyptians, the Romans of the Greeks, and we of the Romans, whose Pontifex Maximus had his toe kissed under the Empire. The Druids kissed the High Priest's toe a thousand years B.C. The Mussulmans, who, like you, profess to abhor Heathenism, kiss the stone of the Caaba: a Pagan practice.
“Kissing images and the Pope's toe is Eastern Paganism. The Egyptians got it from the Assyrians, the Greeks learned it from the Egyptians, the Romans adopted it from the Greeks, and we inherited it from the Romans, whose Pontifex Maximus had his toe kissed during the Empire. The Druids kissed the High Priest's toe a thousand years B.C. The Muslims, who claim to despise Heathenism like you do, kiss the stone of the Caaba: a Pagan practice.”
“The Priests of Baal kissed their idols so.
“The Priests of Baal kissed their idols like this.
“Tully tells us of a fair image of Hercules at Agrigentum, whose chin was worn by kissing. The lower parts of the statue we call Peter are Jupiter. The toe is sore worn, but not all by Christian mouths. The heathen vulgar laid their lips there first, for many a year, and ours have but followed them, as monkeys their masters. And that is why, down with the poor heathen!
“Tully shares with us a beautiful statue of Hercules in Agrigentum, whose chin is smooth from being kissed. The lower part of the statue we refer to as Peter is actually Jupiter. The toe is quite worn down, but not solely from Christian kisses. The pagan commoners were the first to press their lips there for many years, and ours have simply followed their example, like monkeys mimicking their trainers. And that’s why, down with those poor pagans!”
Pereant qui ante nos nostra fecerint.
Pereant qui ante nos nostra fecerint.
“Our infant baptism is Persian, with the font and the signing of the child's brow. Our throwing three handfuls of earth on the coffin, and saying dust to dust, is Egyptian.
“Our infant baptism is Persian, featuring the font and marking the child's forehead. Our practice of tossing three handfuls of earth on the coffin and saying 'dust to dust' comes from Egyptian traditions.”
“Our incense is Oriental, Roman, Pagan; and the early Fathers of the Church regarded it with superstitious horror, and died for refusing to handle it. Our Holy water is Pagan, and all its uses. See, here is a Pagan aspersorium. Could you tell it from one of ours? It stood in the same part of their temples, and was used in ordinary worship as ours, and in extraordinary purifications. They called it Aqua lustralis. Their vulgar, like ours, thought drops of it falling on the body would wash out sin; and their men of sense, like ours, smiled or sighed at such credulity. What saith Ovid of this folly, which hath outlived him?
“Our incense is Eastern, Roman, and Pagan; and the early Church Fathers viewed it with superstitious fear and even died for refusing to touch it. Our Holy water is Pagan too, along with all its uses. Look, here’s a Pagan aspersorium. Can you tell it apart from one of ours? It was placed in the same spot in their temples and was used for regular worship like ours and for special cleansings. They called it Aqua lustralis. Their common people, just like ours, believed that drops of it falling on them would wash away sin; and their sensible folks, like ours, either smiled or sighed at such gullibility. What did Ovid say about this foolishness that has outlasted him?
'Ah nimium faciles, qui tristia crimina coedis
Fluminea tolli posse putetis aqua.'
'Oh, how naive you are, thinking that the sorrowful crimes of murder can be washed away by the river's water.'
Thou seest the heathen were not all fools. No more are we. Not all.”
You see, the heathen weren't all fools. Neither are we. Not all.
Fra Colonna uttered all this with such volubility, that his hearers could not edge in a word of remonstrance; and not being interrupted in praising his favourites, he recovered his good humour, without any diminution of his volubility.
Fra Colonna spoke all this so fluently that his listeners couldn't get a word in to protest; and since he was not interrupted while praising his favorites, he regained his good mood without losing any of his eloquence.
“We celebrate the miraculous Conception of the Virgin on the 2nd of February. The old Romans celebrated the Miraculous Conception of Juno on the 2nd of February. Our feast of All Saints is on the 2nd November. The Festum Dei Mortis was on the 2nd November. Our Candlemas is also an old Roman feast; neither the date nor the ceremony altered one tittle. The patrician ladies carried candles about the city that night as our signoras do now. At the gate of San Croce our courtesans keep a feast on the 20th August. Ask them why! The little noodles cannot tell you. On that very spot stood the Temple of Venus. Her building is gone; but her rite remains. Did we discover Purgatory? On the contrary, all we really know about it is from two treatises of Plato, the Gorgias and the Phaedo, and the sixth book of Virgil's Aeneid.
“We celebrate the miraculous Conception of the Virgin on February 2nd. The ancient Romans celebrated the Miraculous Conception of Juno on February 2nd. Our feast of All Saints is on November 2nd. The Festum Dei Mortis was also on November 2nd. Our Candlemas is another old Roman celebration; neither the date nor the ceremony has changed at all. The noblewomen carried candles around the city that night just like our ladies do now. At the gate of San Croce, our courtesans have a feast on August 20th. Ask them why! The little fools can't tell you. Right at that spot stood the Temple of Venus. Her building is gone, but her ritual remains. Did we discover Purgatory? On the contrary, all we really know about it comes from two treatises by Plato, the Gorgias and the Phaedo, and the sixth book of Virgil's Aeneid.
“I take it from a holier source: St. Gregory,” said Jerome sternly.
“I got it from a more sacred source: St. Gregory,” Jerome said firmly.
“Like enough,” replied Colonna drily. “But St. Gregory was not so nice; he took it from Virgil. Some souls, saith Gregory, are purged by fire, others by water, others by air.
“Probably,” Colonna replied dryly. “But St. Gregory wasn't so picky; he took it from Virgil. Some souls, Gregory says, are cleansed by fire, others by water, and others by air.”
“Says Virgil—
"Virgil says—"
'Aliae panduntur inanes,
Suspensae ad ventous, aliis sub gurgite vasto
Infectum eluitur scelus, aut exuritur igni.'
'Other empty things are revealed, Suspended in the wind, while others are washed away In the vast darkness, the infected crime is either cleansed or burned away by fire.'
But peradventure, you think Pope Gregory I lived before Virgil, and Virgil versified him.
But maybe you think Pope Gregory I lived before Virgil, and that Virgil wrote poems about him.
“But the doctrine is Eastern, and as much older than Plato as Plato than Gregory. Our prayers for the dead came from Asia with Aeneas. Ovid tells, that when he prayed for the soul of Anchises, the custom was strange in Italy.
“But the idea is Eastern, and is much older than Plato just like Plato is older than Gregory. Our prayers for the dead came from Asia with Aeneas. Ovid mentions that when he prayed for the soul of Anchises, the practice was unusual in Italy.”
'Hunc morem Aeneas, pietatis idoneus auctor
Attulit in terras, juste Latine, tuas.'
'Hunc morem Aeneas, a fitting example of devotion, brought to your lands, just Latin.'
The 'Biblicae' Sortes,' which I have seen consulted on the altar, are a parody on the 'Sortes Virgilianae.' Our numerous altars in one church are heathen: the Jews, who are monotheists, have but one altar in a church. But the Pagans had many, being polytheists. In the temple of Pathian Venus were a hundred of them. 'Centum que Sabaeo thure calent arae.' Our altar's and our hundred lights around St. Peter's tomb are Pagan. 'Centum aras posuit vigilemque sacraverat ignem.' We invent nothing, not even numerically. Our very Devil is the god Pan, horns and hoofs and all; but blackened. For we cannot draw; we can but daub the figures of Antiquity with a little sorry paint or soot. Our Moses hath stolen the horns of Ammon; our Wolfgang the hook of Saturn; and Janus bore the keys of heaven before St. Peter. All our really old Italian bronzes of the Virgin and Child are Venuses and Cupids. So is the wooden statue, that stands hard by this house, of Pope Joan and the child she is said to have brought forth there in the middle of a procession. Idiots! are new-born children thirteen years old? And that boy is not a day younger. Cupid! Cupid! Cupid! And since you accuse me of credulity, know that to my mind that Papess is full as mythological, born of froth, and every way unreal, as the goddess who passes for her in the next street, or as the saints you call St. Baccho and St. Quirina: or St. Oracte, which is a dunce-like corruption of Mount Soracte, or St. Amphibolus, an English saint, which is a dunce-like corruption of the cloak worn by their St. Alban, Or as the Spanish saint, St. Viar: which words on his tombstone, written thus, 'S. Viar,' prove him no saint, but a good old nameless heathen, and 'praefectus Viarum,' or overseer of roads (would he were back to earth, and paganizing of our Christian roads!), or as our St. Veronica of Benasco, which Veronica is a dunce-like corruption of the 'Vera icon,' which this saint brought into the church. I wish it may not be as unreal as the donor, Or as the eleven thousand virgins of Cologne, who were but a couple.”
The 'Biblicae Sortes,' which I've seen referenced at the altar, are a joke compared to the 'Sortes Virgilianae.' Our many altars in one church are pagan; Jews, who believe in one God, have just one altar in a church. But pagans had many, being polytheists. In the temple of Venus of Paphos, there were a hundred of them. 'Centum que Sabaeo thure calent arae.' Our altars and the hundred lights surrounding St. Peter's tomb are pagan. 'Centum aras posuit vigilemque sacraverat ignem.' We don't create anything new, not even in numbers. Our devil is basically the god Pan, complete with horns and hooves; but he's darkened. We can’t create; we can only smear the images of the past with some poor paint or soot. Our Moses has stolen the horns of Ammon; our Wolfgang took the hook of Saturn; and Janus had the keys of heaven before St. Peter. All our truly old Italian bronzes of the Virgin and Child are really Venuses and Cupids. The wooden statue near this house, of Pope Joan and the child she supposedly gave birth to during a procession, is ridiculous! Are newborns thirteen years old? And that boy doesn’t look a day younger. Cupid! Cupid! Cupid! And since you think I’m gullible, just know that I believe that Papess is just as mythological, born of foam, and completely unreal, as the goddess who shares her name down the street, or as the saints you call St. Baccho and St. Quirina: or St. Oracte, which is a silly twist on Mount Soracte, or St. Amphibolus, an English saint, which is a silly version of the cloak worn by their St. Alban, or the Spanish saint, St. Viar: the words on his tombstone, written 'S. Viar,' prove he's no saint, but a good old anonymous pagan, and 'praefectus Viarum,' or overseer of roads (how I wish he would come back to earth and paganize our Christian roads!), or our St. Veronica of Benasco, which is a silly twist on the 'Vera icon,' which this saint introduced to the church. I hope this isn’t as unreal as the donor, or the eleven thousand virgins of Cologne, who were really just a couple.
Clement interrupted him to inquire what he meant. “I have spoken with those have seen their bones.”
Clement interrupted him to ask what he meant. “I have talked to those who have seen their bones.”
“What, of eleven thousand virgins all collected in one place and at one time? Do but bethink thee, Clement. Not one of the great Eastern cities of antiquity could collect eleven thousand Pagan virgins at one time, far less a puny Western city. Eleven thousand Christian virgins in a little, wee, Paynim city!
“What, with eleven thousand virgins all gathered in one spot and at one time? Just think about it, Clement. Not a single one of the great Eastern cities of the past could gather eleven thousand pagan virgins at once, let alone a small Western city. Eleven thousand Christian virgins in a tiny, little pagan city!”
'Quod cunque ostendis mihi sic incredulus odi.'
'Whatever you show me, I hate you for it.'
The simple sooth is this. The martyrs were two: the Breton princess herself, falsely called British, and her maid, Onesimilla, which is a Greek name, Onesima, diminished. This some fool did mis-pronounce undecim mille, eleven thousand: loose tongue found credulous ears, and so one fool made many; eleven thousand of them, an' you will. And you charge me with credulity, Jerome? and bid me read the Lives of the Saints. Well, I have read them, and many a dear old Pagan acquaintance I found there. The best fictions in the book are Oriental, and are known to have been current in Persia and Arabia eight hundred years and more before the dates the Church assigns to them as facts. As for the true Western figments, they lack the Oriental plausibility. Think you I am credulous enough to believe that St. Ida joined a decapitated head to its body? that Cuthbert's carcass directed his bearers where to go, and where to stop; that a city was eaten up of rats to punish one Hatto for comparing the poor to mice; that angels have a little horn in their foreheads, and that this was seen and recorded at the time by St. Veronica of Benasco, who never existed, and hath left us this information and a miraculous handkercher? For my part, I think the holiest woman the world ere saw must have an existence ere she can have a handkercher or an eye to take unicorns for angels. Think you I believe that a brace of lions turned sextons and helped Anthony bury Paul of Thebes? that Patrick, a Scotch saint, stuck a goat's beard on all the descendants of one that offended him? that certain thieves, having stolen the convent ram, and denying it, St. Pol de Leon bade the ram bear witness, and straight the mutton bleated in the thief's belly? Would you have me give up the skilful figments of antiquity for such old wives' fables as these? The ancients lied about animals, too; but then they lied logically; we unreasonably. Do but compare Ephis and his lion, or, better still, Androcles and his lion, with Anthony and his two lions. Both the Pagan lions do what lions never did' but at the least they act in character. A lion with a bone in his throat, or a thorn in his foot, could not do better than be civil to a man. But Anthony's lions are asses in a lion's skin. What leonine motive could they have in turning sextons? A lion's business is to make corpses, not inter them.” He added, with a sigh, “Our lies are as inferior to the lies of the ancients as our statues, and for the same reason; we do not study nature as they did. We are imitatores, servum pecus. Believe you 'the lives of the saints;' that Paul the Theban was the first hermit, and Anthony the first Caenobite? Why, Pythagoras was an Eremite, and under ground for seven years; and his daughter was an abbess. Monks and hermits were in the East long before Moses, and neither old Greece nor Rome was ever without them. As for St. Francis and his snowballs, he did but mimic Diogenes, who, naked, embraced statues on which snow had fallen. The folly without the poetry. Ape of an ape—for Diogenes was but a mimic therein of the Brahmins and Indian gymnosophists. Natheless, the children of this Francis bid fair to pelt us out of the Church with their snowballs. Tell me now, Clement, what habit is lovelier than the vestments of our priests? Well, we owe them all to Numa Pompilius, except the girdle and the stole, which are judaical. As for the amice and the albe, they retain the very names they bore in Numa's day. The 'pelt' worn by the canons comes from primeval Paganism. 'Tis a relic of those rude times when the sacrificing priest wore the skins of the beasts with the fur outward. Strip off thy black gown, Jerome, thy girdle and cowl, for they come to us all three from the Pagan ladies. Let thy hair grow like Absolom's, Jerome! for the tonsure is as Pagan as the Muses.”
The simple truth is this. The martyrs were two: the Breton princess herself, mistakenly called British, and her maid, Onesimilla, which is a Greek name meaning a smaller version of Onesima. Some fool mispronounced it as undecim mille, meaning eleven thousand: a loose tongue found gullible ears, and so one fool created many more; eleven thousand if you want to believe that. And you accuse me of being gullible, Jerome? You want me to read the Lives of the Saints? Well, I have read them, and I found many dear old Pagan friends there. The best stories in the book are Oriental and are known to have circulated in Persia and Arabia more than eight hundred years before the Church claims they were factual. As for the true Western tales, they lack the charm of the Orient. Do you think I’m gullible enough to believe that St. Ida reattached a decapitated head to its body? That Cuthbert’s corpse directed his bearers on where to go and where to stop? That a city was overrun by rats to punish one Hatto for comparing the poor to mice? That angels have little horns on their foreheads, and that St. Veronica of Benasco, who never existed, recorded this along with a miraculous handkerchief? For my part, I believe the holiest woman the world has ever seen must have existed before she could have a handkerchief or eyes to mistake unicorns for angels. Do you really think I believe that a pair of lions became sextons and helped Anthony bury Paul of Thebes? That Patrick, a Scottish saint, put a goat’s beard on all the descendants of someone who offended him? That some thieves, having stolen the convent ram, and denying it, had St. Pol de Leon make the ram testify, and immediately the sheep bleated from the thief's belly? Would you have me give up the clever inventions of the ancients for such nonsense as these? The ancients lied about animals too; but they did it logically; we do so unreasonably. Just compare Ephis and his lion, or better yet, Androcles and his lion, with Anthony and his two lions. Both Pagan lions do what lions never do, but at least they act in character. A lion with a bone in his throat or a thorn in his foot couldn’t do anything better than be nice to a man. But Anthony's lions are fools in lion’s skin. What lionly motivation could they have to be sextons? A lion’s job is to make corpses, not bury them.” He added, with a sigh, “Our lies are as inferior to the lies of the ancients as our statues, for the same reason; we don’t study nature like they did. We imitate, like a herd of sheep. Do you believe 'the lives of the saints;' that Paul the Theban was the first hermit and Anthony the first monk? Well, Pythagoras was an Eremite and was underground for seven years; and his daughter was an abbess. Monks and hermits existed in the East long before Moses, and neither old Greece nor Rome ever lacked them. As for St. Francis and his snowballs, he was just copying Diogenes, who, naked, embraced statues covered in snow. The foolishness without the poetry. An imitator of an imitator—because Diogenes was merely mimicking the Brahmins and Indian gymnosophists. Nevertheless, the followers of this Francis seem likely to drive us out of the Church with their snowballs. Now tell me, Clement, what outfit is lovelier than our priests' vestments? Well, we owe them all to Numa Pompilius, except the girdle and the stole, which are Jewish. As for the amice and the alb, they still carry the same names they had in Numa's time. The 'pelt' worn by the canons comes from ancient Paganism. It’s a remnant of those rough times when the sacrificing priest wore the skins of beasts with the fur facing out. Take off your black gown, Jerome, along with your girdle and cowl, for they all come from Pagan women. Let your hair grow like Absalom's, Jerome! Because the tonsure is as Pagan as the Muses.”
“Take care what thou sayest,” said Jerome sternly. “We know the very year in which the Church did first ordain it.”
“Watch what you say,” Jerome said firmly. “We know the exact year when the Church first established it.”
“But not invent it, Jerome. The Brahmins wore it a few thousands years ere that. From them it came through the Assyrians to the priests of Isis in Egypt, and afterwards of Serapis at Athens. The late Pope (the saints be good to him) once told me the tonsure was forbidden by God to the Levites in the Pentateuch. If so, this was because of the Egyptian priests wearing it. I trust to his holiness. I am no biblical scholar. The Latin of thy namesake Jerome is a barrier I cannot overleap. 'Dixit ad me Dominus Dens. Dixi ad Dominum Deum.' No, thank you, holy Jerome; I can stand a good deal, but I cannot stand thy Latin. Nay; give me the New Testament! 'Tis not the Greek of Xenophon; but 'tis Greek. And there be heathen sayings in it too. For St. Paul was not so spiteful against them as thou. When the heathen said a good thing that suited his matter, by Jupiter he just took it, and mixed it to all eternity with the inspired text.”
“But don’t invent it, Jerome. The Brahmins wore it thousands of years before that. It came from them through the Assyrians to the priests of Isis in Egypt, and later to those of Serapis in Athens. The late Pope (God bless him) once told me that God forbade the Levites from having the tonsure in the Pentateuch. If that's true, it's because the Egyptian priests wore it. I trust his holiness. I’m not a biblical scholar. The Latin of your namesake Jerome is a barrier I can’t overcome. 'Dixit ad me Dominus Dens. Dixi ad Dominum Deum.' No, thank you, holy Jerome; I can handle a lot, but I can’t handle your Latin. No; give me the New Testament! It’s not the Greek of Xenophon, but it’s Greek. And there are pagan sayings in it too. St. Paul wasn’t as spiteful toward them as you are. When a pagan said something good that suited his point, by Jupiter, he just took it and mixed it with the inspired text for all time.”
“Come forth, Clement, come forth!” said Jerome, rising; “and thou, profane monk, know that but for the powerful house that upholds thee, thy accursed heresy should go no farther, for I would have thee burned at the stake.” And he strode out white with indignation.
“Step forward, Clement, step forward!” said Jerome, getting up; “and you, heretical monk, know that if it weren't for the influential group that supports you, your damnable heresy wouldn't go any further, because I would have you executed by fire.” And he walked out, filled with anger.
Colonna's reception of this threat did credit to him as an enthusiast. He ran and hallooed joyfully after Jerome. “And that is Pagan. Burning of men's bodies for the opinions of their souls is a purely Pagan custom—as Pagan as incense, holy water, a hundred altars in one church, the tonsure, the cardinal's, or flamen's hat, the word Pope, the—”
Colonna's reaction to this threat showed his enthusiasm. He ran and shouted happily after Jerome. “And that is Pagan. Burning people for what they believe is a completely Pagan practice—just as Pagan as incense, holy water, a hundred altars in one church, the tonsure, the cardinal's or flamen's hat, the word Pope, the—”
Here Jerome slammed the door.
Here Jerome banged the door.
But ere they could get clear of the house a jalosy was flung open, and the Paynim monk came out head and shoulders, and overhung the street shouting,
But before they could leave the house, a window was flung open, and the Paynim monk leaned out, shouting into the street,
“Affecti suppliciis Chrisitiani, genus hominum
Novas superstitionis ac maleficae,'”
“Affecti suppliciis Chrisitiani, genus hominum Novas superstitionis ac maleficae,”
And having delivered this parting blow, he felt a great triumphant joy, and strode exultant to and fro; and not attending with his usual care to the fair way (for his room could only be threaded by little paths wriggling among the antiquities), tripped over the beak of an Egyptian stork, and rolled upon a regiment of Armenian gods, which he found tough in argument though small in stature.
And after delivering this final insult, he felt overwhelming joy and walked around proudly. Not paying as much attention as usual to the narrow paths winding through the antiques, he tripped over the beak of an Egyptian stork and fell onto a group of Armenian gods, who were tough in debate even though they were small in size.
“You will go no more to that heretical monk,” said Jerome to Clement.
“You're not going to see that heretical monk anymore,” Jerome told Clement.
Clement sighed. “Shall we leave him and not try to correct him? Make allowance for heat of discourse! he was nettled, His words are worse than his acts. Oh 'tis a pure and charitable soul.”
Clement sighed. “Should we just leave him and not try to set him straight? Let's consider the heat of the discussion! He was upset. His words are worse than his actions. Oh, he truly has a pure and charitable soul.”
“So are all arch-heretics. Satan does not tempt them like other men. Rather he makes them more moral, to give their teaching weight. Fra Colonna cannot be corrected; his family is all-powerful in Rome, Pray we the saints he blasphemes to enlighten him, 'Twill not be the first time they have returned good for evil, Meantime thou art forbidden to consort with him, From this day go alone through the city! Confess and absolve sinners! exorcise demons! comfort the sick! terrify the impenitent! preach wherever men are gathered and occasion serves! and hold no converse with the Fra Colonna!”
“So are all arch-heretics. Satan doesn’t tempt them like everyone else. Instead, he actually makes them more moral to give their teachings more credibility. Fra Colonna can’t be corrected; his family is really powerful in Rome. Let’s pray to the saints he blasphemes to enlighten him; it won’t be the first time they’ve returned good for evil. In the meantime, you’re forbidden to associate with him. From this day on, go through the city alone! Confess and absolve sinners! Exorcise demons! Comfort the sick! Terrify the unrepentant! Preach wherever people are gathered and there’s an opportunity! And don’t engage in conversation with Fra Colonna!”
Clement bowed his head.
Clement lowered his head.
Then the prior, at Jerome's request, had the young friar watched. And one day the spy returned with the news that Brother Clement had passed by the Fra Colonna's lodging, and had stopped a little while in the street, and then gone on, but with his hand to his eyes and slowly.
Then the prior, at Jerome's request, had the young friar monitored. One day, the spy came back with the news that Brother Clement had walked past Fra Colonna's place, stopped for a bit in the street, and then continued on, but with his hand over his eyes and slowly.
This report Jerome took to the prior. The prior asked his opinion, and also Anselm's, who was then taking leave of him on his return to Juliers.
This report Jerome brought to the prior. The prior asked for his opinion, as well as Anselm's, who was then saying goodbye to him on his return to Juliers.
Jerome. “Humph! He obeyed, but with regret, ay, with childish repining.”
Jerome. “Hmph! He complied, but not without reluctance, yeah, with a childlike sense of dissatisfaction.”
Anselm, “He shed a natural tear at turning his back on a friend and a benefactor, But he obeyed.”
Anselm, “He shed a genuine tear when he turned his back on a friend and a benefactor, but he followed orders.”
Now Anselm was one of your gentle irresistibles, He had at times a mild ascendant even over Jerome.
Now Anselm was one of those charming people you can't resist. He sometimes had a gentle influence even over Jerome.
“Worthy Brother Anselm,” said Jerome, “Clement is weak to the very bone, He will disappoint thee, He will do nothing, great, either for the Church or for our holy order. Yet he is an orator, and hath drunken of the spirit of St. Dominic. Fly him, then, with a string.”
“Worthy Brother Anselm,” said Jerome, “Clement is weak to the core. He will let you down; he won’t accomplish anything significant for the Church or our order. Still, he is an orator and has drunk from the spirit of St. Dominic. So, keep your distance from him.”
That same day it was announced to Clement that he was to go to England immediately with Brother Jerome.
That same day, Clement was told that he needed to go to England right away with Brother Jerome.
Clement folded his hands on his breast, and bowed his head in calm submission.
Clement placed his hands over his chest and lowered his head in quiet acceptance.
CHAPTER LXXIII
THE HEARTH
A Catherine is not an unmixed good in a strange house. The governing power is strong in her. She has scarce crossed the threshold ere the utensils seem to brighten; the hearth to sweep itself; the windows to let in more light; and the soul of an enormous cricket to animate the dwelling-place. But this cricket is a Busy Body. And that is a tremendous character. It has no discrimination. It sets everything to rights, and everybody. Now many things are the better for being set to rights. But everything is not. Everything is the one thing that won't stand being set to rights; except in that calm and cool retreat, the grave.
A Catherine is not entirely a positive presence in a strange house. She has a strong influence. As soon as she steps inside, the utensils seem to shine, the hearth appears to clean itself, the windows allow in more light, and the spirit of a huge cricket seems to bring the place to life. But this cricket is a Busy Body. And that’s a powerful trait. It has no judgment. It puts everything and everyone in order. Some things definitely benefit from being put in order. But not everything does. In fact, the one thing that can’t take being put in order is everything else; except in that peaceful and cool refuge, the grave.
Catherine altered the position of every chair and table in Margaret's house; and perhaps for the better.
Catherine changed the position of every chair and table in Margaret's house, and maybe it was for the better.
But she must go farther, and upset the live furniture.
But she has to go further and disturb the living furniture.
When Margaret's time was close at hand, Catherine treacherously invited the aid of Denys and Martin; and on the poor, simple-minded fellows asking her earnestly what service they could be, she told them they might make themselves comparatively useful by going for a little walk. So far so good. But she intimated further that should the promenade extend into the middle of next week all the better. This was not ingratiating. The subsequent conduct of the strong under the yoke of the weak might have propitiated a she-bear with three cubs, one sickly. They generally slipped out of the house at daybreak; and stole in like thieves at night; and if by any chance they were at home, they went about like cats on a wall tipped with broken glass, and wearing awe-struck visages, and a general air of subjugation and depression.
When Margaret's time was drawing near, Catherine deceitfully enlisted the help of Denys and Martin. When the poor, simple-minded guys sincerely asked how they could help, she suggested they could be somewhat useful by taking a short walk. So far, so good. But she hinted that if their stroll lasted until the middle of next week, that would be even better. This wasn’t very charming. The strong’s behavior under the control of the weak could have appeased a mother bear with three cubs, one of which was sickly. They typically slipped out of the house at dawn and sneaked back in at night, and if they happened to be home, they moved around cautiously like cats on a wall covered in broken glass, wearing fearful expressions and an overall vibe of submission and gloom.
But all would not do. Their very presence was ill-timed; and jarred upon Catherine's nerves.
But that wasn't enough. Their very presence was poorly timed and grated on Catherine's nerves.
Did instinct whisper, a pair of depopulators had no business in a house with multipliers twain?
Did instinct hint that two killers had no place in a house with two others producing offspring?
The breastplate is no armour against a female tongue; and Catherine ran infinite pins and needles of speech into them. In a word, when Margaret came down stairs, she found the kitchen swept of heroes.
The breastplate offers no protection against a woman's words; and Catherine unleashed a flurry of sharp comments at them. In short, when Margaret came downstairs, she found the kitchen devoid of champions.
Martin, old and stiff, had retreated no farther than the street, and with the honours of war: for he had carried off his baggage, a stool; and sat on it in the air.
Martin, old and stiff, had only moved back to the street, and with the spoils of battle: he had taken his belongings, a stool; and sat on it in the open air.
Margaret saw he was out in the sun; but was not aware he was a fixture in that luminary. She asked for Denys. “Good, kind Denys; he will be right pleased to see me about again.”
Margaret saw he was out in the sun, but she didn't realize he was a constant presence there. She asked for Denys. “Good, kind Denys; he will be really happy to see me around again.”
Catherine, wiping a bowl with now superfluous vigour, told her Denys was gone to his friends in Burgundy. “And high time, Hasn't been anigh them this three years, by all accounts.”
Catherine, wiping a bowl with unnecessary enthusiasm, said that Denys had gone to his friends in Burgundy. “And it’s about time! He hasn’t seen them in three years, from what I hear.”
“What, gone without bidding me farewell?” said Margaret, uplifting two tender eyes like full-blown violets.
“What, left without saying goodbye?” said Margaret, lifting her two gentle eyes that resembled full-bloomed violets.
Catherine reddened. For this new view of the matter set her conscience pricking her.
Catherine blushed. This new perspective on the situation made her conscience nag at her.
But she gave a little toss and said, “Oh, you were asleep at the time: and I would not have you wakened.”
But she tossed her head and said, “Oh, you were asleep then, and I didn't want to wake you.”
“Poor Denys,” said Margaret, and the dew gathered visibly on the open violets.
“Poor Denys,” said Margaret, and the dew visibly collected on the open violets.
Catherine saw out of the corner of her eye, and without taking a bit of open notice, slipped off and lavished hospitality and tenderness on the surviving depopulator.
Catherine caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, and without making a big deal about it, quietly stepped away and offered warmth and kindness to the remaining survivor.
It was sudden: and Martin old and stiff in more ways than one—
It happened all at once: and Martin was old and stiff in more ways than one—
“No, thank you, dame. I have got used to out o' doors. And I love not changing and changing. I meddle wi' nobody here; and nobody meddles wi' me.”
“No, thank you, ma'am. I've gotten used to being outdoors. And I don’t like constantly changing things. I don’t bother anyone here; and nobody bothers me.”
“Oh, you nasty, cross old wretch!” screamed Catherine, passing in a moment from treacle to sharpest vinegar. And she flounced back into the house.
“Oh, you mean, grumpy old jerk!” screamed Catherine, going from sweet to totally bitter in an instant. And she stormed back into the house.
On calm reflection she had a little cry. Then she half reconciled herself to her conduct by vowing to be so kind, Margaret should never miss her plagues of soldiers. But feeling still a little uneasy, she dispersed all regrets by a process at once simple and sovereign.
On a moment of quiet reflection, she had a little cry. Then she began to come to terms with her actions by promising to be so kind that Margaret would never miss her annoying soldiers. But still feeling a bit uneasy, she pushed all her regrets aside using a method that was both simple and effective.
She took and washed the child.
She took the child and washed him/her.
From head to foot she washed him in tepid water; and heroes, and their wrongs, became as dust in an ocean—of soap and water.
From head to toe, she washed him in lukewarm water; and heroes, along with their grievances, vanished like dust in a sea of soap and water.
While this celestial ceremony proceeded, Margaret could not keep quiet. She hovered round the fortunate performer. She must have an apparent hand in it, if not a real. She put her finger into the water—to pave the way for her boy, I suppose; for she could not have deceived herself so far as to think Catherine would allow her to settle the temperature. During the ablution she kneeled down opposite the little Gerard, and prattled to him with amazing fluency; taking care, however, not to articulate like grown-up people; for, how could a cherub understand their ridiculous pronunciation?
While this heavenly ceremony was happening, Margaret couldn't stay quiet. She circled around the lucky performer. She needed to have some kind of role in it, even if it wasn’t a real one. She dipped her finger into the water—probably to help her boy along; she couldn't seriously think that Catherine would let her control the temperature. During the washing, she knelt down opposite little Gerard and chatted with him effortlessly; making sure, though, not to talk like adults, because how could a little angel understand their silly way of speaking?
“I wish you could wash out THAT,” said she, fixing her eyes on the little boy's hand.
“I wish you could clean THAT,” she said, staring at the little boy's hand.
“What?”
“What’s up?”
“What, have you not noticed? on his little finger.”
“What, haven’t you noticed? On his little finger.”
Granny looked, and there was a little brown mole,
Granny looked, and there was a small brown mole,
“Eh, but this is wonderful!” she cried. “Nature, my lass, y'are strong; and meddlesome to boot. Hast noticed such a mark on some one else? Tell the truth, girl!”
“Hey, but this is amazing!” she exclaimed. “Nature, my girl, you’re tough; and a bit meddlesome too. Have you seen a mark like this on someone else? Be honest, girl!”
“What, on him? Nay, mother, not I.”
“What, on him? No way, mom, not me.”
“Well then he has; and on the very spot. And you never noticed that much. But, dear heart, I forgot; you han't known him from child to man as I have, I have had him hundreds o' times on my knees, the same as this, and washed him from top to toe in luke-warm water.” And she swelled with conscious superiority; and Margaret looked meekly up to her as a woman beyond competition.
“Well, he has; right there. And you never even noticed that much. But, my dear, I forgot; you haven’t known him since he was a kid like I have. I’ve had him on my knees hundreds of times, just like this, and washed him all over with warm water.” And she puffed up with a sense of superiority; and Margaret looked up at her humbly, as someone beyond comparison.
Catherine looked down from her dizzy height and moralized. She differed from other busy-bodies in this, that she now and then reflected: not deeply; or of course I should take care not to print it.
Catherine looked down from her dizzy height and thought about things. She was different from other nosy people because she sometimes reflected on her actions: not deeply, or else I definitely wouldn’t want to share that.
“It is strange,” said she, “how things come round and about, Life is but a whirligig. Leastways, we poor women, our lives are all cut upon one pattern. Wasn't I for washing out my Gerard's mole in his young days? 'Oh, fie! here's a foul blot,' quo' I; and scrubbed away at it I did till I made the poor wight cry; so then I thought 'twas time to give over. And now says you to me, 'Mother,' says you, 'do try and wash you out o' my Gerard's finger,' says you. Think on't!”
“It’s odd,” she said, “how things come around. Life is just a whirlwind. At least, for us poor women, our lives all follow the same pattern. Remember when I tried to wash out my Gerard's mole when he was young? 'Oh no! Here’s a nasty spot,' I said, and I scrubbed at it until the poor kid cried; then I figured it was time to stop. And now you say to me, 'Mom,' you say, 'try and wash out that mark on my Gerard's finger,’ you say. Can you believe it?”
“Wash it out?” cried Margaret; “I wouldn't for all the world, Why, it is the sweetest bit in his little darling body. I'll kiss it morn and night till he that owned it first comes back to us three, Oh, bless you, my jewel of gold and silver, for being marked like your own daddy, to comfort me.”
“Wash it out?” cried Margaret; “I wouldn’t do that for anything in the world. Why, it’s the sweetest little spot on his precious little body. I’ll kiss it morning and night until the one who first owned it comes back to us three. Oh, bless you, my jewel of gold and silver, for being marked just like your daddy, to comfort me.”
And she kissed little Gerard's little mole; but she could not stop there; she presently had him sprawling on her lap, and kissed his back all over again and again, and seemed to worry him as wolf a lamb; Catherine looking on and smiling. She had seen a good many of these savage onslaughts in her day.
And she kissed little Gerard's small mole; but she couldn't stop there; she soon had him sprawled across her lap, and kissed his back over and over, and seemed to bother him like a wolf with a lamb; Catherine watched and smiled. She had witnessed quite a few of these wild attacks in her time.
And this little sketch indicates the tenor of Margaret's life for several months, One or two small things occurred to her during that time which must be told; but I reserve them, since one string will serve for many glass beads. But while her boy's father was passing through those fearful tempests of the soul, ending in the dead monastic calm, her life might fairly be summed in one great blissful word—Maternity.
And this little sketch shows what Margaret's life was like for several months. A couple of small things happened to her during that time that need to be mentioned, but I’ll hold off on those since one story can connect to many small details. While her son's father was going through those intense emotional struggles that ended in a still, lifeless peace, her life could really be summed up in one beautiful word—Motherhood.
You, who know what lies in that word, enlarge my little sketch, and see the young mother nursing and washing, and dressing and undressing, and crowing and gambolling with her first-born; then swifter than lightning dart your eye into Italy, and see the cold cloister; and the monks passing like ghosts, eyes down, hands meekly crossed over bosoms dead to earthly feelings.
You, who understand the meaning of that word, expand my small depiction and picture the young mother nursing, washing, dressing, and undressing, playing and frolicking with her first child; then, faster than lightning, shift your gaze to Italy and see the cold monastery, with monks moving like ghosts, eyes lowered, hands gently crossed over chests that are numb to earthly feelings.
One of these cowled ghosts is he, whose return, full of love, and youth, and joy, that radiant young mother awaits.
One of these hooded figures is him, whose return, filled with love, youth, and joy, that glowing young mother is waiting for.
In the valley of Grindelwald the traveller has on one side the perpendicular Alps, all rock, ice, and everlasting snow, towering above the clouds, and piercing to the sky; on his other hand little every-day slopes, but green as emeralds, and studded with cows and pretty cots, and life; whereas those lofty neighbours stand leafless, lifeless, inhuman, sublime. Elsewhere sweet commonplaces of nature are apt to pass unnoticed; but, fronting the grim Alps, they soothe, and even gently strike, the mind by contrast with their tremendous opposites. Such, in their way, are the two halves of this story, rightly looked at; on the Italian side rugged adventure, strong passion, blasphemy, vice, penitence, pure ice, holy snow, soaring direct at heaven. On the Dutch side, all on a humble scale and womanish, but ever green. And as a pathway parts the ice towers of Grindelwald, aspiring to the sky, from its little sunny braes, so here is but a page between
In the valley of Grindelwald, the traveler sees on one side the steep Alps, all rock, ice, and eternal snow, rising above the clouds and reaching into the sky; on the other side, gentle everyday slopes, vibrant green like emeralds, dotted with cows and charming cottages, full of life. In contrast, those towering neighbors seem bare, lifeless, and grand. Normally, the simple beauties of nature go unnoticed; but facing the stark Alps, they provide comfort and even gently touch the mind by contrasting with their overwhelming counterparts. This is similar to the two halves of this story when viewed correctly; on the Italian side, there's rugged adventure, intense passion, blasphemy, vice, repentance, pure ice, and sacred snow, reaching straight toward heaven. On the Dutch side, everything is on a humble scale and softer, yet always green. Just as a path separates the ice towers of Grindelwald, reaching for the sky, from its little sunny hills, here is just a page between.
“the Cloister and the Hearth.”
"The Cloister and the Hearth."
CHAPTER LXXIV
THE CLOISTER
THE new pope favoured the Dominican order. The convent received a message from the Vatican, requiring a capable friar to teach at the University of Basle. Now Clement was the very monk for this: well versed in languages, and in his worldly days had attended the lectures of Guarini the younger. His visit to England was therefore postponed though not resigned; and meantime he was sent to Basle; but not being wanted there for three months, he was to preach on the road.
THE new pope preferred the Dominican order. The convent got a message from the Vatican, asking for a skilled friar to teach at the University of Basle. Clement was the perfect monk for this: he knew many languages and had attended lectures by Guarini the younger in his earlier life. His trip to England was postponed, but not completely given up; in the meantime, he was sent to Basle. However, since he wasn't needed there for three months, he was to preach along the way.
He passed out of the northern gate with his eyes lowered, and the whole man wrapped in pious contemplation.
He walked out of the northern gate with his eyes downcast, completely absorbed in devout thought.
Oh, if we could paint a mind and its story, what a walking fresco was this barefooted friar!
Oh, if we could capture a mind and its story in art, what a living masterpiece this barefoot friar was!
Hopeful, happy love, bereavement, despair, impiety, vice, suicide, remorse, religious despondency, penitence, death to the world, resignation.
Hopeful, joyful love, loss, despair, irreverence, wrongdoing, suicide, guilt, spiritual hopelessness, repentance, renunciation of the world, acceptance.
And all in twelve short months.
And all in just twelve months.
And now the traveller was on foot again. But all was changed: no perilous adventures now. The very thieves and robbers bowed to the ground before him, and instead of robbing him, forced stolen money on him, and begged his prayers.
And now the traveler was on foot again. But everything had changed: there were no dangerous adventures anymore. Even the thieves and robbers bowed down to him, and instead of stealing from him, they pushed stolen money into his hands and asked for his prayers.
This journey therefore furnished few picturesque incidents. I have, however, some readers to think of, who care little for melodrama, and expect a quiet peep at what passes inside a man, To such students things undramatic are often vocal, denoting the progress of a mind.
This journey had few interesting moments. However, I have some readers in mind who aren't interested in melodrama and would prefer a quiet glimpse into what goes on inside a person. For those readers, the unexciting details can often be revealing, reflecting the development of a mind.
The first Sunday of Clement's journey was marked by this. He prayed for the soul of Margaret. He had never done so before. Not that her eternal welfare was not dearer to him than anything on earth. It was his humility. The terrible impieties that burst from him on the news of her death horrified my well-disposed readers; but not as on reflection they horrified him who had uttered them. For a long time during his novitiate he was oppressed with religious despair. He thought he must have committed that sin against the Holy Spirit which dooms the soul for ever, By degrees that dark cloud cleared away, Anselmo juvante; but deep self-abasement remained. He felt his own salvation insecure, and moreover thought it would be mocking Heaven, should he, the deeply stained, pray for a soul so innocent, comparatively, as Margaret's. So he used to coax good Anselm and another kindly monk to pray for her. They did not refuse, nor do it by halves. In general the good old monks (and there were good, bad, and indifferent in every convent) had a pure and tender affection for their younger brethren, which, in truth, was not of this world.
The first Sunday of Clement's journey was marked by this. He prayed for the soul of Margaret. He had never done that before. Not that her eternal welfare was any less important to him than anything on earth. It was his humility. The terrible things he said when he heard about her death shocked my well-meaning readers; but they didn’t horrify him as much as they on reflection horrified the one who had said them. For a long time during his novitiate, he was weighed down by religious despair. He thought he must have committed that sin against the Holy Spirit which damns the soul forever. Gradually, that dark cloud lifted, thanks to Anselmo; but deep self-deprecation remained. He felt his own salvation was uncertain and thought it would be mocking Heaven if he, the deeply stained, prayed for a soul as innocent, relatively, as Margaret's. So he would ask good Anselm and another kind monk to pray for her. They did not refuse and gave it their all. Generally, the good old monks (and there were good, bad, and indifferent in every convent) had a pure and tender affection for their younger brothers, which honestly was not of this world.
Clement then, having preached on Sunday morning in a small Italian town, and being mightily carried onward, was greatly encouraged; and that day a balmy sense of God's forgiveness and love descended on him. And he prayed for the welfare of Margaret's soul. And from that hour this became his daily habit, and the one purified tie, that by memory connected his heart with earth.
Clement, after preaching on Sunday morning in a small Italian town, felt incredibly uplifted and encouraged. That day, a warm feeling of God's forgiveness and love washed over him. He prayed for the well-being of Margaret's soul. From that moment on, this became his daily practice, the one pure connection that linked his heart to the world.
For his family were to him as if they had never been.
For him, it was as if his family had never existed.
The Church would not share with earth. Nor could even the Church cure the great love without annihilating the smaller ones.
The Church wouldn’t share with the world. Nor could even the Church heal the deep love without destroying the smaller ones.
During most of this journey Clement rarely felt any spring of life within him, but when he was in the pulpit. The other exceptions were, when he happened to relieve some fellow-creature.
During most of this journey, Clement hardly felt any spark of life within him, except when he was in the pulpit. The other times were when he managed to help someone else.
A young man was tarantula bitten, or perhaps, like many more, fancied it. Fancy or reality, he had been for two days without sleep, and in most extraordinary convulsions, leaping, twisting, and beating the walls. The village musicians had only excited him worse with their music. Exhaustion and death followed the disease, when it gained such a head. Clement passed by and learned what was the matter. He sent for a psaltery, and tried the patient with soothing melodies; but if the other tunes maddened him, Clement's seemed to crush him. He groaned and moaned under them, and grovelled on the floor. At last the friar observed that at intervals his lips kept going. He applied his ear, and found the patient was whispering a tune; and a very singular one, that had no existence. He learned this tune and played it. The patient's face brightened amazingly. He marched about the room on the light fantastic toe enjoying it; and when Clement's fingers ached nearly off with playing it, he had the satisfaction of seeing the young man sink complacently to sleep to this lullaby, the strange creation of his own mind; for it seems he was no musician, and never composed a tune before or after. This sleep saved his life. And Clement, after teaching the tune to another, in case it should be wanted again, went forward with his heart a little warmer. On another occasion he found a mob haling a decently dressed man along, who struggled and vociferated, but in a strange language. This person had walked into their town erect and sprightly, waving a mulberry branch over his head. Thereupon the natives first gazed stupidly, not believing their eyes, then pounced on him and dragged him before the podesta, Clement went with them; but on the way drew quietly near the prisoner and spoke to him in Italian; no answer. In French' German; Dutch; no assets. Then the man tried Clement in tolerable Latin, but with a sharpish accent. He said he was an Englishman, and oppressed with the heat of Italy, had taken a bough off the nearest tree, to save his head. “In my country anybody is welcome to what grows on the highway. Confound the fools; I am ready to pay for it. But here is all Italy up in arms about a twig and a handful of leaves.”
A young man had been bitten by a tarantula, or maybe, like many others, he just imagined it. Whether it was real or imagined, he had gone two days without sleep and was experiencing intense convulsions, leaping, twisting, and pounding against the walls. The village musicians only made things worse with their music. Exhaustion and death followed the illness as it worsened. Clement came by and found out what was happening. He called for a psaltery and tried to soothe the patient with gentle melodies, but while the other tunes drove him mad, Clement's music seemed to crush him further. He groaned and moaned on the floor. Finally, the friar noticed that the patient’s lips were moving intermittently. He leaned in and discovered that the young man was whispering a tune—a very strange one that didn’t actually exist. Clement picked up on this tune and played it. The young man’s face lit up dramatically. He started dancing joyfully around the room, and when Clement’s fingers nearly wore out from playing it, he felt a sense of relief as the young man finally sank peacefully to sleep to this lullaby, a unique creation of his own imagination; it turned out he wasn’t a musician and had never composed a tune either before or after. This sleep saved his life. After teaching the tune to someone else, just in case it was needed again, Clement continued on his way feeling a bit warmer in his heart. On another occasion, he came across a crowd dragging a well-dressed man along, who was struggling and shouting in a strange language. This man had entered their town upright and lively, waving a mulberry branch over his head. The locals first stared in disbelief, then lunged at him and brought him before the podesta. Clement followed them, but quietly approached the prisoner and spoke to him in Italian; he got no response. He tried French, German, Dutch; still nothing. Then the man replied to Clement in decent Latin, but with a sharp accent. He said he was English and, feeling the heat of Italy, had taken a branch from the nearest tree to shield himself. “In my country, anyone is welcome to take what grows by the roadside. Stupid fools; I’m ready to pay for it. But here, all of Italy is in an uproar over a twig and a few leaves.”
The pig-headed podesta would have sent the dogged islander to prison; but Clement mediated, and with some difficulty made the prisoner comprehend that silkworms, and by consequence mulberry leaves, were sacred, being under the wing of the Sovereign, and his source of income; and urged on the podesta that ignorance of his mulberry laws was natural in a distant country, where the very tree perhaps was unknown, The opinionative islander turned the still vibrating scale by pulling' out a long purse and repeating his original theory, that the whole question was mercantile. “Quid damni?” said he, “Dic; et cito solvam.” The podesta snuffed the gold: fined him a ducat for the duke; about the value of the whole tree; and pouched the coin.
The stubborn mayor would have thrown the determined islander in jail; but Clement intervened and, with some effort, made the prisoner understand that silkworms, and therefore mulberry leaves, were sacred, being under the protection of the Sovereign and a source of income. He urged the mayor that it was natural for someone from a distant place not to know the laws about mulberry trees, which might be completely unfamiliar to them. The opinionated islander tipped the balance by pulling out a long purse and repeating his initial point that the whole issue was about trade. “What’s the damage?” he asked. “Tell me, and I’ll pay it right away.” The mayor took a whiff of the gold, fined him a ducat for the duke, which was about the value of the entire tree, and pocketed the coin.
The Englishman shook off his ire the moment he was liberated, and laughed heartily at the whole thing; but was very grateful to Clement.
The Englishman let go of his anger as soon as he was free and laughed genuinely at the whole situation; he was really thankful to Clement.
“You are too good for this hole of a country, father,” said he, “Come to England! That is the only place in the world, I was an uneasy fool to leave it, and wander among mulberries and their idiots. I am a Kentish squire, and educated at Cambridge University. My name it is Rolfe, my place Betshanger, The man and the house are both at your service. Come over and stay till domesday. We sit down forty to dinner every day at Betshanger. One more or one less at the board will not be seen. You shall end your days with me and my heirs if you will, Come now! What an Englishman says he means.” And he gave him a great hearty grip of the hand to confirm it,
“You're too good for this miserable country, Dad,” he said, “Come to England! That's the only place worth being; I was a fool to leave it and mess around with mulberries and their idiots. I'm a squire from Kent, and I went to Cambridge University. My name is Rolfe, and my place is Betshanger. The man and the house are both at your service. Come over and stay until doomsday. We have dinner with forty people every day at Betshanger. One more or one less at the table won't be noticed. You can spend your days with me and my family if you want. Come on! When an Englishman says something, he means it.” And he gave him a firm, hearty grip of the hand to confirm it.
“I will visit thee some day, my son,” said Clement; “but not to weary thy hospitality.”
“I’ll come to see you someday, my son,” said Clement; “but not to wear out your hospitality.”
The Englishman then begged Clement to shrive him. “I know not what will become of my soul,” said he, “I live like a heathen since I left England.”
The Englishman then asked Clement to confess him. “I don’t know what will happen to my soul,” he said, “I’ve been living like a pagan since I left England.”
Clement consented gladly, and soon the islander was on his knees to him by the roadside, confessing the last month's sins.
Clement agreed happily, and soon the islander was on his knees by the roadside, confessing the sins of the past month.
Finding him so pious a son of the Church, Clement let him know he was really coming to England. He then asked him whether it was true that country was overrun with Lollards and Wickliffites.
Finding him such a devout son of the Church, Clement informed him that he was actually coming to England. He then asked him whether it was true that the country was overrun with Lollards and Wycliffites.
The other coloured up a little. “There be black sheep in every land,” said he. Then after some reflection he said gravely, “Holy father, hear the truth about these heretics. None are better disposed towards Holy Church than we English. But we are ourselves, and by ourselves. We love our own ways, and above all, our own tongue. The Norman could conquer our bill-hooks, but not our tongues; and hard they tried it for many a long year by law and proclamation. Our good foreign priests utter God to plain English folk in Latin, or in some French or Italian lingo, like the bleating of a sheep. Then come the fox Wickliff and his crew, and read him out of his own book in plain English, that all men's hearts warm to. Who can withstand this? God forgive me, I believe the English would turn deaf ears to St, Peter himself, spoke he not to them in the tongue their mothers sowed in their ears and their hearts along with mothers' kisses.” He added hastily, “I say not this for myself; I am Cambridge bred; and good words come not amiss to me in Latin; but for the people in general. Clavis ad corda Anglorum est lingua materna.”
The other guy blushed a little. “There are black sheep in every country,” he said. After thinking for a moment, he said seriously, “Holy father, listen to the truth about these heretics. No one is more supportive of the Holy Church than we English. But we are who we are, and we stand on our own. We value our traditions, and above all, our own language. The Normans could conquer our tools, but not our language; they tried hard for many years through laws and decrees. Our good foreign priests share God's message with plain English folks in Latin, or some French or Italian gibberish, like the bleating of a sheep. Then came the fox Wickliff and his followers, who read from their own book in plain English that resonates with everyone’s hearts. Who can resist this? God forgive me, I believe the English would ignore St. Peter himself if he didn’t speak to them in the language their mothers taught them along with their kisses.” He quickly added, “I’m not saying this for myself; I’m from Cambridge, and I appreciate good words in Latin; but for the general public. The key to the hearts of the English is their mother tongue.”
“My son,” said Clement, “blessed be the hour I met thee; for thy words are sober and wise. But alas! how shall I learn your English tongue? No book have I.”
“My son,” said Clement, “blessed be the hour I met you; for your words are sensible and wise. But alas! how will I learn your English language? I have no book.”
“I would give you my book of hours, father. 'Tis in English and Latin, cheek by jowl. But then, what would become of my poor soul, wanting my 'hours' in a strange land? Stay, you are a holy man, and I am an honest one; let us make a bargain; you to pray for me every day for two months, and I to give you my book of hours. Here it is. What say you to that?” And his eyes sparkled, and he was all on fire with mercantility.
“I’d give you my book of hours, Father. It’s in English and Latin, side by side. But then, what would happen to my poor soul, craving my 'hours' in a foreign place? Wait, you’re a holy man, and I’m an honest one; let’s make a deal: you pray for me every day for two months, and I’ll give you my book of hours. Here it is. What do you think?” And his eyes sparkled, and he was filled with a fiery eagerness for the deal.
Clement smiled gently at this trait; and quietly detached a MS. from his girdle, and showed him that it was in Latin and Italian.
Clement smiled softly at this trait and quietly took a manuscript from his belt, showing him that it was written in Latin and Italian.
“See, my son,” said he, “Heaven hath foreseen our several needs, and given us the means to satisfy them: let us change books; and, my dear son, I will give thee my poor prayers and welcome, not sell them thee. I love not religious bargains.”
“Look, my son,” he said, “Heaven has anticipated our various needs and provided us with the means to meet them: let’s exchange books; and, my dear son, I will gladly offer you my humble prayers and welcome, not sell them to you. I don’t like making religious deals.”
The islander was delighted. “So shall I learn the Italian tongue without risk to my eternal weal, Near is my purse, but nearer is my soul.”
The islander was thrilled. “So I can learn the Italian language without risking my everlasting well-being. My wallet is close, but my soul is even closer.”
He forced money on Clement. In vain the friar told him it was contrary to his vow to carry more of that than was barely necessary.
He pressured Clement into taking money. The friar tried in vain to explain that it went against his vow to carry more than what was absolutely necessary.
“Lay it out for the good of the Church and of my soul,” said the islander. “I ask you not to keep it, but take it you must and shall.” And he grasped Clement's hand warmly again; and Clement kissed him on the brow, and blessed him, and they went each his way.
“Share it for the benefit of the Church and my soul,” said the islander. “I urge you not to hold onto it, but you have to take it,” he insisted as he warmly grasped Clement's hand once more; Clement kissed him on the forehead, blessed him, and they went their separate ways.
About a mile from where they parted, Clement found two tired wayfarers lying in the deep shade of a great chestnut-tree, one of a thick grove the road skirted. Near the men was a little cart, and in it a printing-press, rude and clumsy as a vine-press, A jaded mule was harnessed to the cart.
About a mile from where they separated, Clement found two weary travelers resting in the deep shade of a big chestnut tree, one of many in the thick grove along the road. Next to the men was a small cart, which held a printing press, rough and clumsy like a vine press. A tired mule was hitched to the cart.
And so Clement stood face to face with his old enemy.
And so Clement confronted his old enemy.
And as he eyed it, and the honest, blue-eyed faces of the wearied craftsmen, he looked back as on a dream at the bitterness he had once felt towards this machine. He looked kindly down on them, and said softly—
And as he watched it and the sincere, blue-eyed faces of the tired craftsmen, he looked back like it was a dream at the resentment he had once felt toward this machine. He looked down at them with kindness and said softly—
“Sweynheim!”
"Sweynheim!"
The men started to their feet.
The men got to their feet.
“Pannartz!”
"Pannartz!"
They scuttled into the wood, and were seen no more.
They hurried into the woods and were never seen again.
Clement was amazed, and stood puzzling himself.
Clement was amazed and stood there, trying to figure things out.
Presently a face peeped from behind a tree.
Presently, a face peeked out from behind a tree.
Clement addressed it, “What fear ye?”
Clement asked, "What are you afraid of?"
A quavering voice replied—
A shaky voice replied—
“Say, rather, by what magic you, a stranger, can call us by our names! I never clapt eyes on you till now.”
“Tell me, how is it possible that you, a stranger, can call us by our names! I’ve never seen you before today.”
“O, superstition! I know ye, as all good workmen are known—by your works. Come hither and I will tell ye.”
“O, superstition! I know you, like all skilled workers are known—by your actions. Come here and I will tell you.”
They advanced gingerly from different sides; each regulating his advance by the other's.
They moved cautiously from different directions, each adjusting their pace based on the other.
“My children,” said Clement, “I saw a Lactantius in Rome, printed by Sweynheim and Pannartz, disciples of Fust.”
“My children,” said Clement, “I saw a Lactantius in Rome, printed by Sweynheim and Pannartz, students of Fust.”
“D'ye hear that, Pannartz? our work has gotten to Rome already.”
“Do you hear that, Pannartz? Our work has already made it to Rome.”
“By your blue eyes and flaxen hair I wist ye were Germans; and the printing-press spoke for itself. Who then should ye be but Fust's disciples, Pannartz and Sweynheim?”
“By your blue eyes and blond hair, I knew you were German; and the printing press made it clear. Who else could you be but Fust's students, Pannartz and Sweynheim?”
The honest Germans were now astonished that they had suspected magic in so simple a matter.
The honest Germans were now surprised that they had thought there was something magical in such a simple matter.
“The good father hath his wits about him, that is all,” said Pannartz.
“The good father knows what he’s doing, that’s all,” said Pannartz.
“Ay,” said Sweynheim, “and with those wits would he could tell us how to get this tired beast to the next town.”
“Ay,” said Sweynheim, “if only he could tell us how to get this tired beast to the next town with those brains of his.”
“Yea,” said Sweynheim, “and where to find money to pay for his meat and ours when we get there.”
“Yeah,” said Sweynheim, “and where are we going to find money to pay for his food and ours when we get there?”
“I will try,” said Clement. “Free the mule of the cart, and of all harness but the bare halter.”
“I'll give it a shot,” said Clement. “Unhook the mule from the cart, and take off all the harness except for the basic halter.”
This was done, and the animal immediately lay down and rolled on his back in the dust like a kitten. Whilst he was thus employed, Clement assured them he would rise up a new mule.
This was done, and the animal immediately lay down and rolled on his back in the dust like a kitten. While he was doing this, Clement assured them he would get up as a new mule.
“His Creator hath taught him this art to refresh himself, which the nobler horse knoweth not. Now, with regard to money, know that a worthy Englishman hath entrusted me with a certain sum to bestow in charity. To whom can I better give a stranger's money than to strangers? Take it, then, and be kind to some Englishman or other stranger in his need; and may all nations learn to love one another one day.”
“His Creator has given him this skill to refresh himself, something that the finer horse doesn’t understand. Now, about money, know that a decent Englishman has given me a certain amount to donate to charity. Who better to give a stranger's money to than other strangers? So take it, and be kind to some Englishman or another stranger in need; and may all nations learn to love one another someday.”
The tears stood in the honest workmen's eyes. They took the money with heartfelt thanks.
The tears filled the honest workers' eyes. They accepted the money with genuine gratitude.
“It is your nation we are bound to thank and bless, good father, if we but knew it.”
“It’s your country we should thank and bless, good father, if only we realized it.”
“My nation is the Church.”
“My country is the Church.”
Clement was then for bidding them farewell, but the honest fellows implored him to wait a little; they had no silver nor gold, but they had something they could give their benefactor, They took the press out of the cart, and while Clement fed the mule, they hustled about, now on the white hot road, now in the deep cool shade, now half in and half out, and presently printed a quarto sheet of eight pages, which was already set up. They had not type enough to print two sheets at a time. When, after the slower preliminaries, the printed sheet was pulled all in a moment, Clement was amazed in turn.
Clement was about to say goodbye, but the honest guys urged him to stay for a bit; they didn’t have any money, but they had something to give their benefactor. They took the press out of the cart, and while Clement fed the mule, they moved around, sometimes on the scorching road, sometimes in the cool shade, half in and half out, and soon printed a quarto sheet of eight pages that was already set up. They didn’t have enough type to print two sheets at once. After some slower preparations, when the printed sheet was pulled all at once, Clement was amazed in return.
“What, are all these words really fast upon the paper?” said he. “Is it verily certain they will not go as swiftly as they came? And you took me for a magician! 'Tis 'Augustine de civitate Dei.' My sons, you carry here the very wings of knowledge. Oh, never abuse this great craft! Print no ill books! They would fly abroad countless as locusts, and lay waste men's souls.”
“What, are all these words really rushing onto the page?” he said. “Is it really certain they won’t disappear as quickly as they appeared? And you thought I was a magician! This is 'Augustine de civitate Dei.' My sons, you carry here the very wings of knowledge. Oh, never misuse this great skill! Don’t print any bad books! They would spread everywhere like locusts and destroy people's souls.”
The workmen said they would sooner put their hands under the screw than so abuse their goodly craft.
The workers said they would rather put their hands under the screw than misuse their respected trade.
And so they parted.
And so they said goodbye.
There is nothing but meeting and parting in this world.
There’s nothing but meeting and saying goodbye in this world.
At a town in Tuscany the holy friar had a sudden and strange recontre with the past. He fell in with one of those motley assemblages of patricians and plebeians, piety and profligacy, “a company of pilgrims;” a subject too well painted by others for me to go and daub.
At a town in Tuscany, the holy friar had a sudden and strange encounter with the past. He came across one of those mixed groups of nobles and commoners, virtue and vice, “a company of pilgrims;” a subject too well captured by others for me to try and paint.
They were in an immense barn belonging to the inn, Clement, dusty and wearied, and no lover of idle gossip, sat in a corner studying the Englishman's hours, and making them out as much by his own Dutch as by the Latin version.
They were in a huge barn owned by the inn. Clement, dusty and tired, and not one for idle chatter, sat in a corner studying the Englishman's hours, figuring them out as much with his own Dutch as with the Latin version.
Presently a servant brought a bucket half full of water, and put it down at his feet. A female servant followed with two towels. And then a woman came forward, and crossing herself, kneeled down without a word at the bucket-side, removed her sleeves entirely, and motioned to him to put his feet into the water. It was some lady of rank doing penance. She wore a mask scarce an inch broad, but effectual. Moreover, she handled the friar's feet more delicately than those do who are born to such offices.
Currently, a servant brought a bucket that was half full of water and set it down at his feet. A female servant followed with two towels. Then a woman stepped forward, crossed herself, knelt quietly by the bucket, rolled up her sleeves completely, and gestured for him to place his feet in the water. She was a woman of high status performing penance. She wore a mask that was hardly an inch wide but effective. Furthermore, she tended to the friar's feet with more care than those typically assigned to such tasks.
These penances were not uncommon; and Clement, though he had little faith in this form of contrition, received the services of the incognita as a matter of course. But presently she sighed deeply, and with her heartfelt sigh and her head bent low over her menial office, she seemed so bowed with penitence, that he pitied her, and said calmly but gently, “Can I aught for your soul's weal, my daughter?”
These acts of penance weren't unusual; and Clement, despite having little faith in this type of remorse, accepted the help of the incognita as a routine matter. But soon she let out a deep sigh, and with her sincere sigh and her head lowered over her work, she looked so overwhelmed with guilt that he felt sorry for her, and said calmly but kindly, “Is there anything I can do for your soul's well-being, my daughter?”
She shook her head with a faint sob. “Nought, holy father, nought; only to hear the sin of her who is most unworthy to touch thy holy feet. 'Tis part of my penance to tell sinless men how vile I am.”
She shook her head with a quiet sob. “Nothing, holy father, nothing; just to share the sins of someone who is most unworthy to touch your holy feet. It's part of my penance to confess to innocent men how despicable I am.”
“Speak, my daughter.”
“Talk, my daughter.”
“Father,” said the lady, bending lower and lower, “these hands of mine look white, but they are stained with blood—the blood of the man I loved. Alas! you withdraw your foot. Ah me! What shall I do? All holy things shrink from me.”
“Father,” said the woman, bending lower and lower, “these hands of mine look pale, but they're stained with blood—the blood of the man I loved. Alas! You pull your foot back. Oh no! What should I do? All sacred things turn away from me.”
“Culpa mea! culpa mea!” said Clement eagerly. “My daughter, it was an unworthy movement of earthly weakness, for which I shall do penance. Judge not the Church by her feebler servants, Not her foot, but her bosom, is offered to thee, repenting truly. Take courage, then, and purge thy conscience of its load.”
“It's my fault! It's my fault!” exclaimed Clement eagerly. “My daughter, it was a shameful act of human weakness, for which I will atone. Don't judge the Church by its weaker servants. Not her foot, but her heart, is offered to you, truly repentant. So, take heart and free your conscience of its burden.”
On this the lady, in a trembling whisper, and hurriedly, and cringing a little, as if she feared the Church would strike her bodily for what she had done, made this confession.
On this, the lady, in a shaky whisper, quickly and a bit cringing, as if she feared the Church would punish her physically for what she had done, made this confession.
“He was a stranger, and base-born, but beautiful as Spring, and wise beyond his years. I loved him, I had not the prudence to conceal my love. Nobles courted me. I ne'er thought one of humble birth could reject me. I showed him my heart oh, shame of my sex! He drew back; yet he admired me; but innocently, He loved another; and he was constant. I resorted to a woman's wiles, They availed not. I borrowed the wickedness of men, and threatened his life, and to tell his true lover he died false to her, Ah! you shrink your foot trembles. Am I not a monster? Then he wept and prayed to me for mercy; then my good angel helped me; I bade him leave Rome. Gerard, Gerard, why did you not obey me? I thought he was gone. But two months after this I met him, Never shall I forget it. I was descending the Tiber in my galley, when he came up it with a gay company, and at his side a woman beautiful as an angel, but bold and bad. That woman claimed me aloud for her rival. Traitor and hypocrite, he had exposed me to her, and to all the loose tongues in Rome. In terror and revenge I hired-a bravo. When he was gone on his bloody errand, I wavered too late. The dagger I had hired struck, He never came back to his lodgings. He was dead. Alas! perhaps he was not so much to blame: none have ever cast his name in my teeth. His poor body is not found: or I should kiss its wounds; and slay myself upon it. All around his very name seems silent as the grave, to which this murderous hand hath sent him.” (Clement's eye was drawn by her movement. He recognized her shapely arm, and soft white hand.) “And oh! he was so young to die. A poor thoughtless boy, that had fallen a victim to that bad woman's arts, and she had made him tell her everything. Monster of cruelty, what penance can avail me? Oh, holy father, what shall I do?”
“He was a stranger and of low birth, but beautiful like Spring and wise beyond his years. I loved him; I didn't have the sense to hide my feelings. Nobles pursued me. I never thought someone from a humble background could turn me down. I exposed my heart to him—oh, the shame of being a woman! He pulled away; yet he admired me, but it was innocent admiration. He loved someone else, and he remained true to her. I resorted to a woman's tricks, but they didn’t work. I borrowed the cruelty of men, threatened his life, and said I would tell his true love that he was unfaithful. Ah! You flinch; your foot shakes. Am I not a monster? Then he cried and begged me for mercy. Then my better nature guided me; I told him to leave Rome. Gerard, Gerard, why didn’t you listen to me? I thought he was gone for good. But two months later, I saw him again. I will never forget it. I was going down the Tiber in my boat when he came up it with a lively group, and beside him was a woman as beautiful as an angel, but bold and wicked. That woman openly claimed me as her rival. Traitor and hypocrite, he had exposed me to her and to all the loose mouths in Rome. In a fit of panic and revenge, I hired an assassin. Once he left on his bloody mission, I hesitated—too late. The dagger I had contracted for struck; he never returned to his lodgings. He was dead. Alas! Maybe he wasn't really to blame: no one has ever mentioned his name in a bad way to me. His poor body is still missing; otherwise, I would kiss his wounds and end my life on it. All around, his very name seems as silent as the grave to which this murderous hand has sent him.” (Clement's eye was drawn by her movement. He recognized her shapely arm and soft white hand.) “And oh! He was so young to die—a poor thoughtless boy who fell victim to that wicked woman's schemes, and she made him tell her everything. Monster of cruelty, what penance can save me? Oh, holy father, what should I do?”
Clement's lips moved in prayer, but he was silent. He could not see his duty clear.
Clement's lips whispered a prayer, but he remained quiet. He couldn't see his duty clearly.
Then she took his feet and began to dry them. She rested his foot upon her soft arm, and pressed it with the towel so gently she seemed incapable of hurting a fly. Yet her lips had just told another story, and a true one.
Then she took his feet and started to dry them. She rested his foot on her soft arm and pressed it with the towel so gently that it seemed like she couldn't hurt a fly. Yet her lips had just shared a different story, and a true one.
While Clement was still praying for wisdom, a tear fell upon his foot. It decided him. “My daughter,” said he, “I myself have been a great sinner.”
While Clement was still praying for wisdom, a tear landed on his foot. It made up his mind. “My daughter,” he said, “I have been a great sinner myself.”
“You, father?”
"You, Dad?"
“I; quite as great a sinner as thou; though not in the same way. The devil has gins and snares, as well as traps. But penitence softened my impious heart, and then gratitude remoulded it. Therefore, seeing you penitent, I hope you can be grateful to Him, who has been more merciful to you than you have to your fellow-creature. Daughter, the Church sends you comfort.”
“I’m just as much of a sinner as you are, but not in the same way. The devil has his tricks and traps, just like everyone else. But remorse has softened my wicked heart, and then gratitude has reshaped it. So, seeing you repentant, I hope you can feel gratitude towards Him, who has been more merciful to you than you have been to others. Daughter, the Church sends you comfort.”
“Comfort to me? ah! never! unless it can raise my victim from the dead.”
“Comfort for me? Ah! Never! Unless it can bring my victim back to life.”
“Take this crucifix in thy hand, fix thine eyes on it, and listen to me,” was all the reply.
“Take this crucifix in your hand, look at it, and listen to me,” was all the reply.
“Yes, father; but let me thoroughly dry your feet first; 'tis ill sitting in wet feet; and you are the holiest man of all whose feet I have washed. I know it by your voice.”
“Yes, Dad; but let me dry your feet properly first; it’s uncomfortable to sit with wet feet, and you’re the most holy man whose feet I’ve washed. I can tell by your voice.”
“Woman, I am not. As for my feet, they can wait their turn. Obey thou me.
“Woman, I'm not. As for my feet, they can wait their turn. You need to obey me.”
“Yes, father,” said the lady humbly. But with a woman's evasive pertinacity she wreathed one towel swiftly round the foot she was drying, and placed his other foot on the dry napkin; then obeyed his command.
“Yes, dad,” said the woman humbly. But with a woman’s persistent evasiveness, she quickly wrapped one towel around the foot she was drying and placed his other foot on the dry napkin; then she complied with his request.
And as she bowed over the crucifix, the low, solemn tones of the friar fell upon her ear, and his words soon made her whole body quiver with various emotion, in quick succession.
And as she leaned over the crucifix, the low, serious voice of the friar reached her ears, and his words soon made her entire body tremble with different emotions, one after another.
“My daughter, he you murdered—in intent—was one Gerard, a Hollander. He loved a creature, as men should love none but their Redeemer and His Church. Heaven chastised him. A letter came to Rome. She was dead.”
“My daughter, the one you caused to be murdered—intentionally—was a guy named Gerard, a Dutchman. He loved someone in a way that men should only love their Savior and His Church. Heaven punished him. A letter arrived in Rome. She was dead.”
“Poor Gerard! Poor Margaret!” moaned the penitent.
“Poor Gerard! Poor Margaret!” lamented the remorseful one.
Clement's voice faltered at this a moment. But soon, by a strong effort, he recovered all his calmness.
Clement's voice hesitated for a moment at this. But soon, with a strong effort, he regained all his composure.
“His feeble nature yielded, body and soul, to the blow, He was stricken down with fever. He revived only to rebel against Heaven. He said, 'There is no God.'”
“His weak nature gave in, body and soul, to the blow. He was brought down by fever. He came back only to rebel against God. He said, 'There is no God.'”
“Poor, poor Gerard!”
“Poor Gerard!”
“Poor Gerard? thou feeble, foolish woman! Nay, wicked, impious Gerard. He plunged into vice, and soiled his eternal jewel: those you met him with were his daily companions; but know, rash creature, that the seeming woman you took to be his leman was but a boy, dressed in woman's habits to flout the others, a fair boy called Andrea. What that Andrea said to thee I know not; but be sure neither he, nor any layman, knows thy folly, This Gerard, rebel against Heaven, was no traitor to thee, unworthy.”
“Poor Gerard? You weak, foolish woman! No, wicked, irreverent Gerard. He fell into vice and tarnished his eternal spirit: those you saw him with were his regular companions; but know, reckless one, that the woman you thought was his lover was actually just a boy, dressed in women’s clothes to mock the others, a pretty boy named Andrea. I don’t know what Andrea said to you; but rest assured, neither he nor any outsider knows your foolishness. This Gerard, a rebel against Heaven, was no traitor to you, unworthy one.”
The lady moaned like one in bodily agony, and the crucifix began to tremble in her trembling hands.
The woman moaned as if she were in physical pain, and the crucifix started to shake in her trembling hands.
“Courage!” said Clement. “Comfort is at hand.”
“Courage!” said Clement. “Comfort is on the way.”
“From crime he fell into despair, and bent on destroying his soul, he stood one night by Tiber, resolved on suicide. He saw one watching him. It was a bravo.”
“From crime he fell into despair, and set on ruining his soul, he stood one night by the Tiber, determined to end his life. He noticed someone watching him. It was a hitman.”
“Holy saints!”
“Holy moly!”
“He begged the bravo to despatch him; he offered him all his money, to slay him body and soul. The bravo would not. Then this desperate sinner, not softened even by that refusal, flung himself into Tiber.”
“He pleaded with the thug to kill him; he offered all his money to end his life. The thug refused. Then this desperate sinner, still unmoved by that refusal, threw himself into the Tiber.”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“And the assassin saved his life. Thou hadst chosen for the task Lodovico, husband of Teresa, whom this Gerard had saved at sea, her and her infant child.”
“And the assassin saved his life. You had chosen for the task Lodovico, husband of Teresa, who Gerard had saved at sea, her and her infant child.”
“He lives! he lives! he lives! I am faint.”
"He's alive! He's alive!"
The friar took the crucifix from her hands, fearing it might fall, A shower of tears relieved her. The friar gave her time; then continued calmly, “Ay, he lives; thanks to thee and thy wickedness, guided to his eternal good by an almighty and all-merciful hand. Thou art his greatest earthly benefactor.”
The friar took the crucifix from her hands, worried it might drop. A flood of tears eased her. The friar gave her a moment; then he calmly continued, “Yes, he lives; thanks to you and your wickedness, led to his eternal good by an all-powerful and all-merciful hand. You are his greatest earthly benefactor.”
“Where is he? where? where?”
"Where is he? Where? Where?"
“What is that to thee?”
"What does that matter to you?"
“Only to see him alive. To beg him on my knees forgive me. I swear to you I will never presume again to—How could I? He knows all. Oh, shame! Father, does he know?”
“Just to see him alive. To beg him on my knees to forgive me. I promise you I will never assume again to—How could I? He knows everything. Oh, the shame! Father, does he know?”
“All.”
“All.”
“Then never will I meet his eye; I should sink into the earth. But I would repair my crime. I would watch his life unseen. He shall rise in the world, whence I so nearly thrust him, poor soul; the Caesare, my family, are all-powerful in Rome; and I am near their head.”
“Then I will never be able to meet his gaze; I would feel like I would disappear into the ground. But I would make up for my wrongdoing. I would observe his life from the shadows. He will rise in the world, from where I almost pushed him down, poor guy; the Caesare, my family, have all the power in Rome; and I am close to their leader.”
“My daughter,” said Clement coldly, “he you call Gerard needs nothing man can do for him. Saved by a miracle from double death, he has left the world, and taken refuge from sin and folly in the bosom of the Church.”
“My daughter,” Clement said coldly, “the one you call Gerard needs nothing that any man can do for him. Saved by a miracle from dying twice, he has left the world and taken refuge from sin and foolishness in the embrace of the Church.”
“A priest?”
“Is that a priest?”
“A priest, and a friar.”
“A priest and a friar.”
“A friar? Then you are not his confessor? Yet you know all. That gentle voice!”
“A friar? So you're not his confessor? But you know everything. That soft voice!”
She raised her head slowly, and peered at him through her mask.
She lifted her head slowly and looked at him through her mask.
The next moment she uttered a faint shriek, and lay with her brow upon his bare feet.
The next moment, she let out a soft gasp and rested her forehead on his bare feet.
CHAPTER LXXV
Clement sighed. He began to doubt whether he had taken the wisest course with a creature so passionate.
Clement sighed. He started to question whether he had made the smartest choice with someone so intense.
But young as he was, he had already learned many lessons of ecclesiastical wisdom. For one thing he had been taught to pause, ie., in certain difficulties, neither to do nor to say anything, until the matter should clear itself a little.
But as young as he was, he had already learned many lessons of church wisdom. For one thing, he had been taught to pause; in certain difficulties, he shouldn’t do or say anything until the situation clarified a bit.
He therefore held his peace and prayed for wisdom.
He stayed quiet and prayed for wisdom.
All he did was gently to withdraw his foot.
All he did was gently pull his foot back.
But his penitent flung her arms round it with a piteous cry, and held it convulsively, and wept over it.
But his remorseful lover wrapped her arms around it with a heartbreaking cry, held it tightly, and wept over it.
And now the agony of shame, as well as penitence, she was in, showed itself by the bright red that crept over her very throat, as she lay quivering at his feet.
And now the pain of shame, along with remorse, she felt was evident by the bright red creeping up her neck as she lay trembling at his feet.
“My daughter,” said Clement gently, “take courage. Torment thyself no more about this Gerard, who is not. As for me, I am Brother Clement, whom Heaven hath sent to thee this day to comfort thee, and help thee save thy soul. Thou last made me thy confessor, I claim, then, thine obedience.”
“My daughter,” said Clement gently, “be brave. Don’t torture yourself any longer about this Gerard, who is not. As for me, I am Brother Clement, sent by Heaven to comfort you today and help you save your soul. Since you have made me your confessor, I ask for your obedience.”
“Oh, yes,” sobbed the penitent.
“Oh, yes,” cried the remorseful.
“Leave this pilgrimage, and instant return to Rome. Penitence abroad is little worth. There where we live lie the temptations we must defeat, or perish; not fly in search of others more showy, but less lethal. Easy to wash the feet of strangers, masked ourselves, Hard to be merely meek and charitable with those about us.”
“Leave this pilgrimage and come back to Rome right away. Repentance away from home is not very valuable. It's where we live that we face the temptations we need to overcome, or we’ll be lost; not to run off looking for more exciting ones that are less dangerous. It’s easy to help strangers while hiding our true selves, but it’s hard to be genuinely humble and kind to those around us.”
“I'll never, never lay finger on her again.”
“I'll never, ever lay a finger on her again.”
“Nay, I speak not of servants only, but of dependents, kinsmen, friends. This be thy penance; the last thing at night, and the first thing after matins, call to mind thy sin, and God His goodness; and so be humble and gentle to the faults of those around thee. The world it courts the rich; but seek thou the poor: not beggars; these for the most are neither honest nor truly poor. But rather find out those who blush to seek thee, yet need thee sore. Giving to them shalt lend to Heaven. Marry a good son of the Church.”
“Nah, I’m not just talking about servants, but also dependents, relatives, and friends. This is your penance: at the last moment before you sleep and the first thing after morning prayers, remember your sins and God's goodness; and be humble and gentle towards the faults of those around you. The world looks after the rich; but seek out the poor—not the beggars, because most of them are neither honest nor truly in need. Instead, find those who are embarrassed to ask for help but really need you. Helping them is like lending to Heaven. Marry a good man from the Church.”
“Me? I will never marry.”
“Me? I’m never getting married.”
“Thou wilt marry within the year. I do entreat and command thee to marry one that feareth God. For thou art very clay. Mated ill thou shalt be naught. But wedding a worthy husband thou mayest, Dei gratia, live a pious princess; ay, and die a saint.”
“You will marry within the year. I urge and command you to marry someone who fears God. For you are very much like clay. If you choose poorly, you will be nothing. But by marrying a worthy husband, you may, with God's grace, live as a pious princess; yes, and die a saint.”
“I?”
"Me?"
“Thou.”
"You."
He then desired her to rise and go about the good work he had set her.
He then asked her to get up and go about the good work he had assigned to her.
She rose to her knees, and removing her mask, cast an eloquent look upon him, then lowered her eyes meekly.
She got down on her knees, took off her mask, gave him a meaningful look, and then lowered her eyes shyly.
“I will obey you as I would an angel. How happy I am, yet unhappy; for oh, my heart tells me I shall never look on you again. I will not go till I have dried your feet.”
"I will obey you like I would an angel. How happy I am, yet sad; for oh, my heart tells me I will never see you again. I won't leave until I've dried your feet."
“It needs not. I have excused thee this bootless penance.”
“It doesn't need to. I've let you off this pointless punishment.”
“'Tis no penance to me. Ah! you do not forgive me, if you will not let me dry your poor feet.”
“It's no trouble for me. Oh! You won't forgive me if you don’t let me dry your poor feet.”
“So be it then,” said Clement resignedly; and thought to himself, “Levius quid foemina.”
“So be it then,” said Clement with a sigh; and thought to himself, “Levius quid foemina.”
But these weak creatures, that gravitate towards the small, as heavenly bodies towards the great, have yet their own flashes of angelic intelligence.
But these fragile beings, who are drawn to the small like celestial bodies are drawn to the massive, still have their own moments of brilliant intelligence.
When the princess had dried the friar's feet, she looked at him with tears in her beautiful eyes, and murmured with singular tenderness and goodness—
When the princess finished drying the friar's feet, she looked at him with tears in her beautiful eyes and softly murmured with unusual tenderness and kindness—
“I will have masses said for her soul. May I?” she added timidly.
“I'll have masses said for her soul. Is that okay?” she added shyly.
This brought a faint blush into the monk's cheek, and moistened his cold blue eye. It came so suddenly from one he was just rating so low.
This caused a slight blush to rise on the monk's cheek and made his cold blue eye moist. It happened so unexpectedly from someone he had just been looking down on.
“It is a gracious thought,” he said. “Do as thou wilt: often such acts fall back on the doer like blessed dew. I am thy confessor, not hers; thine is the soul I must now do my all to save, or woe be to my own. My daughter, my dear daughter, I see good and ill angels fighting for thy soul this day, ay, this moment; oh, fight thou on thine own side. Dost thou remember all I bade thee?”
“It’s a kind thought,” he said. “Do what you want: often such actions come back to the doer like blessed dew. I am your confessor, not hers; it's your soul I must do everything to save, or I will suffer myself. My daughter, my dear daughter, I see good and evil angels fighting for your soul today, yes, at this moment; oh, fight on your own side. Do you remember everything I told you?”
“Remember!” said the princess. “Sweet saint, each syllable of thine is graved in my heart.”
“Remember!” said the princess. “Oh dear, every word you say is etched in my heart.”
“But one word more, then. Pray much to Christ, and little to his saints.”
“But just one more thing, then. Pray a lot to Christ, and a little to his saints.”
“I will.”
"I will."
“And that is the best word I have light to say to thee. So part we on it. Thou to the place becomes thee best, thy father's house, I to my holy mother's work.”
“And that's the best thing I can say to you. So let's leave it at that. You should go to the place that suits you best, your father's house, and I'll go to my holy mother's work.”
“Adieu,” faltered the princess. “Adieu, thou that I have loved too well, hated too ill, known and revered too late; forgiving angel, adieu—for ever.”
“Goodbye,” the princess said weakly. “Goodbye, you whom I have loved too much, hated too little, known and respected too late; forgiving angel, goodbye—for good.”
The monk caught her words, though but faltered in a sigh.
The monk heard her words, but he hesitated with a sigh.
“For ever?” he cried aloud, with sudden ardour. “Christians live 'for ever,' and love 'for ever,' but they never part 'for ever. They part, as part the earth and sun, to meet more brightly in a little while. You and I part here for life. And what is our life? One line in the great story of the Church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the sand of time, one drop in the ocean of 'For ever.' Adieu—for the little moment called 'a life!' We part in trouble, we shall meet in peace: we part creatures of clay, we shall meet immortal spirits: we part in a world of sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is purity and love divine; where no ill passions are, but Christ is, and His saints around Him clad in white. There, in the turning of an hour-glass, in the breaking of a bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, and thou, and I, shall meet again; and sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles and saints, and beam like them with joy unspeakable, in the light of the shadow of God upon His throne, FOR EVER—AND EVER—AND EVER.”
“Forever?” he cried out passionately. “Christians live 'forever' and love 'forever,' but they never part 'forever.' They separate, like the earth and sun, only to reunite more brightly in a little while. You and I part here for this life. And what is our life? Just one line in the grand story of the Church, of which we are a son and daughter; one handful of sand in the vastness of time, one drop in the ocean of 'Forever.' Goodbye—for this brief moment called 'a life!' We part in sadness, but we will meet in peace: we part as fragile beings, but we will meet as immortal spirits: we part in a world filled with sin and sorrow, but we will meet where everything is pure and love divine; where there are no negative passions, but Christ is present, and His saints surround Him dressed in white. There, in the turn of an hourglass, in the burst of a bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, you, and I will meet again; and we'll sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles and saints, and shine like them with indescribable joy, in the light of God's shadow upon His throne, FOREVER—AND EVER—AND EVER.”
And so they parted. The monk erect, his eyes turned heavenwards and glowing with the sacred fire of zeal; the princess slowly retiring and turning more than once to cast a lingering glance of awe and tender regret on that inspired figure.
And so they went their separate ways. The monk stood tall, his eyes fixed on the sky, shining with the passionate fire of devotion; the princess slowly stepped back, glancing back more than once to take in the inspiring figure with a mix of awe and bittersweet longing.
She went home subdued, and purified. Clement, in due course, reached Basle, and entered on his duties, teaching in the University, and preaching in the town and neighbourhood. He led a life that can be comprised in two words; deep study, and mortification. My reader has already a peep into his soul. At Basle he advanced in holy zeal and knowledge.
She went home feeling subdued and renewed. Clement eventually arrived in Basle and started his responsibilities, teaching at the university and preaching in the town and surrounding areas. His life can be summed up in two words: intense study and self-discipline. My reader has already caught a glimpse of his inner self. In Basle, he grew in spiritual fervor and knowledge.
The brethren of his order began to see in him a descendant of the saints and martyrs.
The brothers in his order began to see him as a descendant of the saints and martyrs.
CHAPTER LXXVI
THE HEARTH
When little Gerard was nearly three months old, a messenger came hot from Tergou for Catherine.
When little Gerard was almost three months old, a messenger arrived urgently from Tergou for Catherine.
“Now just you go back,” said she, “and tell them I can't come, and I won't: they have got Kate,” So he departed, and Catherine continued her sentence; “there, child, I must go: they are all at sixes and sevens: this is the third time of asking; and to-morrow my man would come himself and take me home by the ear, with a flea in't.” She then recapitulated her experiences of infants, and instructed Margaret what to do in each coming emergency, and pressed money upon her, Margaret declined it with thanks, Catherine insisted, and turned angry. Margaret made excuses all so reasonable that Catherine rejected them with calm contempt; to her mind they lacked femininity,
“Just go back,” she said, “and tell them I can’t come, and I won’t: they have Kate.” So he left, and Catherine continued her sentence. “Now, child, I have to go: everything is a mess: this is the third time they’ve asked me; and tomorrow my man will come himself and drag me home by my ear, with a reminder.” She then shared her experiences with kids and instructed Margaret on what to do in each upcoming situation, insisting that she take some money. Margaret politely declined, but Catherine insisted and grew angry. Margaret offered excuses that were so reasonable that Catherine dismissed them with calm contempt; to her, they seemed unladylike.
“Come, out with your heart,” said she “and you and me parting; and mayhap shall never see one another's face again.”
“Come on, open your heart,” she said, “and you and I are parting; and maybe we’ll never see each other’s face again.”
“Oh! mother, say not so.”
“Oh! Mom, don’t say that.”
“Alack, girl, I have seen it so often; 'twill come into my mind now at each parting, When I was your age, I never had such a thought, Nay, we were all to live for ever then: so out wi' it.”
“Wow, girl, I've seen it so many times; it'll pop into my mind now every time we say goodbye. When I was your age, I never thought like this. No, we all thought we would live forever back then: so let’s get it out.”
“Well, then, mother—I would rather not have told you—your Cornelis must say to me, 'So you are come to share with us, eh, mistress?' those were his words, I told him I would be very sorry.
“Well, then, mom—I wish I hadn’t had to tell you—your Cornelis said to me, 'So you’re here to join us, huh, miss?' those were his exact words, and I told him I would be very sorry.”
“Beshrew his ill tongue! What signifies it? He will never know,
“Curse his nasty tongue! What does it matter? He will never know,
“Most likely he would sooner or later, But whether or no, I will take no grudged bounty from any family; unless I saw my child starving, and—Heaven only knows what I might do, Nay, mother, give me but thy love—I do prize that above silver, and they grudge me not that, by all I can find—for not a stiver of money will I take out of your house.”
“Most likely he would eventually, but whether he does or not, I won’t accept any grudged gifts from any family; unless I see my child starving, and—Heaven only knows what I might do. No, mother, just give me your love—I value that more than money, and they don’t hold that against me, as far as I can tell—because I won’t take a single penny from your house.”
“You are a foolish lass, Why, were it me, I'd take it just to spite him.”
“You're a silly girl. If it were me, I'd take it just to annoy him.”
“No, you would not, You and I are apples off one tree”
“No, you wouldn’t. You and I are two apples from the same tree.”
Catherine yielded with a good grace; and when the actual parting came, embraces and tears burst forth on both sides.
Catherine accepted it gracefully, and when the actual goodbye happened, hugs and tears flowed from both sides.
When she was gone the child cried a good deal; and all attempts to pacify him failing, Margaret suspected a pin, and searching between his clothes and his skin, found a gold angel incommoding his backbone.
When she left, the child cried a lot; and since all efforts to calm him down failed, Margaret suspected there was a pin, and after checking between his clothes and his skin, she found a gold angel causing discomfort against his backbone.
“There, now, Gerard,” said she to the babe; “I thought granny gave in rather sudden.”
“There, now, Gerard,” she said to the baby; “I thought grandma gave in pretty quickly.”
She took the coin and wrapped it in a piece of linen, and laid it at the bottom of her box, bidding the infant observe she could be at times as resolute as granny herself.
She took the coin, wrapped it in a piece of linen, and placed it at the bottom of her box, telling the baby to notice that she could be just as determined as grandma herself at times.
Catherine told Eli of Margaret's foolish pride, and how she had baffled it. Eli said Margaret was right, and she was wrong.
Catherine told Eli about Margaret's silly pride and how she had confused it. Eli said Margaret was right, and Catherine was wrong.
Catherine tossed her head. Eli pondered.
Catherine flipped her hair. Eli thought about it.
Margaret was not without domestic anxieties. She had still two men to feed, and could not work so hard as she had done. She had enough to do to keep the house, and the child, and cook for them all. But she had a little money laid by, and she used to tell her child his father would be home to help them before it was spent. And with these bright hopes, and that treasury of bliss, her boy, she spent some happy months.
Margaret had her share of worries at home. She still had two men to feed and couldn’t work as hard as she used to. It was already challenging enough to manage the house, take care of the child, and cook for everyone. However, she had a bit of money saved up, and she would tell her child that his father would be back to help them before it ran out. With these hopeful thoughts and the joy of her son, she spent some cheerful months.
Time wore on; and no Gerard came; and stranger still, no news of him.
Time went on, and Gerard never showed up; even more strangely, there was no news about him.
Then her mind was disquieted, and contrary to her nature, which was practical, she was often lost in sad reverie; and sighed in silence. And while her heart was troubled, her money was melting. And so it was, that one day she found the cupboard empty, and looked in her dependents' faces; and at the sight of them, her bosom was all pity; and she appealed to the baby whether she could let grandfather and poor old Martin want a meal; and went and took out Catherine's angel. As she unfolded the linen a tear of gentle mortification fell on it. She sent Martin out to change it. While he was gone a Frenchman came with one of the dealers in illuminated work, who had offered her so poor a price. He told her he was employed by his sovereign to collect masterpieces for her book of hours. Then she showed him the two best things she had; and he was charmed with one of them, viz., the flowers and raspberries and creeping things, which Margaret Van Eyck had shaded. He offered her an unheard-of price. “Nay, flout not my need, good stranger,” said she; “three mouths there be in this house, and none to fill them but me.”
Then her mind was restless, and against her usual nature, which was practical, she often got lost in sad thoughts; and sighed quietly. While her heart was troubled, her money was running out. One day she found the cupboard empty and looked at the faces of her dependents; feeling pity for them, she wondered if she could let grandfather and poor old Martin go without a meal; she went and took out Catherine's angel. As she unfolded the linen, a tear of gentle embarrassment fell on it. She sent Martin out to change it. While he was gone, a Frenchman arrived with one of the dealers in illuminated work, who had previously offered her a poor price. He told her he was commissioned by his sovereign to collect masterpieces for her book of hours. Then she showed him the two best things she had, and he was enchanted by one of them, specifically the flowers and raspberries and creeping things that Margaret Van Eyck had shaded. He offered her an amazing price. “Please don't mock my need, kind stranger,” she said; “there are three mouths to feed in this house, and I'm the only one to do it.”
Curious arithmetic! Left out No. 1.
Curious math! Left out No. 1.
“I'd out thee not, fair mistress. My princess charged me strictly, 'Seek the best craftsmen'; but I will no hard bargains; make them content with me, and me with them.'”
“I wouldn’t betray you, my lady. My princess instructed me clearly, 'Find the best craftsmen'; but I won’t push too hard; let’s make sure they’re happy with me, and I’m happy with them.”
The next minute Margaret was on her knees kissing little Gerard in the cradle, and showering four gold pieces on him again and again, and relating the whole occurrence to him in very broken Dutch,
The next minute, Margaret was on her knees, kissing little Gerard in the cradle, tossing four gold coins on him over and over, and telling him the whole story in very broken Dutch,
“And oh, what a good princess: wasn't she? We will pray for her, won't we, my lambkin; when we are old enough?”
“And oh, what a good princess: wasn't she? We will pray for her, won't we, my dear; when we are old enough?”
Martin came in furious. “They will not change it. I trow they think I stole it.”
Martin came in angry. “They won’t change it. I bet they think I stole it.”
“I am beholden to thee,” said Margaret hastily, and almost snatched it from Martin, and wrapped it up again, and restored it to its hiding-place.
“I owe you one,” said Margaret quickly, almost grabbing it from Martin, wrapping it up again, and putting it back in its hiding spot.
Ere these unexpected funds were spent, she got to her ironing and starching again. In the midst of which Martin sickened; and died after an illness of nine days.
Before these unexpected funds were spent, she got back to her ironing and starching. In the middle of that, Martin fell ill and died after being sick for nine days.
Nearly all her money went to bury him decently.
Almost all her money went to give him a proper burial.
He was gone; and there was an empty chair by her fireside, For he had preferred the hearth to the sun as soon as the Busy Body was gone.
He was gone, and there was an empty chair by her fireplace. He had chosen the warmth of the fire over the sunlight as soon as the Busy Body left.
Margaret would not allow anybody to sit in this chair now. Yet whenever she let her eye dwell too long on it vacant, it was sure to cost her a tear.
Margaret wouldn’t let anyone sit in this chair now. But whenever she looked at it empty for too long, it always made her tear up.
And now there was nobody to carry her linen home, To do it herself she must leave little Gerard in charge of a neighbour, But she dared not trust such a treasure to mortal; and besides she could not bear him out of her sight for hours and hours. So she set inquiries on foot for a boy to carry her basket on Saturday and Monday.
And now there was no one to take her laundry home. To do it herself, she would have to leave little Gerard with a neighbor, but she didn’t dare trust such a precious child to anyone. Besides, she couldn’t stand to be away from him for hours. So, she started looking for a boy to carry her basket on Saturday and Monday.
A plump, fresh-coloured youth, called Luke Peterson, who looked fifteen, but was eighteen, came in, and blushing, and twiddling his bonnet, asked her if a man would not serve her turn as well as a boy.
A chubby, fresh-faced guy named Luke Peterson, who looked fifteen but was actually eighteen, walked in, blushing and fiddling with his hat, and asked her if a man wouldn't work just as well as a boy.
Before he spoke she was saying to herself, “This boy will just do.”
Before he spoke, she was thinking to herself, “This guy will do just fine.”
But she took the cue, and said, “Nay; but a man will maybe seek more than I can well pay.
But she took the hint and said, “No; but a guy might want more than I can really afford.”
“Not I,” said Luke warmly. “Why, Mistress Margaret, I am your neighbour, and I do very well at the coopering. I can carry your basket for you before or after my day's work, and welcome, You have no need to pay me anything. 'Tisn't as if we were strangers, ye know.”
“Not me,” Luke said with warmth. “Why, Mistress Margaret, I’m your neighbor, and I’m really good at coopering. I can carry your basket for you before or after my workday, and it’s no trouble at all. You don’t need to pay me anything. It’s not like we’re strangers, you know.”
“Why, Master Luke, I know your face, for that matter; but I cannot call to mind that ever a word passed between us.”
“Why, Master Luke, I recognize your face, but I can’t remember if we’ve ever spoken.”
“Oh yes, you did, Mistress Margaret. What, have you forgotten? One day you were trying to carry your baby and eke your pitcher full o' water; and quo' I, 'Give me the baby to carry.' 'Nay, says you, 'I'll give you the pitcher, and keep the bairn myself;' and I carried the pitcher home, and you took it from me at this door, and you said to me, 'I am muckle obliged to you, young man,' with such a sweet voice; not like the folk in this street speak to a body.”
“Oh yes, you did, Mistress Margaret. Have you forgotten? One day you were trying to carry your baby and fill your pitcher with water, and I said, ‘Let me carry the baby.’ You replied, ‘No, I’ll give you the pitcher and keep the baby myself.’ I carried the pitcher home, and you took it from me at this door, saying, ‘I really appreciate it, young man,’ in such a sweet voice; not like the way people in this street talk to someone.”
“I do mind now, Master Luke; and methinks it was the least I could say.”
“I care now, Master Luke; and I think it was the least I could say.”
“Well, Mistress Margaret, if you will say as much every time I carry your basket, I care not how often I bear it, nor how far.”
“Well, Mistress Margaret, if you’re going to say that every time I carry your basket, I don’t mind how often I do it or how far I have to go.”
“Nay, nay,” said Margaret, colouring faintly. “I would not put upon good nature, You are young, Master Luke, and kindly. Say I give you your supper on Saturday night, when you bring the linen home, and your dawn-mete o' Monday; would that make us anyways even?”
“Naw, naw,” said Margaret, blushing slightly. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your kindness. You’re young, Master Luke, and nice. If I give you your dinner on Saturday night when you bring back the linens, and your breakfast on Monday morning; would that make us even?”
“As you please; only say not I sought a couple o' diets! for such a trifle as yon.”
“As you wish; just don’t say I asked for a couple of diets! For something as trivial as that.”
With chubby-faced Luke's timely assistance, and the health and strength which Heaven gave this poor young woman, to balance her many ills, the house went pretty smoothly awhile. But the heart became more and more troubled by Gerard's long, and now most mysterious silence.
With chubby-faced Luke's timely help, and the health and strength that Heaven granted this poor young woman to offset her many troubles, the house ran pretty smoothly for a while. But her heart became increasingly troubled by Gerard's long and now very mysterious silence.
And then that mental torturer, Suspense, began to tear her heavy heart with his hot pincers, till she cried often and vehemently, “Oh, that I could know the worst.”
And then that mental tormentor, Suspense, started to rip at her heavy heart with his hot pincers, until she frequently and passionately cried out, “Oh, how I wish I could know the worst.”
Whilst she was in this state, one day she heard a heavy step mount the stair. She started and trembled, “That is no step that I know. Ill tidings?”
While she was in this state, one day she heard a heavy step coming up the stairs. She jumped and trembled, “That’s not a step I recognize. Bad news?”
The door opened, and an unexpected visitor, Eli, came in, looking grave and kind.
The door swung open, and an unexpected visitor, Eli, walked in, looking serious and friendly.
Margaret eyed him in silence, and with increasing agitation,
Margaret watched him quietly, her anxiety growing.
“Girl.” said he, “the skipper is come back.”
“Girl,” he said, “the captain is back.”
“One word,” gasped Margaret; “is he alive?”
"One word," gasped Margaret; "is he alive?"
“Surely I hope so. No one has seen him dead.”
“Of course, I hope so. No one has seen him dead.”
“Then they must have seen him alive.”
“Then they must have seen him alive.”
“No, girl; neither dead nor alive hath he been seen this many months in Rome. My daughter Kate thinks he is gone to some other city. She bade me tell you her thought.”
“No, girl; he hasn’t been seen in Rome for months, dead or alive. My daughter Kate thinks he’s gone to another city. She asked me to share her thoughts with you.”
“Ay, like enough,” said Margaret gloomily; “like enough. My poor babe!”
“Ay, probably,” said Margaret sadly; “probably. My poor baby!”
The old man in a faintish voice asked her for a morsel to eat: he had come fasting.
The old man, his voice barely above a whisper, asked her for a bite to eat: he had come without having anything.
The poor thing pitied him with the surface of her agitated mind, and cooked a meal for him, trembling, and scarce knowing what she was about.
The poor thing felt sorry for him with the chaos in her mind, and cooked him a meal, shaking and barely aware of what she was doing.
Ere he went he laid his hand upon her head, and said, “Be he alive, or be he dead, I look on thee as my daughter. Can I do nought for thee this day? bethink thee now?”
Ere he went he laid his hand upon her head, and said, “Whether he's alive or dead, I see you as my daughter. Is there nothing I can do for you today? Think about it now?”
“Ay, old man. Pray for him; and for me!”
“Aye, old man. Please pray for him; and for me!”
Eli sighed, and went sadly and heavily down the stairs.
Eli sighed and slowly walked down the stairs with a heavy heart.
She listened half stupidly to his retiring footsteps till they ceased. Then she sank moaning down by the cradle, and drew little Gerard tight to her bosom. “Oh, my poor fatherless boy; my fatherless boy!”
She listened, feeling a bit dazed, to his fading footsteps until they stopped completely. Then she sank down beside the cradle, moaning, and pulled little Gerard tightly against her chest. “Oh, my poor fatherless boy; my fatherless boy!”
CHAPTER LXXVII
Not long after this, as the little family at Tergou sat at dinner, Luke Peterson burst in on them, covered with dust. “Good people, Mistress Catherine is wanted instantly at Rotterdam.”
Not long after this, as the small family at Tergou sat down for dinner, Luke Peterson burst in on them, covered in dust. “Good people, Mistress Catherine is needed immediately in Rotterdam.”
“My name is Catherine, young man. Kate, it will be Margaret.”
“My name is Catherine, young man. Kate, it will be Margaret.”
“Ay, dame, she said to me, 'Good Luke, hie thee to Tergou, and ask for Eli the hosier, and pray his wife Catherine to come to me, for God His love.' I didn't wait for daylight.”
“Ay, lady,” she said to me, “Good Luke, hurry to Tergou and ask for Eli the hosier, and please tell his wife Catherine to come to me, for the love of God.” I didn’t wait for dawn.
“Holy saints! He has come home, Kate. Nay, she would sure have said so. What on earth can it be?” And she heaped conjecture on conjecture.
“Holy saints! He's back home, Kate. No way, she definitely would have mentioned it. What in the world could it be?” And she piled up speculation on speculation.
“Mayhap the young man can tell us,” hazarded Kate timidly.
“Maybe the young man can tell us,” suggested Kate shyly.
“That I can,” said Luke, “Why, her babe is a-dying, And she was so wrapped up in it!”
"Of course, I can," said Luke. "Well, her baby is dying, and she was so focused on it!"
Catherine started up: “What is his trouble?”
Catherine asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nay, I know not. But it has been peaking and pining worse and worse this while.”
“Nah, I don’t really know. But it’s been getting more and more intense this whole time.”
A furtive glance of satisfaction passed between Cornelis and Sybrandt. Luckily for them Catherine did not see it. Her face was turned towards her husband. “Now, Eli,” cried she furiously, “if you say a word against it, you and I shall quarrel, after all these years.'
A quick look of satisfaction exchanged between Cornelis and Sybrandt. Fortunately for them, Catherine missed it. Her gaze was fixed on her husband. “Now, Eli,” she shouted angrily, “if you say even one word against it, we’ll end up fighting, after all these years.”
“Who gainsays thee, foolish woman? Quarrel with your own shadow, while I go borrow Peter's mule for ye.”
“Who disagrees with you, you foolish woman? Argue with your own shadow while I go borrow Peter's mule for you.”
“Bless thee, my good man! Bless thee! Didst never yet fail me at a pinch, Now eat your dinners who can, while I go and make ready.”
“Bless you, my good man! Bless you! You’ve never let me down when it mattered. Now, you all eat your dinner while I go and get things ready.”
She took Luke back with her in the cart, and on the way questioned and cross-questioned him severely and seductively by turns, till she had turned his mind inside out, what there was of it.
She took Luke back with her in the cart, and on the way, she questioned and interrogated him intensely and playfully, until she had completely exposed his thoughts, whatever he had.
Margaret met her at the door, pale and agitated, and threw her arms round her neck, and looked imploringly in her face.
Margaret met her at the door, looking pale and anxious, and wrapped her arms around her neck, gazing at her with pleading eyes.
“Come, he is alive, thank God,” said Catherine, after scanning her eagerly.
"Come on, he's alive, thank God," said Catherine, after looking at her eagerly.
She looked at the failing child, and then at the poor hollow-eyed mother, alternately, “Lucky you sent for me,” said she, “The child is poisoned.”
She looked at the sick child and then at the weary, hollow-eyed mother, back and forth. “Good thing you called for me,” she said, “The child is poisoned.”
“Poisoned! by whom?”
"Poisoned! By who?"
“By you. You have been fretting.”
"By you. You've been stressed."
“Nay, indeed, mother. How can I help fretting?”
“Nah, really, mom. How can I stop worrying?”
“Don't tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother has no business to fret. She must turn her mind away from her grief to the comfort that lies in her lap. Know you not that the child pines if the mother vexes herself? This comes of your reading and writing. Those idle crafts befit a man; but they keep all useful knowledge out of a woman. The child must be weaned.”
“Don’t tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother shouldn’t be worried. She needs to focus on the comfort that’s right in front of her. Don’t you know that the baby suffers if the mother stresses out? This is what comes from your reading and writing. Those pointless activities are suited for men, but they prevent women from gaining any real knowledge. The baby needs to be weaned.”
“Oh, you cruel woman,” cried Margaret vehemently; “I am sorry I sent for you. Would you rob me of the only bit of comfort I have in the world? A-nursing my Gerard, I forget I am the most unhappy creature beneath the sun.”
“Oh, you heartless woman,” cried Margaret passionately; “I regret calling you here. Would you take away the only source of comfort I have in the world? Taking care of my Gerard makes me forget that I am the most miserable person under the sun.”
“That you do not,” was the retort, “or he would not be the way he is.”
“That you don’t,” was the reply, “or he wouldn’t be the way he is.”
“Mother!” said Margaret imploringly.
“Mom!” said Margaret imploringly.
“'Tis hard,” replied Catherine, relenting. “But bethink thee; would it not be harder to look down and see his lovely wee face a-looking up at you out of a little coffin?”
“It's hard,” replied Catherine, softening. “But think about it; wouldn't it be harder to look down and see his sweet little face looking up at you from a small coffin?”
“Oh, Jesu!”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“And how could you face your other troubles with your heart aye full, and your lap empty?”
“And how could you deal with your other problems when your heart is full and your lap is empty?”
“Oh, mother, I consent to anything. Only save my boy.”
“Oh, Mom, I’ll agree to anything. Just please save my son.”
“That is a good lass, Trust to me! I do stand by, and see clearer than thou.”
"That's a good girl, trust me! I’m standing right here and I see things clearer than you do."
Unfortunately there was another consent to be gained—the babe's; and he was more refractory than his mother.
Unfortunately, there was another approval to get—the baby’s; and he was more difficult than his mother.
“There,” said Margaret, trying to affect regret at his misbehaviour; “he loves me too well.”
“See,” said Margaret, trying to sound regretful about his bad behavior; “he loves me too much.”
But Catherine was a match for them both. As she came along she had observed a healthy young woman, sitting outside her own door, with an infant, hard by. She went and told her the case; and would she nurse the pining child for the nonce, till she had matters ready to wean him?
But Catherine was more than a match for them both. As she walked by, she noticed a healthy young woman sitting outside her door with a baby nearby. She approached her and explained the situation, asking if she could care for the sick child for a little while until she was ready to wean him.
The young woman consented with a smile, and popped her child into the cradle, and came into Margaret's house. She dropped a curtsey, and Catherine put the child into her hands. She examined, and pitied it, and purred over it, and proceeded to nurse it, just as if it had been her own.
The young woman smiled and placed her child in the cradle before entering Margaret's house. She curtsied, and Catherine handed the child to her. She looked at it with sympathy, cooed at it, and began to nurse it, just as if it were her own.
Margaret, who had been paralyzed at her assurance, cast a rueful look at Catherine, and burst out crying.
Margaret, caught off guard by her confidence, glanced sadly at Catherine and started to cry.
The visitor looked up. “What is to do? Wife, ye told me not the mother was unwilling.”
The visitor looked up. “What should I do? Wife, you didn’t tell me that the mother was unwilling.”
“She is not: she is only a fool. Never heed her; and you, Margaret, I am ashamed of you.”
“She’s not; she’s just being foolish. Don’t listen to her; and you, Margaret, I’m disappointed in you.”
“You are a cruel, hard-hearted woman,” sobbed Margaret.
“You're a cruel, cold-hearted woman,” Margaret cried.
“Them as take in hand to guide the weak need be hardish. And you will excuse me; but you are not my flesh and blood; and your boy is.”
“The people who take on the responsibility of guiding the weak need to be a bit tough. And you'll have to forgive me, but you’re not my family; your boy is.”
After giving this blunt speech time to sink, she added, “Come now, she is robbing her own to save yours, and you can think of nothing better than bursting out a-blubbering in the woman's face. Out fie, for shame!”
After letting this blunt speech sink in, she added, “Come on, she is taking from her own to save yours, and you can think of nothing better than bursting into tears in front of her. How shameful!”
“Nay, wife,” said the nurse. “Thank Heaven, I have enough for my own and for hers to boot. And prithee wyte not on her! Maybe the troubles o' life ha' soured her own milk.”
“Nah, wife,” said the nurse. “Thank goodness, I have enough for myself and for her too. And please don’t blame her! Maybe the troubles of life have soured her own milk.”
“And her heart into the bargain,” said the remorseless Catherine.
“And her heart as well,” said the unfeeling Catherine.
Margaret looked her full in the face; and down went her eyes.
Margaret looked straight at her; and then she looked down.
“I know I ought to be very grateful to you,” sobbed Margaret to the nurse: then turned her head and leaned away over the chair, not to witness the intolerable sight of another nursing her Gerard, and Gerard drawing no distinction between this new mother and her the banished one.
“I know I should be really grateful to you,” Margaret sobbed to the nurse; then she turned her head and leaned away over the chair, not wanting to see the unbearable sight of someone else taking care of her Gerard, while Gerard showed no difference between this new mother and her, the one who had been cast aside.
The nurse replied, “You are very welcome, my poor woman. And so are you, Mistress Catherine, which are my townswoman, and know it not.”
The nurse replied, “You’re very welcome, my poor woman. And you as well, Mistress Catherine, who is my fellow townswoman and doesn’t even know it.”
“What, are ye from Tergou? all the better, But I cannot call your face to mind.”
“What, you're from Tergou? That's great, but I can't seem to remember your face.”
“Oh, you know not me: my husband and me, we are very humble folk by you. But true Eli and his wife are known of all the town; and respected, So, I am at your call, dame; and at yours, wife; and yours, my pretty poppet; night or day.”
“Oh, you don’t know me: my husband and I are very humble folks around here. But true Eli and his wife are well known and respected in the whole town. So, I’m at your service, ma’am; and yours, miss; and yours, my dear little one; any time, day or night.”
“There's a woman of the right old sort,” said Catherine, as the door closed upon her.
“There's a woman of the right kind,” said Catherine, as the door closed behind her.
“I HATE her. I HATE her. I HATE her,” said Margaret, with wonderful fervour.
“I HATE her. I HATE her. I HATE her,” said Margaret, with amazing passion.
Catherine only laughed at this outburst.
Catherine just laughed at this outburst.
“That is right,” said she; “better say it, as set sly and think it. It is very natural after all, Come, here is your bundle o' comfort. Take and hate that, if ye can;” and she put the child in her lap.
“That’s right,” she said; “it’s better to say it than to just think it quietly. It’s very natural after all. Come on, here’s your bundle of comfort. Go ahead and hate that if you can,” and she placed the child in her lap.
“No, no,” said Margaret, turning her head half way from him; she could not for her life turn the other half. “He is not my child now; he is hers. I know not why she left him here, for my part. It was very good of her not to take him to her house, cradle and all; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh oh! oh!”
“No, no,” said Margaret, turning her head halfway away from him; she couldn’t bring herself to turn the other half. “He’s not my child anymore; he belongs to her. I don’t know why she left him here, honestly. It was really nice of her not to take him to her place, cradle and all; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh oh! oh!”
“Ah! well, one comfort, he is not dead. This gives me light: some other woman has got him away from me; like father, like son; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!”
“Ah! well, one comfort, he is not dead. This gives me hope: some other woman has taken him from me; like father, like son; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!”
Catherine was sorry for her, and let her cry in peace. And after that, when she wanted Joan's aid, she used to take Gerard out, to give him a little fresh air. Margaret never objected; nor expressed the least incredulity; but on their return was always in tears.
Catherine felt sorry for her and let her cry in peace. After that, whenever she needed Joan's help, she'd take Gerard out for a bit of fresh air. Margaret never complained or showed any doubt; but when they came back, she was always in tears.
This connivance was short-lived. She was now altogether as eager to wean little Gerard. It was done; and he recovered health and vigour; and another trouble fell upon him directly teething, But here Catherine's experience was invaluable; and now, in the midst of her grief and anxiety about the father, Margaret had moments of bliss, watching the son's tiny teeth come through. “Teeth, mother? I call them not teeth, but pearls of pearls.” And each pearl that peeped and sparkled on his red gums, was to her the greatest feat Nature had ever achieved.
This conspiracy didn't last long. She was now completely eager to get little Gerard off his milk. It happened, and he regained his health and energy; then another challenge arose right away—teething. But Catherine's experience was invaluable here; and now, in the middle of her worry and stress about the father, Margaret had moments of pure joy watching her son's tiny teeth come in. “Teeth, mother? I don't call them teeth, but pearls of pearls.” And each pearl that peeked and sparkled on his red gums was, to her, the greatest accomplishment Nature had ever pulled off.
Her companion partook the illusion. And had we told them standing corn was equally admirable, Margaret would have changed to a reproachful gazelle, and Catherine turned us out of doors; so each pearl's arrival was announced with a shriek of triumph by whichever of them was the fortunate discoverer.
Her friend bought into the illusion. And if we had said that standing corn was just as impressive, Margaret would have turned into a scolding gazelle, and Catherine would have kicked us out; so each time a pearl was found, it was celebrated with a triumphant shout from whoever was lucky enough to discover it.
Catherine gossiped with Joan, and learned that she was the wife of Jorian Ketel of Tergou, who had been servant to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, but fallen out of favour, and come back to Rotterdam, his native place. His friends had got him the place of sexton to the parish, and what with that and carpentering, he did pretty well.
Catherine chatted with Joan and found out that she was the wife of Jorian Ketel from Tergou. He had once been a servant to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten but had fallen out of favor. Jorian returned to Rotterdam, his hometown. His friends helped him get a job as the sexton for the parish, and between that and carpentry, he was doing pretty well.
Catherine told Joan in return whose child it was she had nursed, and all about Margaret and Gerard, and the deep anxiety his silence had plunged them in. “Ay,” said Joan, “the world is full of trouble.” One day she said to Catherine, “It's my belief my man knows more about your Gerard than anybody in these parts; but he has got to be closer than ever of late. Drop in some day just afore sunset, and set him talking. And for our Lady's sake say not I set you on. The only hiding he ever gave me was for babbling his business; and I do not want another. Gramercy! I married a man for the comfort of the thing, not to be hided.”
Catherine told Joan whose child she had nursed and all about Margaret and Gerard, and how worried they were because of his silence. “Yeah,” said Joan, “the world is full of problems.” One day she said to Catherine, “I believe my man knows more about your Gerard than anyone around here; but he’s been really quiet lately. Stop by some day just before sunset and get him talking. And for our Lady's sake, don’t say I sent you. The only trouble I ever got from him was for talking about his business, and I don’t want that again. Goodness! I married a man for the comfort of it, not to be kept in the dark.”
Catherine dropped in. Jorian was ready enough to tell her how he had befriended her son and perhaps saved his life. But this was no news to Catherine; and the moment she began to cross-question him as to whether he could guess why her lost boy neither came nor wrote, he cast a grim look at his wife, who received it with a calm air of stolid candour and innocent unconsciousness; and his answers became short and sullen.
Catherine stopped by. Jorian was willing to tell her how he had made friends with her son and maybe even saved his life. But Catherine already knew this; as soon as she started asking him if he could figure out why her missing son hadn’t come or written, he shot a serious look at his wife, who responded with a calm expression of straightforward honesty and cluelessness; and his replies turned short and moody.
“What should he know more than another?” and so on. He added, after a pause, “Think you the burgomaster takes such as me into his secrets?”
“What should he know that I don’t?” and so on. He added, after a pause, “Do you think the mayor shares his secrets with someone like me?”
“Oh, then the burgomaster knows something?” said Catherine sharply.
“Oh, so the mayor knows something?” Catherine said sharply.
“Likely. Who else should?”
"Probably. Who else would?"
“I'll ask him.”
"I'm going to ask him."
“I would.”
"Sure."
“And tell him you say he knows.”
“And tell him you say he knows.”
“That is right, dame. Go make him mine enemy. That is what a poor fellow always gets if he says a word to you women.”
"That's right, lady. Go make him my enemy. That's what a poor guy gets if he says anything to you women."
And Jorian from that moment shrunk in and became impenetrable as a hedgehog, and almost as prickly.
And from that moment, Jorian pulled back and became as unapproachable as a hedgehog, and almost just as prickly.
His conduct caused both the poor women agonies of mind, alarm, and irritated curiosity. Ghysbrecht was for some cause Gerard's mortal enemy; had stopped his marriage, imprisoned him, hunted him. And here was his late servant, who when off his guard had hinted that this enemy had the clue to Gerard's silence. After sifting Jorian's every word and look, all remained dark and mysterious. Then Catherine told Margaret to go herself to him. “You are young, you are fair. You will maybe get more out of him than I could.”
His actions caused both women deep distress, worry, and irritated curiosity. Ghysbrecht was somehow Gerard's sworn enemy; he had halted his marriage, imprisoned him, and hunted him down. And now here was his former servant, who, when unguarded, had suggested that this enemy held the key to Gerard's silence. After dissecting Jorian's every word and glance, everything still felt obscure and puzzling. Then Catherine told Margaret to approach him herself. “You’re young and attractive. You might be able to get more out of him than I could.”
The conjecture was a reasonable one.
The guess was a reasonable one.
Margaret went with her child in her arms and tapped timidly at Jorian's door just before sunset. “Come in,” said a sturdy voice. She entered, and there sat Jorian by the fireside. At sight of her he rose, snorted, and burst out of the house. “Is that for me, wife?” inquired Margaret, turning very red.
Margaret walked in with her child in her arms and knocked softly on Jorian's door just before sunset. “Come in,” a strong voice called out. She stepped inside, and there was Jorian by the fireside. When he saw her, he got up, snorted, and rushed out of the house. “Is that for me, wife?” Margaret asked, blushing deeply.
“You must excuse him,” replied Joan, rather coldly; “he lays it to your door that he is a poor man instead of a rich one. It is something about a piece of parchment, There was one amissing, and he got nought from the burgomaster all along of that one.”
“You have to excuse him,” Joan replied, somewhat coldly; “he blames you for being a poor man instead of a rich one. It’s something about a piece of parchment. One was missing, and he didn’t get anything from the mayor because of that one.”
“Alas! Gerard took it.”
“Sadly, Gerard took it.”
“Likely, But my man says you should not have let him: you were pledged to him to keep them all safe. And sooth to Say, I blame not my Jorian for being wroth, 'Tis hard for a poor man to be so near fortune and lose it by those he has befriended. However, I tell him another story. Says I, 'Folk that are out o' trouble like you and me didn't ought to be too hard on folk that are in trouble; and she has plenty. Going already? What is all your hurry, mistress?”
“Probably, but my guy says you shouldn't have let him: you promised to keep them all safe. Honestly, I don't blame my Jorian for being angry; it's tough for a poor man to be so close to fortune and lose it because of those he has helped. However, I tell him a different story. I say, 'People like you and me who aren't in trouble shouldn't be too hard on those who are; and she has a lot of it. Leaving already? What's the rush, ma'am?”
“Oh, it is not for me to drive the goodman out of his own house.”
“Oh, it’s not my place to kick the homeowner out of his own house.”
“Well, let me kiss the bairn afore ye go. He is not in fault anyway, poor innocent.”
“Well, let me kiss the baby before you go. He’s not to blame at all, poor little one.”
Upon this cruel rebuff Margaret came to a resolution, which she did not confide even to Catherine.
Upon this harsh rejection, Margaret made a decision that she didn't share with Catherine.
After six weeks' stay that good woman returned home.
After staying for six weeks, that good woman returned home.
On the child's birthday, which occurred soon after, Margaret did no work; but put on her Sunday clothes, and took her boy in her arms and went to the church and prayed there long and fervently for Gerard's safe return.
On the child's birthday, which happened soon after, Margaret didn't work; she put on her Sunday clothes, took her boy in her arms, and went to the church to pray there long and passionately for Gerard's safe return.
That same day and hour Father Clement celebrated a mass and prayed for Margaret's departed soul in the minster church at Basle.
That same day and hour, Father Clement held a mass and prayed for Margaret's departed soul in the cathedral at Basel.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
Some blackguard or other, I think it was Sybrandt, said, “A lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe.”
Some scoundrel or another, I think it was Sybrandt, said, “A lie isn't the same as getting hit with a short axe.”
True: for we can predict in some degree the consequences of a stroke with any material weapon. But a lie has no bounds at all. The nature of the thing is to ramify beyond human calculation.
True: we can somewhat predict the consequences of a strike with any physical weapon. But a lie has no limits whatsoever. The essence of it is to spread beyond any human calculation.
Often in the everyday world a lie has cost a life, or laid waste two or three.
Often in everyday life, a lie has cost a life or ruined two or three.
And so, in this story, what tremendous consequences of that one heartless falsehood!
And so, in this story, what huge consequences came from that one cruel lie!
Yet the tellers reaped little from it.
Yet the tellers gained little from it.
The brothers, who invented it merely to have one claimant the less for their father's property, saw little Gerard take their brother's place in their mother's heart. Nay, more, one day Eli openly proclaimed that, Gerard being lost, and probably dead, he had provided by will for little Gerard, and also for Margaret, his poor son's widow.
The brothers, who created it just to have one less person claiming their father's property, watched as little Gerard took their brother's spot in their mother's heart. Furthermore, one day Eli openly announced that since Gerard was missing and likely dead, he had arranged in his will for little Gerard and also for Margaret, his poor son's widow.
At this the look that passed between the black sheep was a caution to traitors. Cornelis had it on his lips to say. Gerard was most likely alive, But he saw his mother looking at him, and checked himself in time.
At this, the glance exchanged between the black sheep served as a warning to traitors. Cornelis almost spoke up to say Gerard was probably alive, but he noticed his mother watching him and caught himself just in time.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the other partner in that lie, was now a failing man. He saw the period fast approaching when all his wealth would drop from his body, and his misdeeds cling to his soul.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the other partner in that lie, was now a struggling man. He realized the time was quickly coming when all his wealth would slip away, and his wrongdoings would weigh heavily on his soul.
Too intelligent to deceive himself entirely, he had never been free from gusts of remorse. In taking Gerard's letter to Margaret he had compounded. “I cannot give up land and money,” said his giant Avarice. “I will cause her no unnecessary pain,” said his dwarf Conscience.
Too smart to completely fool himself, he was never free from moments of regret. In delivering Gerard's letter to Margaret, he had made a choice. “I can’t give up land and money,” said his greedy side. “I won’t inflict any extra pain on her,” said his guilty conscience.
So, after first tampering with the seal, and finding there was not a syllable about the deed, he took it to her with his own hand; and made a merit of it to himself: a set-off; and on a scale not uncommon where the self-accuser is the judge.
So, after messing with the seal and discovering there wasn't a word about the deed, he brought it to her himself; and he saw it as a way to earn some credit for himself: a justification; and on a level that's not unusual when the person blaming themselves is also the judge.
The birth of Margaret's child surprised and shocked him, and put his treacherous act in a new light. Should his letter take effect he should cause the dishonour of her who was the daughter of one friend, the granddaughter of another, and whose land he was keeping from her too.
The birth of Margaret's child caught him off guard and made him rethink his deceitful actions. If his letter took effect, he would bring shame to the woman who was the daughter of one friend, the granddaughter of another, and whose land he was also denying her.
These thoughts preying on him at that period of life when the strength of body decays, and the memory of old friends revives, filled him with gloomy horrors. Yet he was afraid to confess. For the cure was an honest man, and would have made him disgorge. And with him Avarice was an ingrained habit, Penitence only a sentiment.
These thoughts weighing on him at that point in life when his body was losing its strength, and memories of old friends were coming back, filled him with dark fears. Yet he was too scared to admit it. The doctor was a straight shooter and would have insisted he face the truth. For him, greed was a deep-rooted habit, and remorse was just a feeling.
Matters were thus when, one day, returning from the town hall to his own house, he found a woman waiting for him in the vestibule, with a child in her arms. She was veiled, and so, concluding she had something to be ashamed of, he addressed her magisterially, On this she let down her veil and looked him full in the face.
Things were like this when, one day, as he was returning from the town hall to his house, he found a woman waiting for him in the entrance, holding a child in her arms. She was wearing a veil, so he assumed she had something to hide and spoke to her in a formal tone. In response, she lifted her veil and looked him straight in the eye.
It was Margaret Brandt.
It was Margaret Brandt.
Her sudden appearance and manner startled him, and he could not conceal his confusion.
Her sudden appearance and behavior surprised him, and he couldn't hide his confusion.
“Where is my Gerard?” cried she, her bosom heaving. “Is he alive?”
“Where is my Gerard?” she cried, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Is he alive?”
“For aught I know,” stammered Ghysbrecht. “I hope so, for your sake. Prithee come into this room. The servants!”
“For all I know,” stammered Ghysbrecht. “I hope so, for your sake. Please come into this room. The servants!”
“Not a step,” said Margaret, and she took him by the shoulder, and held him with all the energy of an excited woman. “You know the secret of that which is breaking my heart. Why does not my Gerard come, nor send a line this many months? Answer me, or all the town is like to hear me, let alone thy servants, My misery is too great to be sported with.”
“Not a single step,” said Margaret, taking him by the shoulder and holding him tightly with all the energy of an excited woman. “You know the secret of what’s breaking my heart. Why hasn’t Gerard come or even sent a note in all these months? Answer me, or the whole town will hear me, not to mention your servants. My misery is too great to be joked about.”
In vain he persisted he knew nothing about Gerard. She told him those who had sent her to him told her another tale.
In vain he insisted he knew nothing about Gerard. She told him that those who had sent her to him had shared a different story.
“You do know why he neither comes nor sends,” said she firmly.
“You know why he hasn’t come or sent anything,” she said confidently.
At this Ghysbrecht turned paler and paler; but he summoned all his dignity, and said, “Would you believe those two knaves against a man of worship?”
At this, Ghysbrecht became paler and paler; but he gathered all his dignity and said, “Would you really trust those two rogues over a respected man?”
“What two knaves?” said she keenly.
"What two fools?" she asked sharply.
He stammered, “Said ye not—? There I am a poor old broken man, whose memory is shaken. And you come here, and confuse me so, I know not what I say.”
He stammered, “Did you not say—? Here I am, a poor old broken man, whose memory is all mixed up. And you come here and confuse me so much that I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“Ay, sir, your memory is shaken, or sure you would not be my enemy. My father saved you from the plague, when none other would come anigh you; and was ever your friend. My grandfather Floris helped you in your early poverty, and loved you, man and boy. Three generations of us you have seen; and here is the fourth of us; this is your old friend Peter's grandchild, and your old friend Floris his great-grandchild. Look down on his innocent face, and think of theirs!”
“Yeah, sir, your memory must be off, or you wouldn’t consider me your enemy. My father saved you from the plague when no one else would come near you; he was always your friend. My grandfather Floris supported you in your early struggles and cared for you throughout your life. You’ve seen three generations of us; now here’s the fourth—this is your old friend Peter's grandchild, and your old friend Floris's great-grandchild. Look at his innocent face and remember theirs!”
“Woman, you torture me,” sighed Ghysbrecht, and sank upon a bench. But she saw her advantage, and kneeled before him, and put the boy on his knees. “This fatherless babe is poor Margaret Brandt's, that never did you ill, and comes of a race that loved you. Nay, look at his face. 'Twill melt thee more than any word of mine, Saints of heaven, what can a poor desolate girl and her babe have done to wipe out all memory of thine own young days, when thou wert guiltless as he is, that now looks up in thy face and implores thee to give him back his father?”
“Woman, you’re tormenting me,” sighed Ghysbrecht, as he sank onto a bench. But she saw her chance, knelt before him, and placed the boy on his knees. “This fatherless child belongs to poor Margaret Brandt, who never harmed you, and comes from a family that cared for you. Look at his face. It will touch your heart more than any words of mine could. Saints in heaven, what could a poor, helpless girl and her baby have done to make you forget all about your own younger days, when you were just as innocent as he is, looking up at you and pleading for you to give him back his father?”
And with her arms under the child she held him up higher and higher, smiling under the old man's eyes.
And with her arms under the child, she lifted him up higher and higher, smiling under the old man's gaze.
He cast a wild look of anguish on the child, and another on the kneeling mother, and started up shrieking, “Avaunt, ye pair of adders.”
He shot a desperate glance at the child and then at the kneeling mother, and leaped up screaming, “Get away from me, you two snakes!”
The stung soul gave the old limbs a momentary vigour, and he walked rapidly, wringing his hands and clutching at his white hair. “Forget those days? I forget all else. Oh, woman, woman, sleeping or waking I see but the faces of the dead, I hear but the voices of the dead, and I shall soon be among the dead, There, there, what is done is done. I am in hell. I am in hell.”
The stung soul gave the old limbs a brief burst of energy, and he walked quickly, wringing his hands and gripping his white hair. “Forget those days? I forget everything else. Oh, woman, whether I’m asleep or awake, all I see are the faces of the dead, all I hear are the voices of the dead, and I’ll soon be among the dead. There, there, what’s done is done. I am in hell. I am in hell.”
And unnatural force ended in prostration.
And an unnatural force led to collapse.
He staggered, and but for Margaret would have fallen, With her one disengaged arm she supported him as well as she could and cried for help.
He stumbled, and if it weren't for Margaret, he would have fallen. With her one free arm, she did her best to support him and called out for help.
A couple of servants came running, and carried him away in a state bordering on syncope, The last Margaret saw of him was his old furrowed face, white and helpless as his hair that hung down over the servant's elbow.
A couple of servants came running and took him away, nearly unconscious. The last Margaret saw of him was his old, wrinkled face, pale and defenseless, with his hair hanging down over the servant's elbow.
“Heaven forgive me,” she said. “I doubt I have killed the poor old man.”
“God forgive me,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve killed the poor old man.”
Then this attempt to penetrate the torturing mystery left it as dark, or darker than before. For when she came to ponder every word, her suspicion was confirmed that Ghysbrecht did know something about Gerard. “And who were the two knaves he thought had done a good deed, and told me? Oh, my Gerard, my poor deserted babe, you and I are wading in deep waters.”
Then this attempt to uncover the torturing mystery left it just as dark, or even darker, than before. As she reflected on every word, her suspicion was confirmed that Ghysbrecht knew something about Gerard. “And who were the two scoundrels he thought had done a good deed and told me? Oh, my Gerard, my poor abandoned child, you and I are in over our heads.”
The visit to Tergou took more money than she could well afford; and a customer ran away in her debt. She was once more compelled to unfold Catherine's angel. But strange to say, as she came down stairs with it in her hand she found some loose silver on the table, with a written line—
The visit to Tergou cost more than she could afford, and a customer skipped out on their debt. Once again, she had to reveal Catherine's angel. But oddly enough, as she came down the stairs holding it, she found some loose change on the table, along with a note—
For Gerard his wife.
For Gerard and his wife.
She fell with a cry of surprise on the writing; and soon it rose into a cry of joy.
She fell with a shout of surprise onto the writing; and soon it turned into a shout of joy.
“He is alive. He sends me this by some friendly hand.”
“He's alive. Someone friendly delivered this to me.”
She kissed the writing again and again, and put it in her bosom.
She kissed the letter over and over, then tucked it into her blouse.
Time rolled on, and no news of Gerard.
Time went by, and there was no news about Gerard.
And about every two months a small sum in silver found its way into the house. Sometimes it lay on the table. Once it was flung in through the bedroom window in a purse. Once it was at the bottom of Luke's basket. He had stopped at the public-house to talk to a friend. The giver or his agent was never detected. Catherine disowned it. Margaret Van Eyck swore she had no hand in it. So did Eli. And Margaret, whenever it came, used to say to little Gerard, “Oh, my poor deserted child, you and I are wading in deep waters.”
And about every two months, a small amount of silver would mysteriously appear in the house. Sometimes it was left on the table. Once, it was thrown in through the bedroom window in a bag. Another time, it was found at the bottom of Luke's basket after he had stopped at the pub to chat with a friend. The person giving it or their accomplice was never identified. Catherine denied any involvement. Margaret Van Eyck insisted she had nothing to do with it. So did Eli. And whenever it arrived, Margaret would say to little Gerard, “Oh, my poor abandoned child, you and I are wading in deep waters.”
She applied at least half this modest, but useful supply, to dressing the little Gerard beyond his station in life. “If it does come from Gerard, he shall see his boy neat.” All the mothers in the street began to sneer, especially such as had brats out at elbows.
She used at least half of this modest but useful supply to dress little Gerard above his means. “If it comes from Gerard, he should see his son looking sharp.” All the mothers on the street started to mock, especially those with kids in torn clothes.
The months rolled on, and dead sickness of heart succeeded to these keener torments. She returned to her first thought: “Gerard must be dead. She should never see her boy's father again, nor her marriage lines.” This last grief, which had been somewhat allayed by Eli and Catherine recognizing her betrothal, now revived in full force; others would not look so favourably on her story. And often she moaned over her boy's illegitimacy.
The months passed, and a deep emotional numbness took over the sharper pains. She went back to her initial thought: “Gerard must be dead. I will never see my son's father again, nor my marriage certificate.” This last sorrow, which had been somewhat eased by Eli and Catherine acknowledging her engagement, flared up again with full intensity; others wouldn’t view her situation as kindly. And often, she lamented the illegitimacy of her son.
“Is it not enough for us to be bereaved? Must we be dishonoured too? Oh, that we had ne'er been born.”
“Is it not enough for us to be grieving? Must we be disrespected too? Oh, how I wish we had never been born.”
A change took place in Peter Brandt. His mind, clouded for nearly two years, seemed now to be clearing; he had intervals of intelligence; and then he and Margaret used to talk of Gerard, till he wandered again. But one day, returning after an absence of some hours, Margaret found him conversing with Catherine, in a way he had never done since his paralytic stroke. “Eh, girl, why must you be out?” said she. “But indeed I have told him all; and we have been a-crying together over thy troubles.”
A change happened in Peter Brandt. His mind, cloudy for nearly two years, seemed to be clearing up; he had moments of clarity; and during those times, he and Margaret would talk about Gerard until he drifted off again. But one day, when Margaret came back after being away for a few hours, she found him talking with Catherine in a way he hadn't since his stroke. “Hey, girl, why are you out?” she said. “But I’ve really told him everything; and we’ve been crying together about your troubles.”
Margaret stood silent, looking joyfully from one to the other.
Margaret stood quietly, happily looking from one person to another.
Peter smiled on her, and said, “Come, let me bless thee.”
Peter smiled at her and said, “Come, let me bless you.”
She kneeled at his feet, and he blessed her most eloquently.
She knelt at his feet, and he blessed her very eloquently.
He told her she had been all her life the lovingest, truest, and most obedient daughter Heaven ever sent to a poor old widowed man. “May thy son be to thee what thou hast been to me!”
He told her that she had been the most loving, genuine, and obedient daughter Heaven ever gave to a poor old widower. “May your son be to you what you have been to me!”
After this he dozed. Then the females whispered together; and Catherine said—“All our talk e'en now was of Gerard. It lies heavy on his mind. His poor head must often have listened to us when it seemed quite dark. Margaret, he is a very understanding man; he thought of many things: 'He may be in prison, says he, 'or forced to go fighting for some king, or sent to Constantinople to copy books there, or gone into the Church after all.' He had a bent that way.”
After that, he dozed off. Then the women started whispering to each other, and Catherine said, “We were just talking about Gerard. It's weighing heavily on his mind. He must have listened to us more than we realized when it was all so dark for him. Margaret, he’s a really thoughtful guy; he considered so many possibilities: 'He could be in prison,' he said, 'or forced to fight for some king, or sent to Constantinople to copy books, or maybe even gone into the Church after all.' He always had some interest in that.”
“Ah, mother,” whispered Margaret, in reply, “he doth but deceive himself as we do.”
“Ah, Mom,” whispered Margaret in response, “he’s just fooling himself like we are.”
Ere she could finish the sentence, a strange interruption occurred.
Before she could finish the sentence, something strange interrupted her.
A loud voice cried out, “I SEE HIM, I SEE HIM.”
A loud voice shouted, “I SEE HIM, I SEE HIM.”
And the old man with dilating eyes seemed to be looking right through the wall of the house.
And the old man with wide eyes seemed to be staring right through the wall of the house.
“IN A BOAT; ON A GREAT RIVER; COMING THIS WAY. Sore disfigured; but I knew him. Gone! gone! all dark.”
“IN A BOAT; ON A GREAT RIVER; COMING THIS WAY. Seriously messed up; but I recognized him. Gone! gone! all dark.”
And he sank back, and asked feebly where was Margaret.
And he leaned back and weakly asked where Margaret was.
“Dear father, I am by thy side, Oh, mother! mother, what is this?”
“Dear dad, I’m right here with you. Oh, mom! Mom, what’s happening?”
“I cannot see thee, and but a moment agone I saw all round the world, Ay, ay. Well, I am ready. Is this thy hand? Bless thee, my child, bless thee! Weep not! The tree is ripe.”
“I can't see you, and just a moment ago I saw the whole world, yeah, yeah. Well, I’m ready. Is this your hand? Bless you, my child, bless you! Don’t cry! The tree is ripe.”
The old physician read the signs aright. These calm words were his last. The next moment he drooped his head, and gently, placidly, drifted away from earth, like an infant sinking to rest, The torch had flashed up before going out.
The old doctor understood the signs perfectly. These soothing words were his final ones. In the next moment, he lowered his head and peacefully drifted away from the world, like a baby falling asleep. The light flickered brightly before extinguishing.
CHAPTER LXXIX
She who had wept for poor old Martin was not likely to bear this blow so stoically as the death of the old is apt to be borne. In vain Catherine tried to console her with commonplaces; in vain told her it was a happy release for him; and that, as he himself had said, the tree was ripe. But her worst failure was, when she urged that there were now but two mouths to feed; and one care the less.
She who had cried for poor old Martin wasn’t likely to take this news as calmly as people usually handle the death of someone old. Catherine tried in vain to comfort her with clichés, telling her it was a happy relief for him, and that, as he had said, the tree was ripe. But her biggest failure was when she pointed out that there were now only two mouths to feed, and one less worry.
“Such cares are all the joys I have,” said Margaret. “They fill my desolate heart, which now seems void as well as waste. Oh, empty chair, my bosom it aches to see thee. Poor old man, how could I love him by halves, I that did use to sit and look at him and think, 'But for me thou wouldst die of hunger.' He, so wise, so learned erst, was got to be helpless as my own sweet babe, and I loved him as if he had been my child instead of my father. Oh, empty chair! Oh, empty heart! Well-a-day! well-a-day!”
“Those worries are all the joys I have,” said Margaret. “They fill my lonely heart, which now feels as empty as it does wasted. Oh, empty chair, it hurts to see you there. Poor old man, how could I love him only partway, when I used to sit and look at him and think, 'Without me, you would starve.' He, so wise, so knowledgeable before, has become as helpless as my own sweet baby, and I loved him as if he were my child instead of my father. Oh, empty chair! Oh, empty heart! Oh dear! Oh dear!”
And the pious tears would not be denied.
And the heartfelt tears wouldn’t be held back.
Then Catherine held her peace; and hung her head. And one day she made this confession, “I speak to thee out o' my head, and not out o' my bosom; thou dost well to be deaf to me. Were I in thy place I should mourn the old man all one as thou dost.”
Then Catherine fell silent and looked down. One day, she admitted, “I’m speaking to you from my mind, not from my heart; you’re right to ignore me. If I were you, I would grieve for the old man just like you do.”
Then Margaret embraced her, and this bit of true sympathy did her a little good. The commonplaces did none.
Then Margaret hugged her, and this moment of genuine compassion helped her a bit. The generic phrases didn’t do anything.
Then Catherine's bowels yearned over her, and she said, “My poor girl, you were not born to live alone. I have got to look on you as my own daughter. Waste not thine youth upon my son Gerard. Either he is dead or he is a traitor. It cuts my heart to say it; but who can help seeing it? Thy father is gone; and I cannot always be aside thee. And here is an honest lad that loves thee well this many a day. I'd take him and Comfort together. Heaven hath sent us these creatures to torment us and comfort us and all; we are just nothing in the world without 'em,” Then seeing Margaret look utterly perplexed, she went on to say, “Why, sure you are not so blind as not to see it?”
Then Catherine felt a strong pull in her heart and said, “My poor girl, you weren’t meant to live alone. I have to think of you as my own daughter. Don’t waste your youth on my son Gerard. Either he’s dead or he’s a traitor. It breaks my heart to say it, but who can deny it? Your father is gone, and I can’t always be by your side. And here’s a good guy who loves you dearly for a long time. I’d pair him up with Comfort. Heaven has given us these people to both torment us and comfort us; without them, we are nothing.” Then, seeing Margaret look completely confused, she continued, “Surely, you’re not so blind that you can’t see it?”
“What? Who?”
“What? Who’s that?”
“Who but this Luke Peterson.”
“Who else but Luke Peterson?”
“What, our Luke? The boy that carries my basket?”
“What, our Luke? The kid who carries my basket?”
“Nay, he is over nineteen, and a fine healthy lad; and I have made inquiries for you; and they all do say he is a capable workman, and never touches a drop; and that is much in a Rotterdam lad, which they are mostly half man, half sponge.”
“Nah, he's over nineteen and a good healthy guy. I've checked around for you, and everyone says he's a reliable worker and doesn't drink at all, which is a lot to say for a Rotterdam guy, since most of them are half man, half sponge.”
Margaret smiled for the first time this many days. “Luke loves dried puddings dearly,” said she, “and I make them to his mind, 'Tis them he comes a-courting here.” Then she suddenly turned red. “But if I thought he came after your son's wife that is, or ought to be, I'd soon put him to the door.”
Margaret smiled for the first time in days. “Luke really loves dried puddings,” she said, “and I make them just the way he likes. That’s why he comes here to court me.” Then she suddenly blushed. “But if I thought he was after your son's wife, who should be, I’d quickly send him away.”
“Nay, nay; for Heaven's sake let me not make mischief. Poor lad! Why, girl, Fancy will not be bridled, Bless you, I wormed it out of him near a twelvemonth agone.”
“Nah, nah; for Heaven's sake, don’t let me cause trouble. Poor guy! Listen, girl, you can’t control your imagination. Trust me, I got it out of him almost a year ago.”
“Oh, mother, and you let him?”
“Oh, mom, and you let him?”
“Well, I thought of you. I said to myself, 'If he is fool enough to be her slave for nothing, all the better for her. A lone woman is lost without a man about her to fetch and carry her little matters,' But now my mind is changed, and I think the best use you can put him to is to marry him.”
“Well, I thought about you. I told myself, 'If he’s foolish enough to be her slave for nothing, that just makes things easier for her. A woman alone is lost without a man around to handle her little tasks.' But now I’ve changed my mind, and I think the best thing you can do with him is to marry him.”
“So then, his own mother is against him, and would wed me to the first comer. An, Gerard, thou hast but me; I will not believe thee dead till I see thy tomb, nor false till I see thee with another lover in thine hand. Foolish boy, I shall ne'er be civil to him again.”
“So now, his own mother is against him and wants to marry me off to just anyone. Oh, Gerard, you are all I have; I won’t believe you’re dead until I see your grave, nor will I believe you’re untrue until I see you with another lover. Silly boy, I will never be polite to him again.”
Afflicted with the busybody's protection, Luke Peterson met a cold reception in the house where he had hitherto found a gentle and kind one. And by-and-by, finding himself very little spoken to at all, and then sharply and irritably, the great soft fellow fell to whimpering, and asked Margaret plump if he had done anything to offend her.
Afflicted by the meddling behavior of others, Luke Peterson experienced a chilly welcome in the house where he had previously found warmth and kindness. Gradually realizing that he wasn’t being spoken to much at all and when he was, it was sharply and irritably, the big, gentle guy started to whimper and asked Margaret outright if he had done something to upset her.
“Nothing. I am to blame. I am curst. If you will take my counsel you will keep out of my way awhile.”
“Nothing. It's my fault. I'm cursed. If you take my advice, you'll stay away from me for a while.”
“It is all along of me, Luke,” said the busybody.
“It’s all my fault, Luke,” said the meddler.
“You, Mistress Catherine, Why, what have I done for you to set her against me?”
“You, Mistress Catherine, what have I done to make her turn against me?”
“Nay, I meant all for the best. I told her I saw you were looking towards her through a wedding ring, But she won't hear of it.”
“Nah, I meant well. I told her I saw you looking at her through a wedding ring, but she won’t accept it.”
“There was no need to tell her that, wife; she knows I am courting her this twelvemonth.”
“There’s no need to tell her that, wife; she knows I’ve been dating her for the past year.”
“Not I,” said Margaret; “or I should never have opened the street door to you.
"Not me," said Margaret; "otherwise, I would have never opened the street door for you.
“Why, I come here every Saturday night. And that is how the lads in Rotterdam do court. If we sup with a lass o' Saturdays, that wooing.”
“Why, I come here every Saturday night. And that's how the guys in Rotterdam court. If we have dinner with a girl on Saturdays, that’s dating.”
“Oh, that is Rotterdam, is it? Then next time you come, let it be Thursday or Friday. For my part, I thought you came after my puddings, boy.”
“Oh, is that Rotterdam? Well, next time you come, make it Thursday or Friday. I for one thought you came for my desserts, kid.”
“I like your puddings well enough. You make them better than mother does, But I like you still better than the puddings,” said Luke tenderly.
“I like your puddings just fine. You make them better than my mom does, but I like you even more than the puddings,” Luke said gently.
“Then you have seen the last of them. How dare you talk so to another man's wife, and him far away?” She ended gently, but very firmly, “You need not trouble yourself to come here any more, Luke; I can carry my basket myself.”
“Then you’ve seen the last of them. How dare you speak to another man’s wife like that, especially when he’s far away?” She concluded softly but very firmly, “You don’t need to worry about coming here anymore, Luke; I can carry my basket myself.”
“Oh, very well,” said Luke; and after sitting silent and stupid for a little while, he rose, and said sadly to Catherine, “Dame, I daresay I have got the sack;” and went out.
“Oh, fine,” said Luke; and after sitting there silently and blankly for a bit, he got up and said sadly to Catherine, “Well, I guess I’ve been fired;” and left.
But the next Saturday Catherine found him seated on the doorstep blubbering. He told her he had got used to come there, and every other place seemed strange. She went in, and told Margaret; and Margaret sighed, and said, “Poor Luke, he might come in for her, if he could know his place, and treat her like a married wife.” On this being communicated to Luke, he hesitated, “Pshaw!” said Catherine, “promises are pie-crusts. Promise her all the world, sooner than sit outside like a fool, when a word will carry you inside, now you humour her in everything, and then, if Poor Gerard come not home and claim her, you will be sure to have her—in time. A lone woman is aye to be tired out, thou foolish boy.”
But the next Saturday, Catherine found him sitting on the doorstep crying. He told her he had gotten used to coming there, and everywhere else felt strange. She went inside and told Margaret; Margaret sighed and said, “Poor Luke, he could have her if he knew his place and treated her like a married wife.” When this was shared with Luke, he hesitated. “Come on!” said Catherine, “Promises are as good as empty vows. Promise her everything, but don’t just sit outside like an idiot when a word could bring you inside. Right now, you’re catering to her wishes, and then if poor Gerard doesn’t come home and claim her, you’ll be sure to have her eventually. A lonely woman will always tire of waiting, you foolish boy.”
CHAPTER LXXX
THE CLOISTER
Brother Clement had taught and preached in Basle more than a twelvemonth, when one day Jerome stood before him, dusty, with a triumphant glance in his eye.
Brother Clement had been teaching and preaching in Basel for over a year when one day, Jerome stood in front of him, dusty, with a triumphant look in his eye.
“Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; thou canst now wend to England with me.”
“Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; you can now go to England with me.”
“I am ready, Brother Jerome; and expecting thee these many months, have in the intervals of teaching and devotion studied the English tongue somewhat closely.”
“I’m ready, Brother Jerome; and I’ve been waiting for you for many months. In between teaching and my devotions, I’ve studied the English language a bit more closely.”
“'Twas well thought of,” said Jerome. He then told him he had but delayed till he could obtain extraordinary powers from the Pope to collect money for the Church's use in England, and to hear confession in all the secular monasteries. “So now gird up thy loins, and let us go forth and deal a good blow for the Church, and against the Franciscans.”
“That's a good idea,” said Jerome. He then explained that he had just been waiting until he could get special permission from the Pope to raise funds for the Church in England and to hear confessions in all the secular monasteries. “So now tighten your belt, and let's go out and make a strong case for the Church, and against the Franciscans.”
The two friars went preaching down the Rhine for England. In the larger places they both preached. At the smaller they often divided, and took different sides of the river, and met again at some appointed spot. Both were able orators, but in different styles.
The two friars traveled down the Rhine preaching on their way to England. In the bigger towns, they both preached together. In the smaller ones, they often split up, each taking a different side of the river, and would meet again at a designated spot. They were both skilled speakers, but had different styles.
Jerome's was noble and impressive, but a little contracted in religious topics, and a trifle monotonous in delivery compared with Clement's, though in truth not so, compared with most preachers.
Jerome’s style was noble and impressive, but slightly limited when it came to religious topics and a bit monotonous in delivery compared to Clement’s, though honestly not so much in comparison to most preachers.
Clement's was full of variety, and often remarkably colloquial. In its general flow, tender and gently winning, it curled round the reason and the heart. But it always rose with the rising thought; and so at times Clement soared as far above Jerome as his level speaking was below him. Indeed, in these noble heats he was all that we hue read of inspired prophet or heathen orator: Vehemens ut procella, excitatus ut torrens, incensus ut fulmen, tonabat, fulgurabat, et rapidis eloquentiae fiuctibus cuncta proruebat et perturbabat.
Clement's was full of variety and often very conversational. Overall, it had a tender and charming flow, wrapping around both reason and emotion. Yet, it always lifted with the rising thought; at times, Clement soared far above Jerome, whose straightforward speech was much lower. In these passionate moments, he embodied everything we’ve read about in inspired prophets or fiery speakers: fierce like a storm, stirred up like a torrent, burning like lightning, booming and flashing, and with the rapid currents of his eloquence, he overwhelmed and unsettled everything.
I would give literal specimens, but for five objections; it is difficult; time is short; I have done it elsewhere; an able imitator has since done it better and similarity, a virtue in peas, is a vice in books.
I would provide exact examples, but I have five reasons against it: it’s hard; there’s not enough time; I’ve done it before; a skilled imitator has recently done it better, and what’s great in peas is a flaw in books.
But (not to evade the matter entirely) Clement used secretly to try and learn the recent events and the besetting sin of each town he was to preach in.
But (not to dodge the issue completely) Clement would secretly try to find out the recent events and the main struggles of sin in each town where he was going to preach.
But Jerome, the unbending, scorned to go out of his way for any people's vices. At one great town, some leagues from the Rhine, they mounted the same pulpit in turn. Jerome preached against vanity in dress, a favourite theme of his. He was eloquent and satirical, and the people listened with complacency. It was a vice that they were little given to.
But Jerome, the stubborn one, refused to go out of his way for anyone else's flaws. In a large town, several miles from the Rhine, they took turns on the same pulpit. Jerome preached against vanity in clothing, one of his favorite topics. He was articulate and sarcastic, and the people listened with satisfaction. It was a vice they were not much inclined to.
Clement preached against drunkenness. It was a besetting sin, and sacred from preaching in these parts: for the clergy themselves were infected with it, and popular prejudice protected it, Clement dealt it merciless blows out of Holy Writ and worldly experience. A crime itself, it was the nursing mother of most crimes, especially theft and murder. He reminded them of a parricide that had lately been committed in their town by all honest man in liquor; and also how a band of drunkards had roasted one of their own comrades alive at a neighbouring village. “Your last prince,” said he, “is reported to have died of apoplexy, but well you know he died of drink; and of your aldermen one perished miserably last month dead drunk, suffocated in a puddle. Your children's backs go bare that you may fill your bellies with that which makes you the worst of beasts, silly as calves, yet fierce as boars; and drives your families to need, and your souls to hell. I tell ye your town, ay, and your very nation, would sink to the bottom of mankind did your women drink as you do. And how long will they be temperate, and contrary to nature, resist the example of their husbands and fathers? Vice ne'er yet stood still. Ye must amend yourselves, or see them come down to your mark, Already in Bohemia they drink along with the men. How shows a drunken woman? Would you love to see your wives drunken, your mothers drunken?” At this there was a shout of horror, for mediaeval audiences had not learned to sit mumchance at a moving sermon. “Ah, that comes home to you,” cried the friar. “What madmen! think you it doth not more shock the all-pure God to see a man, His noblest work, turned to a drunken beast, than it can shock you creatures of sin and unreason to see a woman turned into a thing no better nor worse than yourselves.”
Clement preached against drunkenness. It was a persistent sin, and it was rarely addressed in these parts because even the clergy struggled with it, and public opinion protected it. Clement hit it hard with powerful arguments from both the Bible and real-life experiences. While it was a sin on its own, it also led to many other crimes, especially theft and murder. He reminded them of a recent act of parricide committed by a seemingly decent man who had been drinking and also how a group of drunkards had burned one of their own alive in a nearby village. “Your last prince,” he said, “is said to have died of a stroke, but you all know he died from drinking; and one of your aldermen died last month from being dead drunk, suffocated in a puddle. Your kids go without clothes so you can fill your stomachs with that which turns you into the worst beasts—foolish as calves but fierce as boars—and drives your families into poverty, and your souls to hell. I tell you your town, and even your whole nation, would hit rock bottom if your women drank like you do. And how long will they hold back and go against nature, resisting the example set by their husbands and fathers? Vice never stands still. You must change your ways, or you'll see them follow your lead. Already in Bohemia, they drink alongside the men. How does a drunken woman look? Would you want to see your wives drunk, your mothers drunk?” At this, there was a shout of horror, for medieval audiences had not learned to sit silently during a passionate sermon. “Ah, that touches home for you,” cried the friar. “What madness! Do you think it doesn’t shock the all-pure God more to see a man, His finest creation, turned into a drunken beast, than it shocks you sinful creatures to see a woman reduced to something no better or worse than you?”
He ended with two pictures: a drunkard's house and family, and a sober man's; both so true and dramatic in all their details that the wives fell all to “ohing” and “ahing,” and “Eh, but that is a true word.”
He finished with two images: a drunkard's home and family, and a sober man's; both so vivid and dramatic in every detail that the wives reacted with “ohing” and “ahing,” and “Wow, that’s really true.”
This discourse caused quite all uproar. The hearers formed knots; the men were indignant; so the women flattered them and took their part openly against the preacher. A married man had a right to a drop; he needed it, working for all the family. And for their part they did not care to change their men for milksops.
This discussion caused a huge commotion. The listeners grouped together; the men were furious, so the women supported them and openly sided with them against the preacher. A married man deserved a drink; he needed it for working to support the whole family. And they didn't want to trade their men for softies.
The double faces! That very evening a hand of men caught near a hundred of them round Brother Clement, filling his wallet with the best, and offering him the very roses off their heads, and kissing his frock, and blessing him “for taking in hand to mend their sots.”
The two-faced people! That same evening, a group of men gathered around Brother Clement, giving him almost a hundred of them, stuffing his wallet with the finest things, offering him the very roses from their heads, kissing his robe, and blessing him “for choosing to help them with their foolishness.”
Jerome thought this sermon too earthly.
Jerome thought this sermon was too down-to-earth.
“Drunkenness is not heresy, Clement, that a whole sermon should be preached against it.”
“Being drunk isn’t a sin, Clement, that you need to give a whole sermon about it.”
As they went on, he found to his surprise that Clement's sermons sank into his hearers deeper than his own; made them listen, think, cry, and sometimes even amend their ways. “He hath the art of sinking to their peg,” thought Jerome, “Yet he can soar high enough at times.”
As they continued, he was surprised to find that Clement's sermons resonated more with his listeners than his own; they made them listen, reflect, weep, and sometimes even change their behaviors. “He has a knack for connecting with them,” thought Jerome, “Yet he can also rise to great heights at times.”
Upon the whole it puzzled Jerome, who had a secret sense of superiority to his tenderer brother. And after about two hundred miles of it, it got to displease him as well as puzzle him. But he tried to check this sentiment as petty and unworthy. “Souls differ like locks,” said he, “and preachers must differ like keys, or the fewer should the Church open for God to pass in. And certes, this novice hath the key to these northern souls, being himself a northern man.”
Overall, it confused Jerome, who felt a secret sense of superiority over his more sensitive brother. After about two hundred miles of it, it began to annoy him as much as it puzzled him. But he tried to suppress this feeling, considering it small and unworthy. “Souls are different like locks,” he said, “and preachers must be different like keys, or the fewer should the Church open for God to enter. And indeed, this newcomer has the key to these northern souls, being a northern man himself.”
And so they came slowly down the Rhine, sometimes drifting a few miles down the stream; but in general walking by the banks preaching, and teaching, and confessing sinners in the towns and villages; and they reached the town of Dusseldorf.
And so they made their way slowly down the Rhine, sometimes drifting a few miles downriver; but generally, they walked along the banks preaching, teaching, and hearing confessions from sinners in the towns and villages; and they arrived in the town of Düsseldorf.
There was the little quay where Gerard and Denys had taken boat up the Rhine, The friars landed on it. There were the streets, there was “The Silver Lion.” Nothing had changed but he, who walked through it barefoot, with his heart calm and cold, his hands across his breast, and his eyes bent meekly on the ground, a true son of Dominic and Holy Church.
There was the small dock where Gerard and Denys had taken a boat up the Rhine. The friars got off there. There were the streets, there was “The Silver Lion.” Nothing had changed except for him, walking through it barefoot, with a calm and cold heart, his hands crossed over his chest, and his eyes humbly focused on the ground, a true son of Dominic and the Holy Church.
CHAPTER LXXXI
THE HEARTH
“Eli,” said Catherine, “answer me one question like a man, and I'll ask no more to-day. What is wormwood?”
“Eli,” Catherine said, “just answer me one question like an adult, and I won't ask anything else today. What is wormwood?”
Eli looked a little helpless at this sudden demand upon his faculties; but soon recovered enough to say it was something that tasted main bitter.
Eli looked a bit overwhelmed by this sudden request; but soon regained his composure enough to say it was something that tasted really bitter.
“That is a fair answer, my man, but not the one I look for.”
"That’s a good answer, my friend, but it’s not the one I’m looking for."
“Then answer it yourself.”
"Then answer it yourself."
“And shall. Wormwood is—to have two in the house a-doing nought, but waiting for thy shoes and mine,” Eli groaned. The shaft struck home.
“And shall. Wormwood is—to have two in the house doing nothing, just waiting for your shoes and mine,” Eli groaned. The shaft struck home.
“Methinks waiting for their best friend's coffin, that and nothing to do, are enow to make them worse than Nature meant. Why not set them up somewhere, to give 'em a chance?”
“ I think waiting for their best friend's coffin, and having nothing to do, is enough to make them worse than Nature intended. Why not help them out somehow, to give them a chance?”
Eli said he was willing, but afraid they would drink and gamble their very shelves away.
Eli said he was willing, but he was worried they would drink and gamble everything away.
“Nay,” said Catherine, “Dost take me for a simpleton? Of course I mean to watch them at starting, and drive them wi' a loose rein, as the saying is.”
“Nah,” said Catherine, “Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course I plan to watch them when they start and drive them with a loose rein, as the saying goes.”
“Where did you think of? Not here; to divide our own custom.”
“Where were you thinking? Not here; to split up our own tradition.”
“Not likely. I say Rotterdam against the world. Then I could start them.”
“Not a chance. I say Rotterdam against everyone. Then I could kick things off.”
Oh, self-deception! The true motive of all this was to get near little Gerard.
Oh, self-deception! The real reason for all this was to get close to little Gerard.
After many discussions and eager promises of amendment on these terms from Cornelis and Sybrandt, Catherine went to Rotterdam shop-hunting, and took Kate with her; for a change, They soon found one, and in a good street; but it was sadly out of order. However, they got it cheaper for that, and instantly set about brushing it up, fitting proper shelves for the business, and making the dwelling-house habitable.
After a lot of talks and enthusiastic promises of improvements on these terms from Cornelis and Sybrandt, Catherine went shopping in Rotterdam and took Kate with her for a change. They quickly found a store in a nice area, but it was unfortunately in bad shape. Still, they got it for a lower price because of that and immediately started fixing it up, installing proper shelves for the business, and making the living space livable.
Luke Peterson was always asking Margaret what he could do for her. The answer used to be in a sad tone, “Nothing, Luke, nothing.”
Luke Peterson always asked Margaret what he could do for her. The answer used to be in a sad tone, “Nothing, Luke, nothing.”
“What, you that are so clever, can you think of nothing for me to do for you?”
“What about you, with all your cleverness? Can’t you think of anything I can do for you?”
“Nothing, Luke, nothing.”
“Nothing, Luke, nothing.”
But at last she varied the reply thus: “If you could make something to help my sweet sister Kate about.”
But finally she changed her response to: “If you could create something to help my dear sister Kate.”
The slave of love consented joyfully, and soon made Kate a little cart, and cushioned it, and yoked himself into it, and at eventide drew her out of the town, and along the pleasant boulevard, with Margaret and Catherine walking beside. It looked a happier party than it was.
The lover happily agreed, and soon made Kate a small cart, padded it, and hitched himself to it. In the evening, he pulled her out of the town and down the lovely boulevard, with Margaret and Catherine walking alongside. They looked like a happier group than they really were.
Kate, for one, enjoyed it keenly, for little Gerard was put in her lap, and she doted on him; and it was like a cherub carried by a little angel, or a rosebud lying in the cup of a lily.
Kate really enjoyed it because little Gerard was placed in her lap, and she adored him; it felt like a cherub being held by a little angel, or a rosebud resting in the cup of a lily.
So the vulgar jeered; and asked Luke how a thistle tasted, and if his mistress could not afford one with four legs, etc.
So the crowd mocked and asked Luke how a thistle tasted and if his lady couldn’t get one with four legs, etc.
Luke did not mind these jeers; but Kate minded them for him.
Luke didn’t care about the taunts, but Kate did care for him.
“Thou hast made the cart for me, good Luke,” said she, “'Twas much. I did ill to let thee draw me too; we can afford to pay some poor soul for that. I love my rides, and to carry little Gerard; but I'd liever ride no more than thou be mocked fort.”
“You've made the cart for me, good Luke,” she said, “That’s a lot. I shouldn't have let you pull me too; we can pay someone for that. I love my rides and carrying little Gerard, but I'd rather not ride at all than have you be made a fool of.”
“Much I care for their tongues,” said Luke; “if I did care I'd knock their heads together. I shall draw you till my mistress says give over.
“Honestly, I don't care about what they say,” Luke said. “If I did, I’d knock their heads together. I’ll keep drawing you until my mistress tells me to stop.”
“Luke, if you obey Kate, you will oblige me.”
“Luke, if you listen to Kate, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Then I will obey Kate.”
"Then I'll obey Kate."
An honourable exception to popular humour was Jorian Ketel's wife. “That is strength well laid out, to draw the weak. And her prayers will be your guerdon; she is not long for this world; she smileth in pain.” These were the words of Joan.
An honorable exception to popular humor was Jorian Ketel's wife. “That is strength well displayed, to attract the weak. And her prayers will be your reward; she won't be around much longer; she smiles even in pain.” These were Joan's words.
Single-minded Luke answered that he did not want the poor lass's prayers he did it to please his mistress, Margaret.
Single-minded Luke replied that he didn’t want the poor girl's prayers; he did it to make his mistress, Margaret, happy.
After that Luke often pressed Margaret to give him something to do—without success.
After that, Luke frequently urged Margaret to give him something to do—without success.
But one day, as if tired with his importuning, she turned on him, and said with a look and accent I should in vain try to convey:
But one day, as if tired of his begging, she turned to him and said with a look and tone that I couldn't possibly describe:
“Find me my boy's father.”
“Find my son's father.”
CHAPTER LXXXII
“Mistress, they all say he is dead.”
“Not so. They feed me still with hopes.”
“Not at all. They still feed me with hopes.”
“Ay, to your face, but behind your back they all say he is dead.”
“Ay, to your face, but when you're not around, they all say he’s dead.”
At this revelation Margaret's tears began to flow'.
At this revelation, Margaret's tears started to fall.
Luke whimpered for company. He had the body of a man but the heart of a girl.
Luke whimpered for companionship. He had the body of a man but the heart of a girl.
“Prithee, weep not so, sweet mistress,” said he. “I'd bring him back to life an I could, rather than see thee weed so sore.”
“Please, don’t cry so much, dear lady,” he said. “I’d bring him back to life if I could, rather than see you in such pain.”
Margaret said she thought she was weeping because they were so double-tongued with her.
Margaret said she thought she was crying because they were being so two-faced with her.
She recovered herself, and laying her hand on his shoulder, said solemnly, “Luke, he is not dead. Dying men are known to have a strange sight. And listen, Luke! My poor father, when he was a-dying, and I, simple fool, was so happy, thinking he was going to get well altogether, he said to mother and me—he was sitting in that very chair where you are now, and mother was as might be here, and I was yonder making a sleeve—said he, 'I see him!' I see him! Just so. Not like a failing man at all, but all o' fire. 'Sore disfigured-on a great river-coming this way.'
She collected herself and, placing her hand on his shoulder, said earnestly, “Luke, he is not dead. Dying people often have a strange perception. And listen, Luke! My poor father, when he was dying, and I, foolishly happy, thinking he was going to recover completely, told mother and me—he was sitting in that very chair where you are now, and mother was likely right here, and I was over there making a sleeve—he said, 'I see him!' I see him! Not like a weak guy at all, but all on fire. 'Sorely disfigured—on a big river—coming this way.'”
“Ah, Luke, if you were a woman, and had the feeling for me you think you have, you would pity me, and find him for me. Take a thought! The father of my child!”
“Ah, Luke, if you were a woman and felt for me the way you think you do, you would feel sorry for me and help me find him. Just think about it! The father of my child!”
“Alack, I would if I knew how,” said Luke, “but how can I?”
“Sadly, I would if I knew how,” said Luke, “but how can I?”
“Nay, of course you cannot. I am mad to think it. But oh, if any one really cared for me, they would; that is all I know.”
“Nah, of course you can't. I’m crazy to even think it. But oh, if anyone really cared about me, they would; that’s all I know.”
Luke reflected in silence for some time.
Luke thought quietly for a while.
“The old folk all say dying men can see more than living wights. Let me think: for my mind cannot gallop like thine. On a great river Well, the Maas is a great river.” He pondered on.
“The old folks all say that dying people can see more than the living. Let me think: my mind can't race like yours. The Maas is a big river.” He continued to reflect.
“Coming this way? Then if it 'twas the Maas, he would have been here by this time, so 'tis not the Maas. The Rhine is a great river, greater than the Maas; and very long. I think it will be the Rhine.”
“Coming this way? Then if it were the Maas, he would have arrived by now, so it’s not the Maas. The Rhine is a big river, bigger than the Maas; and it’s very long. I think it will be the Rhine.”
“And so do I, Luke; for Denys bade him come down the Rhine. But even if it is, he may turn off before he comes anigh his birthplace. He does not pine for me as I for him; that is clear. Luke, do you not think he has deserted me?” She wanted him to contradict her, but he said, “It looks very like it; what a fool he must be!”
“And I feel the same way, Luke; Denys told him to come down the Rhine. But even if he does, he might divert his path before he reaches his hometown. He doesn’t miss me the way I miss him; that’s obvious. Luke, don’t you think he’s abandoned me?” She hoped he would disagree, but he replied, “It definitely seems like it; what a fool he must be!”
“What do we know?” objected Margaret imploringly.
“What do we know?” Margaret asked urgently.
“Let me think again,” said Luke. “I cannot gallop.”
“Give me a moment to think,” said Luke. “I can’t gallop.”
The result of this meditation was this. He knew a station about sixty miles up the Rhine, where all the public boats put in; and he would go to that station, and try and cut the truant off. To be sure he did not even know him by sight; but as each boat came in he would mingle with the passengers, and ask if one Gerard was there. “And, mistress, if you were to give me a bit of a letter to him; for, with us being strangers, mayhap a won't believe a word I say.”
The outcome of this meditation was clear. He knew a station about sixty miles up the Rhine where all the public boats docked, and he decided to go there to try and catch the runaway. Of course, he didn't even know what the guy looked like; but as each boat arrived, he would blend in with the passengers and ask if a guy named Gerard was around. “And, ma'am, if you could give me a little note for him; since we’re strangers, he might not believe anything I say.”
“Good, kind, thoughtful Luke, I will (how I have undervalued thee!). But give me till supper-time to get it writ.” At supper she put a letter into his hand with a blush; it was a long letter, tied round with silk after the fashion of the day, and sealed over the knot.
“Good, kind, thoughtful Luke, I will (how I have undervalued you!). But give me until dinner to get it written.” At dinner, she handed him a letter with a blush; it was a long letter, tied with silk in the style of the time, and sealed over the knot.
Luke weighed it in his hand, with a shade of discontent, and said to her very gravely, “Say your father was not dreaming, and say I have the luck to fall in with this man, and say he should turn out a better bit of stuff than I think him, and come home to you then and there—what is to become o' me?”
Luke held it in his hand, looking somewhat dissatisfied, and said to her very seriously, “Let’s say your father wasn’t dreaming, and let’s say I happen to meet this man, and let’s say he turns out to be better than I think he is, and then he comes home to you right then—what's going to happen to me?”
Margaret coloured to her very brow. “Oh, Luke, Heaven will reward thee. And I shall fall on my knees and bless thee; and I shall love thee all my days, sweet Luke, as a mother does her son. I am so old by thee: trouble ages the heart. Thou shalt not go 'tis not fair of me. Love maketh us to be all self.”
Margaret blushed deeply. “Oh, Luke, Heaven will reward you. I will fall on my knees and bless you; and I will love you all my days, sweet Luke, like a mother loves her son. I feel so old next to you: trouble ages the heart. You can’t go; it’s not fair of me. Love makes us all about ourselves.”
“Humph!” said Luke. “And if,” resumed he, in the same grave way, “yon scapegrace shall read thy letter, and hear me tell him how thou pinest for him, and yet, being a traitor, or a mere idiot, will not turn to thee what shall become of me then? Must I die a bachelor, and thou fare lonely to thy grave, neither maid, wife, nor widow?”
“Humph!” said Luke. “And if,” he continued seriously, “that troublemaker reads your letter, and hears me say how much you long for him, and yet, being a traitor or just a fool, refuses to come back to you, what will happen to me then? Am I destined to die single, while you go to your grave all alone, neither a maid, a wife, nor a widow?”
Margaret panted with fear and emotion at this terrible piece of good sense, and the plain question which followed it. But at last she faltered out, “If, which our Lady be merciful to me, and forbid—Oh!”
Margaret gasped with fear and emotion at this awful bit of common sense and the straightforward question that came after it. But eventually, she hesitantly said, “If, may our Lady be merciful to me, and forbid—Oh!”
“Well, mistress?”
"What's up, ma'am?"
“If he should read my letter, and hear thy words—and, sweet Luke, be just and tell him what a lovely babe he hath, fatherless, fatherless. Oh, Luke, can he be so cruel?”
“If he reads my letter and hears your words—and, sweet Luke, please be honest and tell him what a beautiful baby he has, fatherless, fatherless. Oh, Luke, can he really be that cruel?”
“I trow not but if?”
"I don't think so, but if?"
“Then he will give thee up my marriage lines, and I shall be an honest woman, and a wretched one, and my boy will not be a bastard; and of course, then we could both go into any honest man's house that would be troubled with us; and even for thy goodness this day, I will—I will—ne'er be so ungrateful as go past thy door to another man's.”
“Then he will give you my marriage certificate, and I will be a respectable woman, though miserable, and my son won’t be considered illegitimate; and of course, then we could both go to any decent man's home that would welcome us; and even for your kindness today, I will—I will—never be so ungrateful as to go past your door to another man’s.”
“Ay, but will you come in at mine? Answer me that!”
“Ay, but will you come over to my place? Answer me that!”
“Oh, ask me not! Some day, perhaps, when my wounds leave bleeding. Alas, I'll try. If I don't fling myself and my child into the Maas. Do not go, Luke! do not think of going! 'Tis all madness from first to last.”
“Oh, please don’t ask me! Maybe someday, when my wounds stop hurting. I’ll try. If I don’t throw myself and my child into the Maas. Don’t go, Luke! Please don’t think of leaving! It’s all craziness from start to finish.”
But Luke was as slow to forego an idea as to form one.
But Luke was just as slow to give up an idea as he was to come up with one.
His reply showed how fast love was making a man of him. “Well,” said he, “madness is something, anyway; and I am tired of doing nothing for thee; and I am no great talker. To-morrow, at peep of day, I start. But hold, I have no money. My mother, she takes care of all mine; and I ne'er see it again.”
His response revealed how quickly love was shaping him into a man. “Well,” he said, “madness is something, at least; and I'm tired of doing nothing for you; and I'm not much of a talker. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, I’ll be off. But wait, I have no money. My mom handles all my finances, and I never see it again.”
Then Margaret took out Catherine's gold angel, which had escaped so often, and gave it to Luke; and he set out on his mad errand.
Then Margaret took out Catherine's gold angel, which had gotten away so often, and handed it to Luke; and he headed out on his crazy mission.
It did not, however, seem so mad to him as to us. It was a superstitious age; and Luke acted on the dying man's dream, or vision, or illusion, or whatever it was, much as we should act on respectable information.
It didn’t seem as crazy to him as it did to us. It was a superstitious time, and Luke took the dying man’s dream, or vision, or illusion—whatever it was—just like we would take credible information.
But Catherine was downright angry when she heard of it, “To send the poor lad on such a wild-goose chase! But you are like a many more girls; and mark my words; by the time you have worn that Luke fairly out, and made him as sick of you as a dog, you will turn as fond on him as a cow on a calf, and 'Too late' will be the cry.”
But Catherine was really angry when she heard about it, “To send the poor guy on such a wild goose chase! You’re just like so many other girls; and mark my words; by the time you’ve worn Luke out and made him as sick of you as a dog, you’ll be as fond of him as a cow is of her calf, and ‘Too late’ will be what you say.”
THE CLOISTER
THE CLOISTER
The two friars reached Holland from the south just twelve hours after Luke started up the Rhine.
The two friars arrived in Holland from the south just twelve hours after Luke began his journey up the Rhine.
Thus, wild-goose chase or not, the parties were nearing each other, and rapidly too. For Jerome, unable to preach in low Dutch, now began to push on towards the coast, anxious to get to England as soon as possible.
Thus, whether it was a wild-goose chase or not, the groups were getting closer to each other, and quickly too. For Jerome, who couldn't preach in low Dutch, started to make his way toward the coast, eager to reach England as soon as possible.
And having the stream with them, the friars would in point of fact have missed Luke by passing him in full stream below his station, but for the incident which I am about to relate.
And with the stream flowing alongside them, the friars would actually have missed Luke by passing him in full flow below his position, if not for the incident I'm about to describe.
About twenty miles above the station Luke was making for, Clement landed to preach in a large village; and towards the end of his sermon he noticed a grey nun weeping.
About twenty miles above the station Luke was heading to, Clement landed to preach in a large village; and towards the end of his sermon, he noticed a gray nun crying.
He spoke to her kindly, and asked her what was her grief.
He spoke to her gently and asked her what was upsetting her.
“Nay,” said she, “'tis not for myself flow these tears; 'tis for my lost friend. Thy words reminded me of what she was, and what she is, poor wretch, But you are a Dominican, and I am a Franciscan nun.”
“Nah,” she said, “these tears aren’t for me; they’re for my lost friend. Your words reminded me of who she was and what she is now, poor thing. But you’re a Dominican, and I’m a Franciscan nun.”
“It matters little, my sister, if we are both Christians, and if I can aid thee in aught.”
“It doesn’t matter much, my sister, if we are both Christians, and if I can help you in any way.”
The nun looked in his face, and said, “These are strange words, but methinks they are good; and thy lips are oh, most eloquent, I will tell thee our grief.”
The nun looked at his face and said, “These are strange words, but I think they are good; and your lips are oh, so eloquent, I will tell you our grief.”
She then let him know that a young nun, the darling of the convent, and her bosom friend, had been lured away from her vows, and after various gradations of sin, was actually living in a small inn as chambermaid, in reality as a decoy, and was known to be selling her favours to the wealthier customers, She added, “Anywhere else we might, by kindly violence, force her away from perdition, But this innkeeper was the servant of the fierce baron on the height there, and hath his ear still, and he would burn our convent to the ground, were we to take her by force.”
She then informed him that a young nun, the favorite of the convent and her close friend, had been led away from her vows, and after various levels of wrongdoing, was now living in a small inn as a chambermaid, actually as a decoy, and was known to be selling her favors to wealthier customers. She added, “Anywhere else we might, with some gentle force, pull her back from disaster. But this innkeeper serves the fierce baron up there, and still has his ear, and he would burn our convent to the ground if we tried to take her by force.”
“Moreover, souls will not be saved by brute force,” said Clement.
“Besides, you can't save souls with violence,” said Clement.
While they were talking Jerome came up, and Clement persuaded him to lie at the convent that night, But when in the morning Clement told him he had had a long talk with the abbess, and that she was very sad, and he had promised her to try and win back her nun, Jerome objected, and said, “It was not their business, and was a waste of time,” Clement, however, was no longer a mere pupil. He stood firm, and at last they agreed that Jerome should go forward, and secure their passage in the next ship for England, and Clement be allowed time to make his well-meant but idle experiment.
While they were talking, Jerome arrived, and Clement convinced him to stay at the convent that night. But in the morning, when Clement told him he had a long conversation with the abbess, who was very sad, and that he had promised her he would try to win back her nun, Jerome objected, saying, “It’s not our business, and it's a waste of time.” However, Clement was no longer just a student. He stood his ground, and eventually, they agreed that Jerome would go ahead and secure their passage on the next ship to England, while Clement would have time to pursue his well-meaning but pointless experiment.
About ten o'clock that day, a figure in a horseman's cloak, and great boots to match, and a large flapping felt hat, stood like a statue near the auberge, where was the apostate nun, Mary. The friar thus disguised was at that moment truly wretched. These ardent natures undertake wonders; but are dashed when they come hand to hand with the sickening difficulties. But then, as their hearts are steel, though their nerves are anything but iron, they turn not back, but panting and dispirited, struggle on to the last.
About ten o'clock that day, a person in a horseman's cloak, matching tall boots, and a large, floppy felt hat stood like a statue near the inn, where the fallen nun, Mary, was. The friar, disguised like this, felt utterly miserable at that moment. These passionate individuals take on great challenges but can feel defeated when faced with overwhelming difficulties. However, since their determination is strong, even if their nerves are anything but steady, they don’t turn back; instead, they keep pushing forward, breathing heavily and feeling discouraged, until the end.
Clement hesitated long at the door, prayed for help and wisdom, and at last entered the inn and sat down faint at heart, and with his body in a cold perspiration, But inside he was another man. He called lustily for a cup of wine: it was brought him by the landlord, He paid for it with money the convent had supplied him; and made a show of drinking it.
Clement hesitated at the door for a long time, prayed for help and guidance, and finally entered the inn, sitting down feeling nervous and sweaty. But inside, he felt like a different person. He called out loudly for a cup of wine, which the landlord brought to him. He paid for it with money the convent had given him and pretended to drink it.
“Landlord,” said he, “I hear there is a fair chambermaid in thine house.”
“Landlord,” he said, “I heard there’s a pretty chambermaid in your house.”
“Ay, stranger, the buxomest in Holland. But she gives not her company to all comers only to good customers.”
“Yeah, stranger, she's the most attractive in Holland. But she doesn't spend time with just anyone, only with good customers.”
Friar Clement dangled a massive gold chain in the landlord's sight. He laughed, and shouted, “Here, Janet, here is a lover for thee would bind thee in chains of gold; and a tall lad into the bargain, I promise thee.”
Friar Clement waved a huge gold chain in front of the landlord. He laughed and shouted, “Hey, Janet, here’s a suitor who would tie you up in gold chains; and he’s a tall guy too, I promise you.”
“Then I am in double luck,” said a female voice; “send him hither.”
“Then I'm really lucky,” said a woman’s voice; “send him here.”
Clement rose, shuddered, and passed into the room, where Janet was seated playing with a piece of work, and laying it down every minute, to sing a mutilated fragment of a song. For, in her mode of life, she had not the patience to carry anything out.
Clement got up, shuddered, and walked into the room, where Janet was sitting, fiddling with a project and putting it down every minute to sing a broken part of a song. In her lifestyle, she didn’t have the patience to finish anything.
After a few words of greeting, the disguised visitor asked her if they could not be more private somewhere.
After a brief exchange of greetings, the disguised visitor asked her if they could find a more private place to talk.
“Why not?” said she. And she rose and smiled, and went tripping before him, He followed, groaning inwardly, and sore perplexed.
“Why not?” she said. Then she got up, smiled, and walked ahead of him playfully. He followed, feeling frustrated and very confused.
“There,” said she. “Have no fear! Nobody ever comes here, but such as pay for the privilege.”
"There," she said. "Don't worry! No one ever comes here except those who pay for the privilege."
Clement looked round the room, and prayed silently for wisdom. Then he went softly, and closed the window-shutters carefully.
Clement glanced around the room and silently prayed for wisdom. Then he quietly went and carefully closed the window shutters.
“What on earth is that for?” said Janet, in some uneasiness.
“What on earth is that for?” Janet asked, feeling a bit uneasy.
“Sweetheart,” whispered the visitor, with a mysterious air, “it is that God may not see us.
“Sweetheart,” whispered the visitor, with an air of mystery, “it’s so that God might not see us.
“Madman,” said Janet; “think you a wooden shutter can keep out His eye?”
“Madman,” said Janet; “do you really think a wooden shutter can block His gaze?”
“Nay, I know not. Perchance He has too much on hand to notice us, But I would not the saints and angels should see us. Would you?”
“Nah, I don’t know. Maybe He has too much going on to notice us, but I wouldn’t want the saints and angels to see us. Would you?”
“My poor soul, hope not to escape their sight! The only way is not to think of them; for if you do, it poisons your cup. For two pins I'd run and leave thee. Art pleasant company in sooth.”
“My poor soul, don’t hope to escape their gaze! The only way is to not think about them; because if you do, it ruins your mood. For just two cents, I’d run away and leave you. You’re actually good company, really.”
“After all, girl, so that men see us not, what signify God and the saints seeing us? Feel this chain! 'Tis virgin gold. I shall cut two of these heavy links off for thee.”
“After all, girl, if we don’t want men to see us, why does it matter if God and the saints can? Feel this chain! It's pure gold. I'll cut two of these heavy links off for you.”
“Ah! now thy discourse is to the point,” And she handled the chain greedily. “Why, 'tis as massy as the chain round the virgin's neck at the conv—” She did not finish the word.
“Ah! now your talk is on point,” and she eagerly grabbed the chain. “Wow, it’s as heavy as the chain around the virgin's neck at the conv—” She didn't finish the word.
“Whisht! whisht! whisht! 'Tis it. And thou shalt have thy share. But betray me not.”
“Shh! Shh! Shh! That’s it. And you’ll get your share. But don’t betray me.”
“Monster!” cried Janet, drawing back from him with repugnance; “what, rob the blessed Virgin of her chain, and give it to an—”
“Monster!” yelled Janet, pulling away from him in disgust; “what, steal the blessed Virgin's chain and give it to an—”
“You are none,” cried Clement exultingly, “or you had not recked for that-Mary!”
“You are nothing,” shouted Clement triumphantly, “or you wouldn’t care about that—Mary!”
“Ah! ah! ah!”
“Wow! Wow! Wow!”
“Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee”
“Your patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet you.”
She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters.
She rushed to the window, screaming, and started to open the shutters.
Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of his boots and his hat before the light streamed in upon him, He then let his cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with a loving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physical part of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. She crouched and cowered against the wall.
Her fingers shook, and Clement had enough time to take off his boots and hat before the light flooded in around him. He then let his cloak drop and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and majestic like a statue. He held his crucifix above her with a loving, sad, and solemn expression that eased her physical fear but overwhelmed her with religious terror and guilt. She huddled against the wall.
“Mary,” said he gently; “one word! Are you happy?”
“Mary,” he said softly, “just one thing! Are you happy?”
“As happy as I shall be in hell.”
“As happy as I’ll be in hell.”
“And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you.”
“And they aren’t happy at the convent; they cry for you.”
“For me?”
"For me?"
“Day and night; above all, the Sister Ursula.”
“Day and night; above all, Sister Ursula.”
“Poor Ursula!” And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thought of her friend.
“Poor Ursula!” And the lost nun started to cry at the thought of her friend.
“The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth and heaven and save thyself?”
“The angels still weep even more. Will you not wipe away all their tears in both earth and heaven and save yourself?”
“Ay! would I could; but it is too late.”
“Ugh! I wish I could; but it’s too late.”
“Satan avaunt,” cried the monk sternly. “'Tis thy favourite temptation; and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, and whispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greater sinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet, e'n in this world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door.”
“Get lost, Satan,” the monk shouted seriously. “This is your favorite temptation; and you, Mary, don’t listen to the enemy of mankind, who twists God's truth and fills you with despair. I, who come to save you, have sinned much more than you ever have. Come on, Mary, sin isn’t as sweet, even in this world, as being holy; and eternity is just around the corner.”
“How can they ever receive me again?”
“How could they possibly accept me again?”
“'Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine for thee. 'Twas in pity of their tears that I, a Dominican, undertook this task; and broke the rule of my order by entering an inn; and broke it again by donning these lay vestments. But all is well done, and quit for a light penance, if thou wilt let us rescue thy soul from this den of wolves, and bring thee back to thy vows.”
“It's their worthiness that you're doubting now. But in reality, they long for you. It was out of pity for their tears that I, a Dominican, took on this task; I broke the rule of my order by entering an inn, and I broke it again by wearing these lay clothes. But everything is well done, and it's only a light penance, if you'll let us save your soul from this den of wolves and bring you back to your vows.”
The nun gazed at him with tears in her eyes. “And thou, a Dominican, hast done this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why, the Franciscans and Dominicans hate one another.”
The nun looked at him with tears in her eyes. “And you, a Dominican, did this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why, the Franciscans and Dominicans despise each other.”
“Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic love one another.”
“Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic care for each other.”
The recreant nun seemed struck and affected by this answer
The cowardly nun appeared shocked and moved by this response.
Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been that the Virgin should be robbed of her chain. “But see now,” said he, “the convent, and the Virgin too, think ten times more of their poor nun than of golden chains; for they freely trusted their chain to me a stranger, that peradventure the sight of it might touch their lost Mary and remind her of their love,” Finally he showed her with such terrible simplicity the end of her present course, and on the other hand so revived her dormant memories and better feelings, that she kneeled sobbing at his feet, and owned she had never known happiness nor peace since she betrayed her vows; and said she would go back if he would go with her; but alone she dared not, could not: even if she reached the gate she could never enter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her he would go with her as joyfully as the shepherd bears a strayed lamb to the fold.
Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been when the Virgin was robbed of her chain. “But look,” he said, “the convent, and the Virgin too, care much more about their poor nun than about golden chains; they chose to trust their chain to me, a stranger, hoping that seeing it might touch their lost Mary and remind her of their love.” Finally, he showed her in such a simple yet devastating way what would happen if she continued on her current path, and at the same time, he awakened her dormant memories and better feelings, causing her to kneel sobbing at his feet. She admitted she had never known happiness or peace since she betrayed her vows and said she would go back if he would come with her; but she couldn't go alone: even if she reached the gate, she could never enter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her he would go with her as joyfully as a shepherd carries a lost lamb back to the fold.
But when he urged her to go at once, up sprung a crop of those prodigiously petty difficulties that entangle her sex, like silken nets, liker iron cobwebs.
But when he insisted that she leave right away, a bunch of those ridiculously small problems that trap women came up, like silky nets, more like iron webs.
He quietly swept them aside.
He quietly pushed them away.
“But how can I walk beside thee in this habit?”
“But how can I walk next to you in this outfit?”
“I have brought the gown and cowl of thy holy order. Hide thy bravery with them. And leave thy shoes as I leave these” (pointing to his horseman's boots).
“I have brought the gown and hood of your holy order. Cover your courage with them. And leave your shoes as I leave these” (pointing to his riding boots).
She collected her jewels and ornaments.
She gathered her jewelry and accessories.
“What are these for?” inquired Clement.
“What are these for?” asked Clement.
“To present to the convent, father.”
“To present to the convent, Father.”
“Their source is too impure.”
“Their source is too unclean.”
“But,” objected the penitent, “it would be a sin to leave them here. They can be sold to feed the poor.”
“But,” protested the remorseful person, “it would be wrong to leave them here. They can be sold to help feed the needy.”
“Mary, fix thine eye on this crucifix, and trample those devilish baubles beneath thy feet.”
“Mary, focus on this crucifix, and stamp those devilish trinkets beneath your feet.”
She hesitated; but soon threw them down and trampled on them.
She hesitated, but soon tossed them aside and stepped on them.
“Now open the window and fling them out on that dunghill. 'Tis well done. So pass the wages of sin from thy hands, its glittering yoke from thy neck, its pollution from thy soul. Away, daughter of St. Francis, we tarry in this vile place too long.” She followed him.
“Now open the window and throw them out onto that trash heap. That’s well done. So get rid of the wages of sin from your hands, its shining burden from your neck, its filth from your soul. Let’s go, daughter of St. Francis, we’ve stayed in this horrible place long enough.” She followed him.
But they were not clear yet.
But they weren't sure yet.
At first the landlord was so astounded at seeing a black friar and a grey nun pass through his kitchen from the inside, that he gaped, and muttered, “Why, what mummery is this?” But he soon comprehended the matter, and whipped in between the fugitives and the door. “What ho! Reuben! Carl! Gavin! here is a false friar spiriting away our Janet.”
At first, the landlord was so shocked to see a black friar and a grey nun walking through his kitchen that he just stared and mumbled, “What kind of trickery is this?” But he quickly understood what was happening and rushed to block the exit between the fleeing individuals and the door. “Hey! Reuben! Carl! Gavin! There’s a fake friar trying to take our Janet!”
The men came running in with threatening looks. The friar rushed at them crucifix in hand. “Forbear,” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “She is a holy nun returning to her vows. The hand that touches her cowl or her robe to stay her, it shall wither, his body shall lie unburied, cursed by Rome, and his soul shall roast in eternal fire.” They shrank back as if a flame had met them. “And thou—miserable panderer!”
The men came charging in with menacing expressions. The friar rushed toward them, crucifix in hand. “Stop!” he shouted in a booming voice. “She is a holy nun returning to her vows. Anyone who touches her cowl or her robe to stop her will wither away, their body will lie unburied, cursed by Rome, and their soul will burn in eternal fire.” They recoiled as if a flame had confronted them. “And you—wretched panderer!”
He did not end the sentence in words, but seized the man by the neck, and strong as a lion in his moments of hot excitement, hurled him furiously from the door and sent him all across the room, pitching head foremost on to the stone floor; then tore the door open and carried the screaming nun out into the road.
He didn't finish his sentence; instead, he grabbed the man by the neck and, strong as a lion in his moment of intense anger, threw him violently out the door, sending him tumbling across the room and crashing headfirst onto the stone floor. Then he ripped the door open and dragged the screaming nun out into the street.
“Hush! poor trembler,” he gasped; “they dare not molest thee on the highroad. Away!”
“Hush! poor trembler,” he gasped; “they won’t bother you on the high road. Go on!”
The landlord lay terrified, half stunned, and bleeding; and Mary, though she often looked back apprehensively, saw no more of him.
The landlord was lying there, scared, half-conscious, and bleeding; and Mary, even though she frequently glanced back nervously, didn’t see him again.
On the road he bade her observe his impetuosity.
On the road, he asked her to notice his impulsiveness.
“Hitherto,” said he, “we have spoken of thy faults: now for mine. My choler is ungovernable; furious. It is by the grace of God I am not a murderer, I repent the next moment; but a moment too late is all too late. Mary, had the churls laid finger on thee, I should have scattered their brains with my crucifix, Oh, I know myself; go to; and tremble at myself. There lurketh a wild beast beneath this black gown of mine.”
“Until now,” he said, “we’ve talked about your flaws: now let’s address mine. My temper is uncontrollable; I can be furious. It's only by God's grace that I’m not a murderer; I regret it the next moment, but by then it’s already too late. Mary, if those brutes had touched you, I would have smashed their skulls with my crucifix. Oh, I know who I am; go on, and be afraid of what I might do. There’s a wild beast hidden beneath this black robe of mine.”
“Alas, father,” said Mary, “were you other than you are I had been lost. To take me from that place needed a man wary as a fox; yet bold as a lion.”
“Unfortunately, dad,” Mary said, “if you weren’t who you are, I would be lost. To get me out of that place required someone as clever as a fox; yet brave as a lion.”
Clement reflected. “This much is certain: God chooseth well his fleshly instruments; and with imperfect hearts doeth His perfect work, Glory be to God!”
Clement thought about it. “One thing is clear: God chooses His earthly instruments wisely; and with imperfect hearts, He accomplishes His perfect work. Glory be to God!”
When they were near the convent Mary suddenly stopped, and seized the friar's arm, and began to cry. He looked at her kindly, and told her she had nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever spent. He then made her sit down and compose herself till he should return, He entered the convent, and desired to see the abbess.
When they were close to the convent, Mary suddenly stopped, grabbed the friar's arm, and started to cry. He looked at her kindly and reassured her that she had nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever experienced. He then asked her to sit down and calm herself until he returned. He went into the convent and asked to see the abbess.
“My sister, give the glory to God: Mary is at the gate.”
“My sister, praise God: Mary is at the gate.”
The astonishment and delight of the abbess were unbounded.
The abbess was filled with endless amazement and joy.
She yielded at once to Clement's earnest request that the road of penitence might be smoothed at first to this unstable wanderer, and after some opposition, she entered heartily into his views as to her actual reception. To give time for their little preparations Clement went slowly back, and seating himself by Mary soothed her; and heard her confession.
She immediately agreed to Clement's sincere request to make the path of repentance easier for this uncertain traveler, and after a bit of resistance, she fully embraced his ideas about how she should be welcomed. To allow time for their small preparations, Clement walked back slowly, sat down next to Mary, comforted her, and listened to her confession.
“The abbess has granted me that you shall propose your own penance.”
“The abbess has allowed me to let you suggest your own punishment.”
“It shall be none the lighter,” said she.
“It won’t be any easier,” she said.
“I trow not,” said he; “but that is future: to-day is given to joy alone.”
“I don’t think so,” he said; “but that’s for later: today is meant for joy only.”
He then led her round the building to the abbess's postern.
He then took her around the building to the abbess's private entrance.
As they went they heard musical instruments and singing.
As they walked, they heard music and singing.
“'Tis a feastday,” said Mary; “and I come to mar it.”
“It's a feast day,” said Mary; “and I'm here to ruin it.”
“Hardly,” said Clement, smiling; “seeing that you are the queen of the fete.”
“Hardly,” said Clement, smiling; “since you’re the queen of the party.”
“I, father? what mean you?”
“I, father? What do you mean?”
“What, Mary, have you never heard that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons which need no repentance? Now this convent is not heaven; nor the nuns angels; yet are there among then, some angelic spirits; and these sing and exult at thy return. But here methinks comes one of them; for I see her hand trembles at the keyhole.”
“What, Mary, have you never heard that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who don’t need to repent? Now this convent isn’t heaven, nor are the nuns angels; yet among them, there are some angelic spirits, and these sing and celebrate your return. But here, it seems one of them is coming; I see her hand trembling at the keyhole.”
The postern was flung open, and in a moment Sister Ursula clung sobbing and kissing round her friend's neck. The abbess followed more sedately, but little less moved.
The gate swung open, and in an instant, Sister Ursula was holding onto her friend, crying and kissing her neck. The abbess came in behind them, more calmly, but still just as emotional.
Clement bade them farewell. They entreated him to stay; but he told them with much regret he could not. He had already tried his good Brother Jerome's patience, and must hasten to the river; and perhaps sail for England to-morrow.
Clement said goodbye to them. They begged him to stay; but he told them with great sadness that he couldn’t. He had already tested his good Brother Jerome's patience, and he needed to hurry to the river; and maybe sail for England tomorrow.
So Mary returned to the fold, and Clement strode briskly on towards the Rhine, and England.
So Mary came back, and Clement walked confidently toward the Rhine and England.
This was the man for whom Margaret's boy lay in wait with her letter.
This was the guy Margaret's son was waiting for with her letter.
THE HEARTH
THE FIREPLACE
And that letter was one of those simple, touching appeals only her sex can write to those who have used them cruelly, and they love them. She began by telling him of the birth of the little boy, and the comfort he had been to her in all the distress of mind his long and strange silence had caused her. She described the little Gerard minutely, not forgetting the mole on his little finger.
And that letter was one of those simple, heartfelt messages that only a woman can write to those who have treated them badly, yet they still love them. She started by telling him about the birth of their little boy and how much comfort he had brought her during all the distress caused by his long and strange silence. She described little Gerard in detail, even mentioning the mole on his little finger.
“Know you any one that hath the like on his? If you only saw him you could not choose but be proud of him; all the mothers in the street do envy me; but I the wives; for thou comest not to us. My own Gerard, some say thou art dead. But if thou wert dead, how could I be alive? Others say that thou, whom I love so truly, art false. But this will I believe from no lips but thine. My father loved thee well; and as he lay a-dying he thought he saw thee on a great river, with thy face turned towards thy Margaret, but sore disfigured. Is't so, perchance? Have cruel men scarred thy sweet face? or hast thou lost one of thy precious limbs? Why, then thou hast the more need of me, and I shall love thee not worse, alas! thinkest thou a woman's love is light as a man's? but better, than I did when I shed those few drops from my arm, not worth the tears, thou didst shed for them; mindest thou? 'tis not so very long agone, dear Gerard.”
“Do you know anyone who has something like it? If you just saw him, you couldn’t help but be proud of him; all the mothers in the street envy me; but the wives do too, because you never come to us. My own Gerard, some say you are dead. But if you were dead, how could I be alive? Others claim that you, whom I love so deeply, are untrue. But I won’t believe that from anyone but you. My father loved you well; and as he lay dying, he thought he saw you on a great river, facing your Margaret, but badly scarred. Is that true, perhaps? Have cruel men marred your beautiful face? Or have you lost one of your precious limbs? If so, then you need me even more, and I will love you no less, alas! Do you think a woman’s love is as light as a man’s? It’s better; I felt it when I shed those few drops from my arm, which weren’t worth the tears you shed for them; remember? It wasn’t that long ago, dear Gerard.”
The letter continued in this strain, and concluded without a word of reproach or doubt as to his faith and affection. Not that she was free from most distressing doubts; but they were not certainties; and to show them might turn the scale, and frighten him away from her with fear of being scolded. And of this letter she made soft Luke the bearer.
The letter went on like this and ended without any blame or uncertainty about his love and loyalty. She wasn’t completely free of worrying doubts, but they were just doubts, not facts; showing them could tip the balance and scare him off, making him afraid of being reprimanded. And she chose gentle Luke to deliver this letter.
So she was not an angel after all.
So she wasn't an angel after all.
Luke mingled with the passengers of two boats, and could hear nothing of Gerard Eliassoen. Nor did this surprise him.
Luke interacted with the passengers of both boats and didn’t hear anything about Gerard Eliassoen. This didn’t surprise him.
He was more surprised when, at the third attempt, a black friar said to him, somewhat severely, “And what would you with him you call Gerard Eliassoen?”
He was even more surprised when, on the third try, a black friar said to him, somewhat sternly, “And what do you want with the person you call Gerard Eliassoen?”
“Why, father, if he is alive I have got a letter for him.”
“Why, dad, if he's alive, I have a letter for him.”
“Humph!” said Jerome. “I am sorry for it, However, the flesh is weak. Well, my son, he you seek will be here by the next boat, or the next boat after. And if he chooses to answer to that name—After all, I am not the keeper of his conscience.”
“Humph!” said Jerome. “I regret that, but the flesh is weak. Well, my son, the person you're looking for will arrive on the next boat or the one after that. And if he decides to go by that name—after all, I'm not in charge of his conscience.”
“Good father, one plain word, for Heaven's sake, This Gerard Eliassoen of Tergou—is he alive?”
“Good father, just one simple word, for Heaven's sake. Is this Gerard Eliassoen from Tergou alive?”
“Humph! Why, certes, he that went by that name is alive.”
“Humph! Well, of course, the person who went by that name is alive.”
“Well, then, that is settled,” said Luke drily. But the next moment he found it necessary to run out of sight and blubber.
“Well, that’s settled,” Luke said dryly. But the next moment, he felt the need to run out of sight and cry.
“Oh, why did the Lord make any women?” said he to himself. “I was content with the world till I fell in love. Here his little finger is more to her than my whole body, and he is not dead, And here I have got to give him this.” He looked at the letter and dashed it on the ground. But he picked it up again with a spiteful snatch, and went to the landlord, with tears in his eyes, and begged for work, The landlord declined, said he had his own people.
“Oh, why did the Lord create women?” he said to himself. “I was happy with the world until I fell in love. Here, his little finger means more to her than my whole body, and he’s not even dead. And now I have to give him this.” He looked at the letter and threw it on the ground. But he picked it up again with an angry snatch and went to the landlord, with tears in his eyes, and asked for work. The landlord refused, saying he had his own people.
“Oh, I seek not your money,” said Luke, “I only want some work to keep me from breaking my heart about another man's lass.”
“Oh, I don't want your money,” Luke said, “I just need some work to keep me from moping over another guy's girl.”
“Good lad! good lad!” exploded the landlord; and found him lots of barrels to mend—on these terms, And he coopered with fury in the interval of the boats coming down the Rhine.
“Good guy! good guy!” shouted the landlord; and found him plenty of barrels to fix—on these terms, and he worked furiously during the downtime while the boats were coming down the Rhine.
CHAPTER LXXXIII
THE HEARTH
Waiting an earnest letter seldom leaves the mind in statu quo.
Waiting for a heartfelt letter rarely keeps the mind at rest.
Margaret, in hers, vented her energy and her faith in her dying father's vision, or illusion; and when this was done, and Luke gone, she wondered at her credulity, and her conscience pricked her about Luke; and Catherine came and scolded her, and she paid the price of false hopes, and elevation of spirits, by falling into deeper despondency. She was found in this state by a staunch friend she had lately made, Joan Ketel. This good woman came in radiant with an idea.
Margaret, in her own way, expressed her energy and her belief in her dying father's vision, or perhaps his delusion; and once that was over and Luke had left, she questioned her own gullibility, her conscience nagging her about Luke. Then Catherine arrived and criticized her, and she paid the price for her false hopes and lifted spirits by sinking into deeper despair. She was discovered in this state by a close friend she had recently made, Joan Ketel. This kind woman entered, glowing with a new idea.
“Margaret, I know the cure for thine ill: the hermit of Gouda a wondrous holy man, Why, he can tell what is coming, when he is in the mood.”
“Margaret, I know the cure for your problem: the hermit of Gouda is a truly holy man. He can predict what will happen when he feels like it.”
“Ay, I have heard of him,” said Margaret hopelessly. Joan with some difficulty persuaded her to walk out as far as Gouda, and consult the hermit. They took some butter and eggs in a basket, and went to his cave.
“Aye, I’ve heard of him,” Margaret said hopelessly. Joan managed to convince her to walk all the way to Gouda to consult the hermit. They packed some butter and eggs in a basket and headed to his cave.
What had made the pair such fast friends? Jorian some six weeks ago fell ill of a bowel disease; it began with raging pain; and when this went off, leaving him weak, an awkward symptom succeeded; nothing, either liquid or solid, would stay in his stomach a minute. The doctor said: “He must die if this goes on many hours; therefore boil thou now a chicken with a golden angel in the water, and let him sup that!” Alas! Gilt chicken broth shared the fate of the humbler viands, its predecessors. Then the cure steeped the thumb of St. Sergius in beef broth. Same result. Then Joan ran weeping to Margaret to borrow some linen to make his shroud. “Let me see him,” said Margaret. She came in and felt his pulse. “Ah!” said she, “I doubt they have not gone to the root. Open the window! Art stifling him; now change all his linen.
What made these two become such close friends? About six weeks ago, Jorian got sick with a stomach issue; it started with intense pain, and once that eased, he was left weak with a strange problem—nothing, not even liquids or solids, could stay in his stomach for more than a minute. The doctor said, “He’ll die if this goes on for much longer; so boil a chicken with a golden angel in the water and let him drink that!” Unfortunately, the golden chicken broth met the same fate as the simpler foods before it. Then the treatment involved soaking the thumb of St. Sergius in beef broth. Same result. Then Joan, in tears, ran to Margaret to borrow some linen to make his shroud. “Let me see him,” said Margaret. She entered and felt his pulse. “Oh!” she said, “I think they haven’t gotten to the root of the problem. Open the window! You're suffocating him; now change all his linen.”
“Alack, woman, what for? Why foul more linen for a dying man?” objected the mediaeval wife.
“Come on, woman, why? Why dirty more linen for a dying man?” protested the medieval wife.
“Do as thou art bid,” said Margaret dully, and left the room.
“Do what you’re told,” said Margaret flatly, and left the room.
Joan somehow found herself doing as she was bid. Margaret returned with her apron full of a flowering herb. She made a decoction, and took it to the bedside; and before giving it to the patient, took a spoonful herself, and smacked her lips hypocritically. “That is fair,” said he, with a feeble attempt at humour. “Why, 'tis sweet, and now 'tis bitter.” She engaged him in conversation as soon as he had taken it. This bitter-sweet stayed by him. Seeing which she built on it as cards are built: mixed a very little schiedam in the third spoonful, and a little beaten yoke of egg in the seventh. And so with the patience of her sex she coaxed his body out of Death's grasp; and finally, Nature, being patted on the back, instead of kicked under the bed, set Jorian Ketel on his legs again. But the doctress made them both swear never to tell a soul her guilty deed. “They would put me in prison, away from my child.”
Joan somehow found herself doing what she was told. Margaret came back with her apron filled with a flowering herb. She made a brew and took it to the bedside; before giving it to the patient, she took a spoonful herself and smacked her lips in a pretend show of delight. “That’s fair,” he said, trying to make a joke in his weak state. “Well, it’s sweet, and now it’s bitter.” She started chatting with him as soon as he took it. This bitter-sweet concoction stayed with him. Seeing that, she built on it like you would build a house of cards: adding a tiny bit of schnapps in the third spoonful and a little beaten egg yolk in the seventh. With the patience typical of women, she coaxed his body out of Death's grip; and eventually, with a little encouragement, Nature decided to help, and Jorian Ketel was back on his feet again. But the doctor made them both promise never to tell anyone about her secret act. “They’d lock me up, away from my child.”
The simple that saved Jorian was called sweet feverfew. She gathered it in his own garden. Her eagle eye had seen it growing out of the window.
The plant that saved Jorian was called sweet feverfew. She picked it from his own garden. Her sharp eye had spotted it growing outside the window.
Margaret and Joan, then, reached the hermit's cave, and placed their present on the little platform. Margaret then applied her mouth to the aperture, made for that purpose, and said: “Holy hermit, we bring thee butter and eggs of the best; and I, a poor deserted girl, wife, yet no wife, and mother of the sweetest babe, come to pray thee tell me whether he is quick or dead, true to his vows or false.”
Margaret and Joan arrived at the hermit's cave and set their offering on the small platform. Margaret then leaned in through the opening made for that purpose and said, “Holy hermit, we bring you the finest butter and eggs; and I, a poor abandoned girl, a wife but not really a wife, and mother of the sweetest babe, come to ask you whether he is alive or dead, faithful to his vows or not.”
A faint voice issued from the cave: “Trouble me not with the things of earth, but send me a holy friar, I am dying.”
A weak voice came from the cave: “Don't bother me with earthly matters, just send me a holy friar, I’m dying.”
“Alas!” cried Margaret. “Is it e'en so, poor soul? Then let us in to help thee.”
“Alas!” cried Margaret. “Is it really true, poor soul? Then let us in to help you.”
“Saints forbid! Thine is a woman's voice. Send me a holy friar.”
“God forbid! That’s a woman’s voice. Get me a holy friar.”
They went back as they came. Joan could not help saying, “Are women imps o' darkness then, that they must not come anigh a dying bed?”
They returned the same way they had arrived. Joan couldn't help but say, “Are women like dark spirits, that they shouldn't come near a deathbed?”
But Margaret was too deeply dejected to say anything. Joan applied rough consolation. But she was not listened to till she said: “And Jorian will speak out ere long; he is just on the boil, He is very grateful to thee, believe it.”
But Margaret was too upset to say anything. Joan tried to comfort her, but she wasn’t heard until she said, “And Jorian will speak up soon; he’s really worked up. He’s very grateful to you, believe it.”
“Seeing is believing,” replied Margaret, with quiet bitterness.
“Seeing is believing,” Margaret replied, her tone laced with quiet bitterness.
“Not but what he thinks you might have saved him with something more out o' the common than yon. 'A man of my inches to be cured wi' feverfew,' says he. 'Why, if there is a sorry herb,' says he. 'Why, I was thinking o' pulling all mine up, says he. I up and told him remedies were none the better for being far-fetched; you and feverfew cured him, when the grand medicines came up faster than they went down. So says I, 'You may go down on your four bones to feverfew.' But indeed, he is grateful at bottom; you are all his thought and all his chat. But he sees Gerard's folk coming around ye, and good friends, and he said only last night—”
“It's not that he doesn't think you could have saved him with something more ordinary than that. 'A man of my size cured with feverfew,' he says. 'Well, if there is a worthless herb,' he says. 'I was thinking of pulling all mine up,' he says. I told him that remedies aren’t any better just because they’re rare; you and feverfew cured him when the fancy medicines came up quicker than they went down. So I said, 'You might as well go crawl to feverfew.' But honestly, he’s grateful deep down; you’re all he talks about. But he sees Gerard's people coming around you, and good friends, and he said just last night—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“He made me vow not to tell ye.”
“He made me promise not to tell you.”
“Prithee, tell me.”
"Please, tell me."
“Well, he said: 'An' if I tell what little I know, it won't bring him back, and it will set them all by the ears. I wish I had more headpiece,' said he; 'I am sore perplexed. But least said is soonest mended.' Yon is his favourite word; he comes back to't from a mile off.”
“Well, he said, 'And if I share what little I know, it won't bring him back, and it will just cause arguments. I wish I had more sense,' he said; 'I'm really confused. But the less said, the better.' That’s his favorite word; he brings it up even from far away.”
Margaret shook her head. “Ay, we are wading in deep waters, my poor babe and me.”
Margaret shook her head. “Yeah, we are wading in deep waters, my poor child and I.”
It was Saturday night and no Luke.
It was Saturday night and still no sign of Luke.
“Poor Luke!” said Margaret. “It was very good of him to go on such an errand.”
“Poor Luke!” said Margaret. “It was really nice of him to take on such a task.”
“He is one out of a hundred,” replied Catherine warmly.
“He’s one in a hundred,” replied Catherine warmly.
“Mother, do you think he would be kind to little Gerard?”
“Mom, do you think he’d be nice to little Gerard?”
“I am sure he would. So do you be kinder to him when he comes back! Will ye now?”
“I’m sure he would. So, will you be kinder to him when he comes back? Will you?”
“Ay.”
“Yeah.”
THE CLOISTER
THE CLOISTER
Brother Clement, directed by the nuns, avoided a bend in the river, and striding lustily forward, reached a station some miles nearer the coast than that where Luke lay in wait for Gerard Eliassoen. And the next morning he started early, and was in Rotterdam at noon. He made at once for the port, not to keep Jerome waiting.
Brother Clement, guided by the nuns, steered clear of a bend in the river and walked energetically forward, arriving at a location several miles closer to the coast than where Luke was waiting for Gerard Eliassoen. The next morning, he set off early and made it to Rotterdam by noon. He headed straight to the port, wanting to avoid making Jerome wait.
He observed several monks of his order on the quay; he went to them; but Jerome was not amongst them. He asked one of them whether Jerome had arrived? “Surely, brother, was the reply.
He noticed several monks from his order by the dock; he approached them, but Jerome wasn't among them. He asked one of the monks if Jerome had arrived. "Of course, brother," was the reply.
“Prithee, where is he?”
“Please, where is he?”
“Where? Why, there!” said the monk, pointing to a ship in full sail. And Clement now noticed that all the monks were looking seaward.
“Where? Oh, there!” said the monk, pointing to a ship with its sails up. And Clement now saw that all the monks were gazing out at the sea.
“What, gone without me! Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” cried he, in a voice of anguish. Several of the friars turned round and stared.
“What, left without me! Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” he shouted, his voice filled with pain. Several of the friars turned and stared.
“You must be brother Clement,” said one of them at length; and on this they kissed him and greeted him with brotherly warmth, and gave him a letter Jerome had charged them with for him. It was a hasty scrawl. The writer told him coldly a ship was about to sail for England, and he was loth to lose time. He (Clement) might follow if he pleased, but he would do much better to stay behind, and preach to his own country folk. “Give the glory to God, brother; you have a wonderful power over Dutch hearts; but you are no match for those haughty islanders: you are too tender.
“You must be Brother Clement,” one of them finally said; and with that, they kissed him and welcomed him warmly like brothers, handing him a letter that Jerome had given them for him. It was a hurried scrawl. The writer coldly informed him that a ship was about to set sail for England, and he was reluctant to waste any time. Clement could come if he wanted, but he would be better off staying behind and preaching to his fellow countrymen. “Give the glory to God, brother; you have an incredible influence over Dutch hearts; but you won’t stand a chance with those proud islanders: you’re too gentle."
“Know thou that on the way I met one, who asked me for thee under the name thou didst bear in the world. Be on thy guard! Let not the world catch thee again by any silken net, And remember, Solitude, Fasting, and Prayer are the sword, spear, and shield of the soul. Farewell.”
“Know that on my journey I met someone who asked for you by the name you had in the world. Be careful! Don't let the world trap you again in any charming way, and remember, Solitude, Fasting, and Prayer are the sword, spear, and shield of the soul. Goodbye.”
Clement was deeply shocked and mortified at this contemptuous desertion, and this cold-blooded missive.
Clement was deeply shocked and humiliated by this disrespectful abandonment and this heartless message.
He promised the good monks to sleep at the convent, and to preach wherever the prior should appoint for Jerome had raised him to the skies as a preacher, and then withdrew abruptly, for he was cut to the quick, and wanted to be alone. He asked himself, was there some incurable fault in him, repulsive to so true a son of Dominic? Or was Jerome himself devoid of that Christian Love which St. Paul had placed above Faith itself? Shipwrecked with him, and saved on the same fragment of the wreck: his pupil, his penitent, his son in the Church, and now for four hundred miles his fellow-traveller in Christ; and to be shaken off like dirt, the first opportunity, with harsh and cold disdain. “Why worldly hearts are no colder nor less trusty than this,” said he. “The only one that ever really loved me lies in a grave hard by. Fly me, fly to England, man born without a heart; I will go and pray over a grave at Sevenbergen.”
He promised the good monks to stay at the convent and to preach wherever the prior assigned him, as Jerome had praised him highly as a preacher. Then he suddenly left, feeling deeply hurt and wanting to be alone. He wondered if there was some unfixable flaw in him that was repulsive to such a devoted follower of Dominic. Or was Jerome himself lacking the Christian Love that St. Paul ranked above Faith? They were both shipwrecked together and saved on the same piece of debris: his student, his penitent, his son in the Church, and now for four hundred miles, his fellow traveler in Christ. And to be discarded like dirt at the first chance, with harsh and cold disdain. "Why are worldly hearts no colder or less trustworthy than this?" he thought. "The only one who ever truly loved me lies in a grave nearby. Leave me, go to England, you man born without a heart; I will go and pray by the grave at Sevenbergen."
Three hours later he passed Peter's cottage. A troop of noisy children were playing about the door, and the house had been repaired, and a new outhouse added. He turned his head hastily away, not to disturb a picture his memory treasured; and went to the churchyard.
Three hours later, he walked by Peter's cottage. A group of loud kids were playing by the door, and the house had been fixed up with a new shed added on. He quickly turned his head to avoid disturbing a memory he cherished and headed to the churchyard.
He sought among the tombstones for Margaret's. He could not find it. He could not believe they had grudged her a tombstone, so searched the churchyard all over again.
He looked around the gravestones for Margaret's. He couldn't find it. He couldn't believe they hadn't given her a gravestone, so he searched the cemetery all over again.
“Oh poverty! stern poverty! Poor soul, thou wert like me no one was left that loved thee, when Gerard was gone.”
“Oh poverty! harsh poverty! Poor soul, you were like me—no one was left who loved you when Gerard was gone.”
He went into the church, and after kissing the steps, prayed long and earnestly for the soul of her whose resting-place he could not find.
He walked into the church, and after kissing the steps, he prayed for a long time, sincerely asking for the soul of the person whose resting place he couldn’t find.
Coming out of the church he saw a very old man looking over the little churchyard gate. He went towards him, and asked him did he live in the place.
Coming out of the church, he saw a very old man looking over the little churchyard gate. He walked over to him and asked if he lived in the area.
“Four score and twelve years, man and boy. And I come here every day of late, holy father, to take a peep. This is where I look to bide ere long.”
“Eighty-four years, man and boy. And I come here every day lately, holy father, to take a look. This is where I plan to stay soon.”
“My son, can you tell me where Margaret lies?”
“My son, can you tell me where Margaret is buried?”
“Margaret? There's a many Margarets here.”
“Margaret? There are a lot of Margarets here.”
“Margaret Brandt. She was daughter to a learned physician.”
“Margaret Brandt. She was the daughter of a knowledgeable doctor.”
“As if I didn't know that,” said the old man pettishly. “But she doesn't lie here. Bless you, they left this a longful while ago. Gone in a moment, and the house empty. What, is she dead? Margaret a Peter dead? Now only think on't. Like enow; like enow, They great towns do terribly disagree wi' country folk.”
“As if I didn't know that,” said the old man irritably. “But she isn't here. Honestly, they left this place a long time ago. Gone in an instant, and the house is empty. What, is she dead? Margaret and Peter both dead? Just think about it. It's very likely; it's very likely. The big towns do clash terribly with country folk.”
“What great towns, my son?”
“What amazing towns, my son?”
“Well, 'twas Rotterdam they went to from here, so I heard tell; or was it Amsterdam? Nay, I trow 'twas Rotterdam? And gone there to die!”
“Well, they went to Rotterdam from here, or was it Amsterdam? No, I think it was Rotterdam. And they went there to die!”
Clement sighed.
Clement let out a sigh.
“'Twas not in her face now, that I saw. And I can mostly tell, Alack, there was a blooming young flower to be cut off so soon, and all old weed like me left standing still. Well, well, she was a May rose yon; dear heart, what a winsome smile she had, and—”
“It's not in her face now that I noticed. And I can usually tell, unfortunately, that there was a beautiful young flower ready to be taken too soon, while all the old weeds like me are still here. Well, well, she was a May rose back then; dear heart, what a lovely smile she had, and—”
“God bless thee, my son,” said Clement; “farewell!” and he hurried away.
“God bless you, my son,” said Clement; “goodbye!” and he rushed off.
He reached the convent at sunset, and watched and prayed in the chapel for Jerome and Margaret till it was long past midnight, and his soul had recovered its cold calm.
He arrived at the convent at sunset and spent time watching and praying in the chapel for Jerome and Margaret until well past midnight, and his soul had regained its cold calm.
CHAPTER LXXXIV
THE HEARTH
The next day, Sunday, after mass, was a bustling day at Catherine's house in the Hoog Straet. The shop was now quite ready, and Cornelis and Sybrandt were to open it next day; their names were above the door; also their sign, a white lamb sucking a gilt sheep. Eli had come, and brought them some more goods from his store to give them a good start. The hearts of the parents glowed at what they were doing, and the pair themselves walked in the garden together, and agreed they were sick of their old life, and it was more pleasant to make money than waste it; they vowed to stick to business like wax. Their mother's quick and ever watchful ear overheard this resolution through an open window, and she told Eli, The family supper was to include Margaret and her boy, and be a kind of inaugural feast, at which good trade advice was to flow from the elders, and good wine to be drunk to the success of the converts to Commerce from Agriculture in its unremunerative form—wild oats. So Margaret had come over to help her mother-in-law, and also to shake off her own deep languor; and both their faces were as red as the fire. Presently in came Joan with a salad from Jorian's garden.
The next day, Sunday, after mass, was a busy day at Catherine's house in Hoog Straet. The shop was finally ready, and Cornelis and Sybrandt were set to open it the next day; their names were displayed above the door, along with their sign, a white lamb suckling a golden sheep. Eli had come by and brought them additional goods from his store to give them a solid start. The parents' hearts swelled with pride at what they were doing, and the two of them walked in the garden together, agreeing they were tired of their old life, and it was much better to earn money than waste it; they committed to sticking to business like glue. Their mother's sharp, ever-watchful ear caught wind of this resolution through an open window, and she informed Eli. The family dinner was set to include Margaret and her son, serving as a sort of inaugural feast, where valuable trade advice would flow from the elders and good wine would be enjoyed in celebration of the transition from Agriculture in its unprofitable form—wild oats—to Commerce. So, Margaret had come over to help her mother-in-law and also to shake off her own deep fatigue; both their faces were as red as fire. Soon, Joan arrived with a salad from Jorian's garden.
“He cut it for you, Margaret; you are all his chat; I shall be jealous. I told him you were to feast to-day. But oh, lass, what a sermon in the new kerk! Preaching? I never heard it till this day.”
“He cut it for you, Margaret; you're all he talks about; I'm going to be jealous. I told him you were having a feast today. But oh, girl, what a sermon in the new church! Preaching? I never heard anything like it until today.”
“Would I had been there then,” said Margaret; “for I am dried up for want of dew from heaven.”
“Would I have been there then,” said Margaret; “because I’m withered from the lack of dew from heaven.”
“Why, he preacheth again this afternoon. But mayhap you are wanted here.”
“Why, he’s preaching again this afternoon. But maybe you’re needed here.”
“Not she,” said Catherine. “Come, away ye go, if y'are minded.”
“Not her,” said Catherine. “Come on, go ahead if that’s what you want.”
“Indeed,” said Margaret, “methinks I should not be such a damper at table if I could come to 't warm from a good sermon.”
“Honestly,” said Margaret, “I think I wouldn’t be such a buzzkill at the table if I could come to it warmed up from a good sermon.”
“Then you must be brisk,” observed Joan. “See the folk are wending that way, and as I live, there goes the holy friar. Oh, bless us and save us, Margaret; the hermit! We forgot.” And this active woman bounded out of the house, and ran across the road, and stopped the friar. She returned as quickly. “There, I was bent on seeing him nigh hand.”
“Then you need to hurry,” Joan pointed out. “Look, people are going that way, and there goes the holy friar. Oh my goodness, Margaret; the hermit! We forgot.” With that, the energetic woman dashed out of the house, ran across the road, and stopped the friar. She came back just as fast. “See, I was determined to see him up close.”
“What said he to thee?”
“What did he say to you?”
“Says he, 'My daughter, I will go to him ere sunset, God willing.' The sweetest voice. But oh, my mistresses, what thin cheeks for a young man, and great eyes, not far from your colour, Margaret.”
“Says he, 'My daughter, I will go to him before sunset, if God wills it.' The sweetest voice. But oh, my ladies, what thin cheeks for a young man, and big eyes, not far from your color, Margaret.”
“I have a great mind to go hear him,” said Margaret. “But my cap is not very clean, and they will all be there in their snow-white mutches.”
“I really want to go hear him,” said Margaret. “But my cap isn’t very clean, and they’ll all be there in their bright white head coverings.”
“There, take my handkerchief out of the basket,” said Catherine; “you cannot have the child, I want him for my poor Kate. It is one of her ill days.”
“Here, take my handkerchief out of the basket,” Catherine said; “you can’t have the child, I need him for my poor Kate. It’s one of her bad days.”
Margaret replied by taking the boy upstairs. She found Kate in bed.
Margaret answered by taking the boy upstairs. She discovered Kate in bed.
“How art thou, sweetheart? Nay, I need not ask. Thou art in sore pain; thou smilest so, See,' I have brought thee one thou lovest.”
“How are you, sweetheart? No need to ask. You're in a lot of pain; you’re smiling like that. Look, I’ve brought you someone you love.”
“Two, by my way of counting,” said Kate, with an angelic smile. She had a spasm at that moment would have made some of us roar like bulls.
“Two, in my count,” said Kate, with an angelic smile. She had a spasm at that moment that would have made some of us roar like bulls.
“What, in your lap?” said Margaret, answering a gesture of the suffering girl. “Nay, he is too heavy, and thou in such pain.”
“What, in your lap?” said Margaret, responding to a gesture from the suffering girl. “No, he’s too heavy, and you’re in so much pain.”
“I love him too dear to feel his weight,” was the reply.
“I love him too much to feel his burden,” was the reply.
Margaret took this opportunity, and made her toilet. “I am for the kerk,” said she, “to hear a beautiful preacher.” Kate sighed. “And a minute ago, Kate, I was all agog to go; that is the way with me this month past; up and down, up and down, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee. I'd as lieve stay aside thee; say the word!”
Margaret took this chance and got ready. “I’m heading to church,” she said, “to listen to a great preacher.” Kate sighed. “And just a minute ago, Kate, I was dying to go; that’s how I’ve been this past month; up and down, up and down, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee. I’d just as soon stay with you; just say the word!”
“Nay,” said Kate, “prithee go; and bring me back every word. Well-a-day that I cannot go myself.” And the tears stood in the patient's eyes. This decided Margaret, and she kissed Kate, looked under her lashes at the boy, and heaved a little sigh. “I trow I must not,” said she. “I never could kiss him a little; and my father was dead against waking a child by day or night When 'tis thy pleasure to wake, speak thy aunt Kate the two new words thou hast gotten.” And she went out, looking lovingly over her shoulder, and shut the door inaudibly.
“Nobody,” said Kate, “please go; and bring me back everything. Oh, how I wish I could go myself.” And tears filled the patient’s eyes. This convinced Margaret, and she kissed Kate, glanced at the boy, and let out a small sigh. “I guess I shouldn’t,” she said. “I could never give him just a little kiss; and my father was totally against waking a child, day or night. When you feel like waking up, just tell your aunt Kate the two new words you learned.” And she left, looking back lovingly over her shoulder, and quietly closed the door.
“Joan, you will lend me a hand, and peel these?” said Catherine.
“Joan, could you help me out and peel these?” said Catherine.
“That I will, dame.” And the cooking proceeded with silent vigour.
"Sure thing, ma'am." And the cooking went on with quiet energy.
“Now, Joan, them which help me cook and serve the meat, they help me eat it; that's a rule.”
“Now, Joan, the ones who help me cook and serve the meat also help me eat it; that’s a rule.”
“There's worse laws in Holland than that. Your will is my pleasure, mistress; for my Luke hath got his supper i' the air. He is digging to-day by good luck.” (Margaret came down.)
“There's worse laws in Holland than that. Your wishes are my command, mistress; for my Luke has his dinner in the air. He's digging today by good luck.” (Margaret came down.)
“Eh, woman, yon is an ugly trade. There she has just washed her face and gi'en her hair a turn, and now who is like her? Rotterdam, that for you!” and Catherine snapped her fingers at the capital. “Give us a buss, hussy! Now mind, Eli won't wait supper for the duke. Wherefore, loiter not after your kerk is over.”
“Hey, woman, that’s a nasty job. She just washed her face and styled her hair, and now who can compare to her? Rotterdam, just for you!” and Catherine snapped her fingers at the city. “Give us a kiss, you flirt! Now remember, Eli won’t wait for the duke to have dinner. So don’t hang around after your church is done.”
Joan and she both followed her to the door, and stood at it watching her a good way down the street. For among homely housewives going out o' doors is half an incident. Catherine commented on the launch: “There, Joan, it is almost to me as if I had just started my own daughter for kerk, and stood a looking after: the which I've done it manys and manys the times. Joan, lass, she won't hear a word against our Gerard; and he be alive, he has used her cruel; that is why my bowels yearn for the poor wench. I'm older and wiser than she; and so I'll wed her to yon simple Luke, and there an end. What's one grandchild?”
Joan and she both followed her to the door and stood watching her as she walked down the street. For everyday housewives going outside is quite an event. Catherine commented on the situation: “Look, Joan, it’s almost like I just sent my own daughter off to church and watched her go; I've done that so many times. Joan, dear, she won’t hear a word against our Gerard; and if he were alive, he treated her terribly, which is why I feel so much pity for the poor girl. I’m older and wiser than she is; so I’ll marry her to that simple Luke, and that’s that. What’s one grandchild?”
CHAPTER LXXXV
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH
The sermon had begun when Margaret entered the great church of St. Laurens. It was a huge edifice, far from completed. Churches were not built in a year. The side aisles were roofed, but not the mid aisle nor the chancel; the pillars and arches were pretty perfect, and some of them whitewashed. But only one window in the whole church was glazed; the rest were at present great jagged openings in the outer walls.
The sermon was already in progress when Margaret stepped into the large church of St. Laurens. It was a massive building that was still not finished. Churches took more than a year to build. The side aisles had roofs, but the main aisle and the chancel didn’t; the pillars and arches looked pretty good, and some of them were painted white. However, only one window in the entire church had glass; the others were just large, rough openings in the outer walls.
But to-day all these uncouth imperfections made the church beautiful. It was a glorious summer afternoon, and the sunshine came broken into marvellous forms through those irregular openings, and played bewitching pranks upon so many broken surfaces.
But today all these awkward imperfections made the church beautiful. It was a gorgeous summer afternoon, and the sunlight filtered through those uneven openings, creating stunning patterns and casting enchanting reflections on all the jagged surfaces.
It streamed through the gaping walls, and clove the dark cool side aisles with rivers of glory, and dazzled and glowed on the white pillars beyond.
It flowed through the wide-open walls, cutting through the dark, cool side aisles with streams of light, and sparkled and shone on the white pillars beyond.
And nearly the whole central aisle was chequered with light and shade in broken outlines; the shades seeming cooler and more soothing than ever shade was, and the lights like patches of amber diamond animated with heavenly fire. And above, from west to east the blue sky vaulted the lofty aisle, and seemed quite close.
And almost the entire central aisle was patterned with light and shadow in fragmented shapes; the shadows felt cooler and more comforting than shadows usually do, and the lights sparkled like patches of amber diamonds lit up with divine fire. Above, the blue sky arched over the tall aisle from west to east, making it seem very near.
The sunny caps of the women made a sea of white contrasting exquisitely with that vivid vault of blue.
The bright white hats of the women created a striking contrast against the deep blue sky.
For the mid aisle, huge as it was, was crammed, yet quite still. The words and the mellow, gentle, earnest voice of the preacher held them mute.
For the mid aisle, as huge as it was, was packed, yet very quiet. The words and the smooth, gentle, sincere voice of the preacher kept them silent.
Margaret stood spellbound at the beauty, the devotion, “the great calm,” She got behind a pillar in the north aisle; and there, though she could hardly catch a word, a sweet devotional langour crept over her at the loveliness of the place and the preacher's musical voice; and balmy oil seemed to trickle over the waves in her heart and smooth them. So she leaned against the pillar with eyes half closed, and all seemed soft and dreamy.
Margaret was mesmerized by the beauty and devotion, “the great calm.” She moved behind a pillar in the north aisle, and even though she could barely hear a word, a soothing sense of devotion washed over her, captivated by the loveliness of the space and the preacher's melodic voice. It felt like a gentle warmth flowed through her heart, calming the waves of her emotions. So she leaned against the pillar with her eyes half closed, and everything felt soft and dreamy.
She felt it good to be there.
She felt it was nice to be there.
Presently she saw a lady leave an excellent place opposite to get out of the sun, which was indeed pouring on her head from the window. Margaret went round softly but swiftly; and was fortunate enough to get the place. She was now beside a pillar of the south aisle, and not above fifty feet from the preacher. She was at his side, a little behind him, but could hear every word.
Currently, she noticed a woman leaving a lovely spot across from her to escape the sun, which was really beating down on her from the window. Margaret moved quietly but quickly and was lucky enough to take the spot. She was now next to a pillar in the south aisle, not more than fifty feet from the preacher. She was beside him, slightly behind, but could hear every word.
Her attention, however, was soon distracted by the shadow of a man's head and shoulders bobbing up and down so drolly she had some ado to keep from smiling.
Her attention, however, was soon distracted by the amusing sight of a man's head and shoulders bobbing up and down so humorously that she had a hard time not smiling.
Yet it was nothing essentially droll.
Yet it wasn't really funny at all.
It was the sexton digging.
It was the groundskeeper digging.
She found that out in a moment by looking behind her, through the window, to whence the shadow came.
She figured that out in an instant by looking behind her, through the window, to see where the shadow was coming from.
Now as she was looking at Jorian Ketel digging, suddenly a tone of the preacher's voice fell upon her ear and her mind so distinctly, it seemed literally to strike her, and make her vibrate inside and out.
Now, as she was watching Jorian Ketel dig, suddenly the sound of the preacher's voice reached her ear and her thoughts so clearly that it felt like it struck her, making her vibrate both inside and out.
Her hand went to her bosom, so strange and sudden was the thrill. Then she turned round, and looked at the preacher. His back was turned, and nothing visible but his tonsure. She sighed. That tonsure, being all she saw, contradicted the tone effectually.
Her hand went to her chest, so strange and sudden was the thrill. Then she turned around and looked at the preacher. His back was turned, and all she could see was his shaved head. She sighed. That shaved head, being all she saw, completely contradicted the tone.
Yet she now leaned a little forward with downcast eyes, hoping for that accent again. It did not come. But the whole voice grew strangely upon her. It rose and fell as the preacher warmed; and it seemed to waken faint echoes of a thousand happy memories. She would not look to dispel the melancholy pleasure this voice gave her.
Yet she now leaned a bit forward with her eyes lowered, hoping to hear that accent again. It didn’t come. But the whole voice became oddly captivating to her. It rose and fell as the preacher got more into it; and it seemed to stir up faint echoes of a thousand happy memories. She didn’t want to look away to chase off the bittersweet pleasure this voice gave her.
Presently, in the middle of an eloquent period, the preacher stopped.
Presently, in the middle of an eloquent moment, the preacher paused.
She almost sighed; a soothing music had ended. Could the sermon be ended already? No; she looked round; the people did not move.
She almost sighed; the soothing music had finished. Could the sermon really be over? No; she looked around; the people were not moving.
A good many faces seemed now to turn her way.' She looked behind her sharply. There was nothing there.
A lot of faces seemed to turn in her direction. She quickly looked behind her. There was nothing there.
Startled countenances near her now eyed the preacher. She followed their looks; and there, in the pulpit, was a face as of a staring corpse. The friar's eyes, naturally large, and made larger by the thinness of his cheeks, were dilated to supernatural size, and glaring her way out of a bloodless face.
Startled faces around her now looked at the preacher. She followed their gaze, and there, in the pulpit, was a face that resembled a staring corpse. The friar's eyes, normally large and made even larger by his sunken cheeks, were dilated to an unnatural size, glaring at her from a lifeless face.
She cringed and turned fearfully round: for she thought there must be some terrible thing near her. No; there was nothing; she was the outside figure of the listening crowd.
She flinched and turned around in fear, thinking something awful must be close by. No, there was nothing; she was just the outer figure of the listening crowd.
At this moment the church fell into commotion, Figures got up all over the building, and craned forward; agitated faces by hundreds gazed from the friar to Margaret, and from Margaret to the friar. The turning to and fro of so many caps made a loud rustle. Then came shrieks of nervous women, and buzzing of men; and Margaret, seeing so many eyes levelled at her, shrank terrified behind the pillar, with one scared, hurried glance at the preacher.
At that moment, the church erupted in chaos. People got up all over the building and leaned forward; hundreds of anxious faces looked from the friar to Margaret and back again. The rustling of so many hats created a loud noise. Then, there were shrieks from nervous women and a buzz of conversations from the men; and Margaret, seeing so many eyes fixed on her, shrank back in fear behind the pillar, giving a quick, terrified glance at the preacher.
Momentary as that glance was, it caught in that stricken face an expression that made her shiver.
Momentary as that glance was, it caught in that troubled face an expression that made her shiver.
She turned faint, and sat down on a heap of chips the workmen had left, and buried her face in her hands, The sermon went on again. She heard the sound of it; but not the sense. She tried to think, but her mind was in a whirl, Thought would fix itself in no shape but this: that on that prodigy-stricken face she had seen a look stamped. And the recollection of that look now made her quiver from head to foot.
She felt faint and sat down on a pile of chips the workers had left, burying her face in her hands. The sermon continued, and she could hear it but not really understand it. She tried to think, but her mind was spinning. The only thought she could hold onto was the expression she had seen on that bewildered face. Remembering that look now made her shake all over.
For that look was “RECOGNITION.”
For that look was "RECOGNITION."
The sermon, after wavering some time, ended in a strain of exalted, nay, feverish eloquence, that went far to make the crowd forget the preacher's strange pause and ghastly glare. Margaret mingled hastily with the crowd, and went out of the church with them.
The sermon, after hesitating for a while, concluded with an emotional, almost frenzied eloquence that made the crowd forget the preacher's strange pause and chilling gaze. Margaret quickly blended in with the crowd and left the church with them.
They went their ways home. But she turned at the door, and went into the churchyard; to Peter's grave. Poor as she was, she had given him a slab and a headstone. She sat down on the slab, and kissed it. Then threw her apron over her head that no one might distinguish her by her hair.
They went home. But she turned at the door and walked into the churchyard to Peter's grave. Although she was poor, she had given him a grave marker and a headstone. She sat on the marker and kissed it. Then she threw her apron over her head so no one could recognize her by her hair.
“Father,” she said, “thou hast often heard me say I am wading in deep waters; but now I begin to think God only knows the bottom of them. I'll follow that friar round the world, but I'll see him at arm's length. And he shall tell me why he looked towards me like a dead man wakened; and not a soul behind me. Oh, father; you often praised me here: speak a word for me there. For I am wading in deep waters.”
“Father,” she said, “you’ve often heard me say I’m wading in deep waters; but now I’m starting to think only God knows how deep they really are. I’ll follow that friar around the world, but I’ll keep my distance. And he’s going to tell me why he looked at me like a dead man coming to life; and why there’s no one behind me. Oh, father; you often praised me here: say a word for me there. Because I am wading in deep waters.”
Her father's tomb commanded a side view of the church door. And on that tomb she sat, with her face covered, waylaying the holy preacher.
Her father's tomb had a side view of the church door. And on that tomb, she sat with her face covered, waiting for the holy preacher.
CHAPTER LXXXVI
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH
The cool church chequered with sunbeams and crowned with heavenly purple, soothed and charmed Father Clement, as it did Margaret; and more, it carried his mind direct to the Creator of all good and pure delights. Then his eye fell on the great aisle crammed with his country folk; a thousand snowy caps, filigreed with gold. Many a hundred leagues he had travelled; but seen nothing like them, except snow. In the morning he had thundered; but this sweet afternoon seemed out of tune with threats. His bowels yearned over that multitude; and he must tell them of God's love: poor souls, they heard almost as little of it from the pulpit then a days as the heathen used. He told them the glad tidings of salvation. The people hung upon his gentle, earnest tongue.
The cool church, filled with sunlight and adorned with heavenly purple, comforted and captivated Father Clement, just as it did Margaret; even more, it made him think directly of the Creator of all good and pure joys. Then his gaze landed on the large aisle packed with his fellow villagers; a thousand white caps, embellished with gold. He had traveled many hundreds of leagues, but had seen nothing like them, except for snow. In the morning, he had been forceful; but this lovely afternoon felt out of place with threats. His heart ached for the crowd, and he felt compelled to share God’s love with them: poor souls, they received almost as little of it from the pulpit back then as the heathens did. He shared the joyful news of salvation. The people listened intently to his kind, sincere words.
He was not one of those preachers who keep gyrating in the pulpit like the weathercock on the steeple. He moved the hearts of others more than his own body. But on the other hand he did not entirely neglect those who were in bad places. And presently, warm with this theme, that none of all that multitude might miss the joyful tidings of Christ's love, he turned him towards the south aisle.
He wasn't one of those preachers who kept spinning around in the pulpit like a weather vane on the steeple. He touched the hearts of others more than his own body. However, he didn’t completely ignore those who were struggling. And soon, energized by this message, so that no one in that crowd would miss the joyful news of Christ's love, he turned toward the south aisle.
And there, in a stream of sunshine from the window, was the radiant face of Margaret Brandt. He gazed at it without emotion. It just benumbed him, soul and body.
And there, in a stream of sunlight coming through the window, was the glowing face of Margaret Brandt. He looked at it without feeling anything. It simply numbed him, both inside and out.
But soon the words died in his throat, and he trembled as he glared at it.
But soon the words caught in his throat, and he shook with anger as he stared at it.
There, with her auburn hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like the gloriola of a saint, and her face glowing doubly, with its own beauty, and the sunshine it was set in-stood his dead love.
There, with her reddish-brown hair illuminated by sunlight and sparkling like the halo of a saint, and her face shining even more, both because of its own beauty and the sunlight surrounding it—stood his lost love.
She was leaning very lightly against a white column. She was listening with tender, downcast lashes.
She was gently leaning against a white column. She was listening with soft, lowered lashes.
He had seen her listen so to him a hundred times.
He had seen her listen to him like that a hundred times.
There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left: only a shade riper and more lovely.
There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left: just a bit more mature and even more beautiful.
He started at her with monstrous eyes and bloodless cheeks.
He stared at her with wide eyes and pale cheeks.
The people died out of his sight. He heard, as in a dream, a rustling and rising all over the church; but could not take his prodigy-stricken eyes off that face, all life, and bloom, and beauty, and that wondrous auburn hair glistening gloriously in the sun.
The people disappeared from his view. He heard, as if in a dream, a rustling sound and movement all around the church; but he couldn't tear his amazed eyes away from that face, full of life, radiance, and beauty, with that stunning auburn hair shining brilliantly in the sunlight.
He gazed, thinking she must vanish.
He stared, thinking she would disappear.
She remained.
She stayed.
All in a moment she was looking at him, full.
All of a sudden, she was looking at him completely.
Her own violet eyes!!
Her violet eyes!!
At this he was beside himself, and his lips parted to shriek out her name, when she turned her head swiftly, and soon after vanished, but not without one more glance, which, though rapid as lightning, encountered his, and left her couching and quivering with her mind in a whirl, and him panting and gripping the pulpit convulsively. For this glance of hers, though not recognition, was the startled inquiring, nameless, indescribable look that precedes recognition. He made a mighty effort, and muttered something nobody could understand: then feebly resumed his discourse; and stammered and babbled on a while, till by degrees forcing himself, now she was out of sight, to look on it as a vision from the other world, he rose into a state of unnatural excitement, and concluded in a style of eloquence that electrified the simple; for it bordered on rhapsody.
At this, he was overwhelmed, and his lips parted to shout her name, when she quickly turned her head and soon disappeared, but not without casting one last glance that, though as quick as lightning, met his gaze and left her shaking and her mind racing, and him panting and gripping the pulpit tightly. This look of hers, though not one of recognition, was the startled, questioning, nameless, indescribable expression that comes right before recognition. He made a tremendous effort and muttered something no one could understand; then weakly continued his speech. He stammered and babbled for a while, until gradually forcing himself, now that she was out of sight, to think of it as a vision from another world. He rose into a state of unnatural excitement and concluded with a style of eloquence that amazed the simple crowd, as it approached rhapsody.
The sermon ended, he sat down on the pulpit stool, terribly shaken, But presently an idea very characteristic of the time took possession of him, He had sought her grave at Sevenbergen in vain. She had now been permitted to appear to him, and show him that she was buried here; probably hard by that very pillar, where her spirit had showed itself to him.
The sermon finished, he sat on the pulpit stool, deeply shaken. But soon, a thought typical of the time took hold of him. He had looked for her grave at Sevenbergen without success. Now she had been allowed to show herself to him and reveal that she was buried here, likely right by that very pillar where her spirit had appeared to him.
This idea once adopted soon settled on his mind with all the Certainty of a fact. And he felt he had only to speak to the sexton (whom to his great disgust he had seen working during the sermon), to learn the spot where she was laid.
This idea, once accepted, quickly became a certainty in his mind. He felt that he only needed to talk to the sexton (whom, to his great annoyance, he had seen working during the sermon) to find out where she was buried.
The church was now quite empty. He came down from the pulpit and stepped through an aperture in the south wall on to the grass, and went up to the sexton. He knew him in a moment. But Jorian never suspected the poor lad, whose life he had saved, in this holy friar. The loss of his shapely beard had wonderfully altered the outline of his face. This had changed him even more than his tonsure, his short hair sprinkled with premature grey, and his cheeks thinned and paled by fasts and vigils.
The church was now completely empty. He stepped down from the pulpit and went through an opening in the south wall onto the grass, making his way to the sexton. He recognized him right away. But Jorian never suspected the poor young man, whose life he had saved, in this holy friar. The loss of his well-shaped beard had drastically changed the shape of his face. This had transformed him even more than his tonsure, with his short hair flecked with premature gray, and his cheeks thinned and paled from fasting and keeping vigils.
“My son,” said Friar Clement softly, “if you keep any memory of those whom you lay in the earth, prithee tell me is any Christian buried inside the church, near one of the pillars?”
“My son,” Friar Clement said gently, “if you remember any of those you buried in the ground, please tell me, is there any Christian buried inside the church, close to one of the pillars?”
“Nay, father,” said Jorian, “here in the churchyard lie buried all that buried be. Why?”
“Nah, dad,” said Jorian, “here in the cemetery lie all those who are buried. Why?”
“No matter, Prithee tell me then where lieth Margaret Brandt.”
“No matter, please tell me then where Margaret Brandt is.”
“Margaret Brandt?” And Jorian stared stupidly at the speaker.
“Margaret Brandt?” Jorian stared blankly at the person who spoke.
“She died about three years ago, and was buried here.”
“She passed away about three years ago and was laid to rest here.”
“Oh, that is another matter,” said Jorian; “that was before my time; the vicar could tell you, likely; if so be she was a gentlewoman, or at the least rich enough to pay him his fee.”
“Oh, that’s a different story,” said Jorian; “that was before my time; the vicar could probably tell you, if she was indeed a lady, or at least wealthy enough to pay him his fee.”
“Alas, my son, she was poor (and paid a heavy penalty for it); but born of decent folk. Her father, Peter, was a learned physician; she came hither from Sevenbergen—to die.”
“Unfortunately, my son, she was poor (and paid a heavy price for it); but she came from a good family. Her father, Peter, was a well-educated doctor; she came here from Sevenbergen—to die.”
When Clement had uttered these words his head sunk upon his breast, and he seemed to have no power nor wish to question Jorian more. I doubt even if he knew where he was. He was lost in the past.
When Clement said this, his head dropped to his chest, and he looked like he had no strength or desire to ask Jorian anything further. I even wonder if he knew where he was. He was caught up in the past.
Jorian put down his spade, and standing upright in the grave, set his arms akimbo, and said sulkily, “Are you making a fool of me, holy sir, or has some wag been making a fool of you!” And having relieved his mind thus, he proceeded to dig again, with a certain vigour that showed his somewhat irritable temper was ruffled.
Jorian put down his spade, stood up in the grave with his arms crossed, and said sulkily, “Are you messing with me, holy sir, or has some joker been pulling your leg?” After getting that off his chest, he went back to digging with a vigor that showed he was a bit annoyed.
Clement gazed at him with a puzzled but gently reproachful eye, for the tone was rude, and the words unintelligible. Good-natured, though crusty, Jorian had not thrown up three spadefuls ere he became ashamed of it himself. “Why, what a base churl am I to speak thus to thee, holy father; and thou a standing there, looking at me like a lamb. Aha! I have it; 'tis Peter Brandt's grave you would fain see, not Margaret's. He does lie here; hard by the west door. There; I'll show you.” And he laid down his spade, and put on his doublet and jerkin to go with the friar.
Clement looked at him with a confused but gently disapproving gaze because the tone was rude, and the words made no sense. Good-natured but grumpy, Jorian quickly felt ashamed of his outburst. “What a horrible jerk I am to talk to you this way, holy father; and you standing there looking at me like a lamb. Aha! I get it; you want to see Peter Brandt's grave, not Margaret's. He’s buried here, right by the west door. There; I'll show you.” He set his spade down and put on his doublet and jerkin to accompany the friar.
He did not know there was anybody sitting on Peter's tomb. Still less that she was watching for this holy friar.
He didn’t realize anyone was sitting on Peter’s tomb, let alone that she was waiting for this holy friar.
Pietro Vanucci and Andrea did not recognize him without his beard. The fact is, that the beard which has never known a razor grows in a very picturesque and characteristic form, and becomes a feature in the face; so that its removal may in some cases be an effectual disguise.
Pietro Vanucci and Andrea didn’t recognize him without his beard. The truth is, the beard that has never been touched by a razor grows in a very distinctive and striking way, becoming a notable feature of the face; so removing it can, in some cases, serve as an effective disguise.
CHAPTER LXXXVII
While Jorian was putting on his doublet and jerkin to go to Peter's tomb, his tongue was not idle. “They used to call him a magician out Sevenbergen way. And they do say he gave 'em a touch of his trade at parting; told 'em he saw Margaret's lad a-coming down Rhine in brave clothes and store o' money, but his face scarred by foreign glaive, and not altogether so many arms and legs as a went away wi'. But, dear heart, nought came on't. Margaret is still wearying for her lad; and Peter, he lies as quiet as his neighbours; not but what she hath put a stone slab over him, to keep him where he is: as you shall see.”
While Jorian was putting on his doublet and jerkin to head to Peter's tomb, his tongue wasn't idle. “They used to call him a magician over in Sevenbergen. They say he gave them a glimpse of his craft at parting; told them he saw Margaret's boy coming down the Rhine in fine clothes and with plenty of money, but his face was scarred by a foreign sword, and he didn't have as many arms and legs as when he left. But, dear me, nothing came of it. Margaret is still longing for her boy; and Peter lies just as peacefully as his neighbors; although she did put a stone slab over him, to keep him where he is: as you will see.”
He put both hands on the edge of the grave, and was about to raise himself out of it, but the friar laid a trembling hand on his shoulder, and said in a strange whisper—
He placed both hands on the edge of the grave and was about to pull himself out when the friar put a shaking hand on his shoulder and said in a strange whisper—
“How long since died Peter Brandt?”
“How long has it been since Peter Brandt died?”
“About two months, Why?”
"About two months, why?"
“And his daughter buried him, say you?”
“And his daughter buried him, you say?”
“Nay, I buried him, but she paid the fee and reared the stone.”
“Nah, I buried him, but she covered the cost and put up the headstone.”
“Then—but he had just one daughter; Margaret?”
“Then—but he had only one daughter; Margaret?”
“No more leastways, that he owned to.”
“No more at least, that he admitted to.”
“Then you think Margaret is—is alive?”
“Then you think Margaret is alive?”
“Think? Why, I should be dead else. Riddle me that.”
“Think? I’d be dead otherwise. Explain that to me.”
“Alas, how can I? You love her!”
“Unfortunately, how can I? You love her!”
“No more than reason, being a married man, and father of four more sturdy knaves like myself. Nay, the answer is, she saved my life scarce six weeks agone. Now had she been dead she couldn't ha' kept me alive. Bless your heart, I couldn't keep a thing on my stomach; nor doctors couldn't make me. My Joan says, ''Tis time to buy thee a shroud.' 'I dare say, so 'tis,' says I; but try and borrow one first.' In comes my lady, this Margaret, which she died three years ago, by your way on't, opens the windows, makes 'em shift me where I lay, and cures me in the twinkling of a bedpost; but wi' what? there pinches the shoe; with the scurviest herb, and out of my own garden, too; with sweet feverfew. A herb, quotha, 'tis a weed; leastways it was a weed till it cured me, but now whene'er I pass my hunch I doff bonnet, and says I, 'fly service t'ye.' Why, how now, father, you look wondrous pale, and now you are red, and now you are white? Why, what is the matter? What, in Heaven's name, is the matter?”
“No more than reason, being a married man and the father of four more sturdy little rascals like me. No, the truth is, she saved my life just six weeks ago. If she had been dead, she wouldn’t have been able to keep me alive. Bless your heart, I couldn't keep anything down; not even the doctors could help me. My Joan says, 'It’s time to buy you a shroud.' 'I suppose so,' I said; 'but try to borrow one first.' In comes my lady, this Margaret, who died three years ago, by the way, opens the windows, makes them move me where I lay, and cures me in the blink of an eye; but with what? There’s the catch; with the most wretched herb, and from my own garden, too; with sweet feverfew. A herb, you say? It’s a weed; at least it was a weed until it cured me, but now whenever I pass by it, I take off my hat and say, 'God bless you.' Why, what’s this, father? You look incredibly pale, and now you’re red, and now you’re white? What on Earth is the matter? What, in Heaven’s name, is going on?”
“The surprise—the joy—the wonder—the fear,” gasped Clement.
“The surprise—the joy—the wonder—the fear,” gasped Clement.
“Why, what is it to thee? Art thou of kin to Margaret Brandt?”
“Why, what is it to you? Are you related to Margaret Brandt?”
“Nay; but I knew one that loved her well, so well her death nigh killed him, body and soul. And yet thou sayest she lives. And I believe thee.”
“Nah; but I knew someone who loved her deeply, so much that her death almost killed him, both body and soul. And yet you say she lives. And I believe you.”
Jorian stared, and after a considerable silence said very gravely, “Father, you have asked me many questions, and I have answered them truly; now for our Lady's sake answer me but two. Did you in very sooth know one who loved this poor lass? Where?”
Jorian stared, and after a long silence said very seriously, “Dad, you’ve asked me many questions, and I’ve answered them honestly; now, for our Lady's sake, just answer me two. Did you really know someone who loved this poor girl? Where?”
Clement was on the point of revealing himself, but he remembered Jerome's letter, and shrank from being called by the name he had borne in the world.
Clement was about to reveal himself, but he recalled Jerome's letter and hesitated at the thought of being called by the name he had carried in the world.
“I knew him in Italy,” said he.
“I knew him in Italy,” he said.
“If you knew him you can tell me his name,” said Jorian cautiously.
“If you knew him, you can tell me his name,” Jorian said cautiously.
“His name was Gerard Eliassoen.”
“His name was Gerard Eliassoen.”
“Oh, but this is strange. Stay, what made thee say Margaret Brandt was dead?”
“Oh, but that's strange. Wait, what made you say Margaret Brandt was dead?”
“I was with Gerard when a letter came from Margaret Van Eyck. The letter told him she he loved was dead and buried. Let me sit down, for my strength fails me, Foul play! Foul play!”
“I was with Gerard when a letter arrived from Margaret Van Eyck. The letter informed him that the woman he loved was dead and buried. Let me sit down, because my strength is failing me, foul play! Foul play!”
“Father,” said Jorian, “I thank Heaven for sending thee to me, Ay, sit ye down; ye do look like a ghost; ye fast overmuch to be strong. My mind misgives me; methinks I hold the clue to this riddle, and if I do, there be two knaves in this town whose heads I would fain batter to pieces as I do this mould;” and he clenched his teeth and raised his long spade above his head, and brought it furiously down upon the heap several times. “Foul play? You never said a truer word i' your life; and if you know where Gerard is now, lose no time, but show him the trap they have laid for him. Mine is but a dull head, but whiles the slow hound puzzles out the scent—go to, And I do think you and I ha' got hold of two ends o' one stick, and a main foul one.”
“Dad,” Jorian said, “I thank Heaven for sending you to me. Yes, sit down; you look like a ghost; you’re fasting too much to be strong. I’m worried; I think I have the solution to this mystery, and if I do, there are two crooks in this town whose heads I’d love to smash just like this dirt.” He clenched his teeth and raised his long spade above his head, bringing it down violently onto the pile several times. “Foul play? You’ve never spoken truer words in your life; and if you know where Gerard is now, don’t waste any time, just show him the trap they’ve set for him. I may not be the sharpest, but while the slow hound figures out the scent—come on, I really think you and I have got hold of two ends of the same stick, and it’s a pretty rotten one.”
Jorian then, after some of those useless preliminaries men of his class always deal in, came to the point of the story. He had been employed by the burgomaster of Tergou to repair the floor of an upper room in his house, and when it was almost done, Coming suddenly to fetch away his tools, curiosity had been excited by some loud words below, and he had lain down on his stomach, and heard the burgomaster talking about a letter which Cornelis and Sybrandt were minded to convey into the place of one that a certain Hans Memling was taking to Gerard; “and it seems their will was good, but their stomach was small; so to give them courage the old man showed them a drawer full of silver, and if they did the trick they should each put a hand in, and have all the silver they could hold in't. Well, father,” continued Jorian, “I thought not much on't at the time, except for the bargain itself, that kept me awake mostly all night. Think on't! Next morning at peep of day who should I see but my masters Cornelis and Sybrandt come out of their house each with a black eye. 'Oho,' says I, 'what yon Hans hath put his mark on ye; well now I hope that is all you have got for your pains.' Didn't they make for the burgomaster's house? I to my hiding-place.”
Jorian then, after a few of those pointless small talk things that guys like him always do, got straight to the story. He had been hired by the mayor of Tergou to fix the floor in an upstairs room of his house, and just as he was finishing up, he was suddenly interrupted while picking up his tools. His curiosity was piqued by some loud voices below, so he lay down on his stomach and overheard the mayor discussing a letter that Cornelis and Sybrandt wanted to deliver in place of one that a certain Hans Memling was taking to Gerard. “It seems they were eager, but lacked the guts; so to encourage them, the old man showed them a drawer full of silver, saying if they pulled it off, they could each take as much silver as they could carry. Well, Dad,” Jorian continued, “I didn’t think much of it at the time, except for the offer itself, which kept me up most of the night. Can you believe it? The next morning at dawn, who do I see but my friends Cornelis and Sybrandt coming out of their house, each with a black eye. 'Oho,' I said, 'looks like Hans left his mark on you; I hope that’s all you got for your trouble.' Did they head straight for the mayor's house? I went to hide.”
At this part of Jorian's revelation the monk's nostril dilated, and his restless eye showed the suspense he was in.
At this point in Jorian's revelation, the monk's nostril flared, and his uneasy gaze reflected the tension he was feeling.
“Well, father,” continued Jorian, “the burgomaster brought them into that same room. He had a letter in his hand; but I am no scholar; however, I have got as many eyes in my head as the Pope hath, and I saw the drawer opened, and those two knaves put in each a hand and draw it out full. And, saints in glory, how they tried to hold more, and more, and more o' yon stuff! And Sybrandt, he had daubed his hand in something sticky, I think 'twas glue, and he made shift to carry one or two pieces away a sticking to the back of his hand, he! he! he! 'Tis a sin to laugh. So you see luck was on the wrong side as usual; they had done the trick; but how they did it, that, methinks, will never be known till doomsday. Go to, they left their immortal jewels in yon drawer. Well, they got a handful of silver for them; the devil had the worst o' yon bargain. There, father, that is off my mind; often I longed to tell it some one, but I durst not to the women; or Margaret would not have had a friend left in the world; for those two black-hearted villains are the favourites, 'Tis always so. Have not the old folk just taken a brave new shop for them in this very town, in the Hoog Straet? There may you see their sign, a gilt sheep and a lambkin; a brace of wolves sucking their dam would be nigher the mark. And there the whole family feast this day; oh, 'tis a fine world. What, not a word, holy father; you sit there like stone, and have not even a curse to bestow on them, the stony-hearted miscreants. What, was it not enough the poor lad was all alone in a strange land; must his own flesh and blood go and lie away the one blessing his enemies had left him? And then think of her pining and pining all these years, and sitting at the window looking adown the street for Gerard! and so constant, so tender, and true: my wife says she is sure no woman ever loved a man truer than she loves the lad those villains have parted from her; and the day never passes but she weeps salt tears for him. And when I think, that, but for those two greedy lying knaves, yon winsome lad, whose life I saved, might be by her side this day the happiest he in Holland; and the sweet lass, that saved my life, might be sitting with her cheek upon her sweetheart's shoulder, the happiest she in Holland in place of the saddest; oh, I thirst for their blood, the nasty, sneaking, lying, cogging, cowardly, heartless, bowelless—how now?”
“Well, Dad,” Jorian went on, “the mayor brought them into that same room. He had a letter in his hand; but I’m no scholar; still, I’ve got as many eyes in my head as the Pope does, and I saw the drawer opened, and those two crooks each put a hand in and pulled out a handful. And, holy saints, how they tried to take more, and more, and more of that stuff! And Sybrandt had smeared his hand with something sticky; I think it was glue, and he managed to sneak away with one or two pieces stuck to the back of his hand, ha! It’s a sin to laugh. So you see, luck was on the wrong side as usual; they pulled it off, but how they did it, I think we’ll never know until doomsday. Anyway, they left their precious jewels in that drawer. Well, they got a handful of silver for them; the devil got the worst of that deal. There, Dad, that’s off my chest; I often wanted to tell someone, but I didn’t dare to the women; if I had, Margaret would have had no friends left in the world because of those two black-hearted villains being the favorites, as it always is. Haven’t the old folks just opened a fancy new shop for them right in this town, on Hoog Straet? You can see their sign, a gold sheep and a lamb; a pair of wolves suckling their mother would be closer to the truth. And today, the whole family is feasting there; oh, it’s a fine world. What, not a word, holy father; you sit there like a statue and don’t even have a curse to throw at them, those cold-hearted scoundrels. Wasn’t it enough that the poor kid was all alone in a strange land; did his own flesh and blood have to go and take away the one blessing his enemies left him? And think of her pining and pining all these years, sitting by the window looking down the street for Gerard! So devoted, so tender, and true: my wife says she’s sure no woman ever loved a man more truly than she loves the boy those villains separated her from; and not a day goes by without her shedding salty tears for him. And when I think that, but for those two greedy lying scumbags, that charming lad, whose life I saved, could be by her side today, the happiest guy in Holland; and the sweet girl who saved my life might be sitting with her cheek on her sweetheart’s shoulder, the happiest girl in Holland instead of the saddest; oh, I thirst for their blood, the filthy, sneaky, lying, cheating, cowardly, heartless, spineless—what now?”
The monk started wildly up, livid with fury and despair, and rushed headlong from the place with both hands clenched and raised on high. So terrible was this inarticulate burst of fury, that Jorian's puny ire died out at sight of it, and he stood looking dismayed after the human tempest he had launched.
The monk sprang up angrily, his face pale with rage and despair, and ran out of the place with both hands clenched and raised high. This outburst of uncontrolled fury was so intense that Jorian's weak anger faded away at the sight, leaving him staring in shock after the human whirlwind he had set off.
While thus absorbed he felt his arm grasped by a small, tremulous hand.
While he was focused, he felt a small, shaky hand grab his arm.
It was Margaret Brandt.
It was Margaret Brandt.
He started; her coming there just then seemed so strange. She had waited long on Peter's tombstone, but the friar did not come, So she went into the church to see if he was there still. She could not find him.
He was taken aback; her showing up at that moment felt so unusual. She had waited a long time by Peter's tombstone, but the friar didn’t arrive. So, she went into the church to check if he was still there. She couldn’t find him.
Presently, going up the south aisle, the gigantic shadow of a friar came rapidly along the floor and part of a pillar, and seemed to pass through her. She was near screaming; but in a moment remembered Jorian's shadow had come in so from the churchyard; and tried to clamber out the nearest way. She did so, but with some difficulty; and by that time Clement was just disappearing down the street; yet, so expressive at times is the body as well as the face, she could see he was greatly agitated. Jorian and she looked at one another, and at the wild figure of the distant friar.
Right now, as she walked up the south aisle, the huge shadow of a friar quickly crossed the floor and part of a column, seeming to pass right through her. She almost screamed, but then remembered that Jorian's shadow had come in like that from the churchyard, and she tried to escape the nearest way. She managed to do so, but it was difficult; by the time she got out, Clement was just disappearing down the street. Yet, sometimes the body expresses feelings just as much as the face does, and she could tell he was really upset. Jorian and she exchanged glances, looking at each other and the wild figure of the distant friar.
“Well?” said she to Jorian, trembling.
“Well?” she said to Jorian, shaking.
“Well,” said he, “you startled me. How come you here of all people?”
“Well,” he said, “you surprised me. What brings you here of all people?”
“Is this a time for idle chat? What said he to you? He has been speaking to you; deny it not.”
“Is this really a time for small talk? What did he say to you? He's been talking to you; don’t deny it.”
“Girl, as I stand here, he asked me whereabout you were buried in this churchyard.”
“Girl, as I stand here, he asked me where you were buried in this churchyard.”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“I told him, nowhere, thank Heaven: you were alive and saving other folk from the churchyard.”
“I told him, nowhere, thank goodness: you were alive and saving other people from the graveyard.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, the long and the short is, he knew thy Gerard in Italy; and a letter came saying you were dead; and it broke thy poor lad's heart. Let me see; who was the letter written by? Oh, by the demoiselle van Eyck. That was his way of it. But I up and told him nay; 'twas neither demoiselle nor dame that penned yon lie, but Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and those foul knaves, Cornelis and Sybrandt; these changed the true letter for one of their own; I told him as how I saw the whole villainy done through a chink; and now, if I have not been and told you!”
“Well, the bottom line is, he knew your Gerard in Italy; and then a letter arrived saying you were dead, which broke that poor kid's heart. Let me think; who wrote the letter? Oh, it was the demoiselle van Eyck. That was his approach. But I told him no; it wasn’t either a demoiselle or a dame who wrote that lie, but Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, along with those filthy scoundrels, Cornelis and Sybrandt; they swapped the real letter for one of their own. I told him I witnessed the whole trickery through a crack; and now, if I haven’t just told you!”
“Oh, cruel! cruel! But he lives. The fear of fears is gone. Thank God!”
“Oh, how cruel! But he’s alive. The worst fear is gone. Thank God!”
“Ay, lass; and as for thine enemies, I have given them a dig. For yon friar is friendly to Gerard, and he is gone to Eli's house, methinks. For I told him where to find Gerard's enemies and thine, and wow but he will give them their lesson. If ever a man was mad with rage, its yon. He turned black and white, and parted like a stone from a sling. Girl, there was thunder in his eye and silence on his lips. Made me cold a did.”
“Yeah, girl; and about your enemies, I've taken a shot at them. That friar is on Gerard's side, and I think he's gone to Eli's house. I told him where to find Gerard's enemies and yours, and wow, he’s going to teach them a lesson. If there was ever a man furious with rage, it’s him. He went pale and dark, and surged forward like a stone from a slingshot. Girl, there was thunder in his eyes and silence on his lips. It sent chills down my spine.”
“Oh, Jorian, what have you done?” cried Margaret. “Quick! quick! help me thither, for the power is gone all out of my body. You know him not as I do. Oh, if you had seen the blow he gave Ghysbrecht; and heard the frightful crash! Come, save him from worse mischief. The water is deep enow; but not bloody yet, come!”
“Oh, Jorian, what have you done?” cried Margaret. “Hurry! Help me over there, because I feel weak all over. You don’t know him like I do. If only you had seen the blow he dealt Ghysbrecht and heard that terrible crash! Come on, we need to save him from something worse. The water is deep enough, but it’s not bloody yet, let’s go!”
Her accents were so full of agony that Jorian sprang out of the grave and came with her, huddling on his jerkin as he went.
Her cries were so full of pain that Jorian burst out of the grave and followed her, pulling his jacket around him as he went.
But as they hurried along, he asked her what on earth she meant? “I talk of this friar, and you answer me of Gerard.”
But as they rushed along, he asked her what she was talking about. “I'm talking about this friar, and you’re responding with Gerard.”
“Man, see you not, this is Gerard!”
“Man, don’t you see, this is Gerard!”
“This, Gerard? what mean ye?”
"This, Gerard? What do you mean?"
“I mean, yon friar is my boy's father. I have waited for him long, Jorian. Well, he is come to me at last. And thank God for it. Oh, my poor child! Quicker, Jorian, quicker!”
“I mean, that friar is my son's father. I've waited a long time for him, Jorian. Well, he has finally come to me. And thank God for that. Oh, my poor child! Hurry, Jorian, hurry!”
“Why, thou art mad as he. Stay! By St. Bavon, yon was Gerard's face; 'twas nought like it; yet somehow—'twas it. Come on! come on! let me see the end of this.”
"Why, you're as crazy as he is. Wait! By St. Bavon, that was Gerard's face; it didn't look like it, but somehow— it was. Come on! Come on! Let me see how this ends."
“The end? How many of us will live to see that?”
“The end? How many of us will actually be around to witness that?”
They hurried along in breathless silence, till they reached Hoog Straet.
They rushed along in silent excitement until they got to Hoog Straet.
Then Jorian tried to reassure her. “You are making your own trouble,” said he; “who says he has gone thither? more likely to the convent to weep and pray, poor soul. Oh, cursed, cursed villains!”
Then Jorian tried to comfort her. “You're creating your own problems,” he said; “who says he has gone there? It's more likely he went to the convent to cry and pray, poor thing. Oh, cursed, cursed villains!”
“Did not you tell him where those villains bide?”
“Didn’t you tell him where those villains are?”
“Ay, that I did.”
"Yeah, I did."
“Then quicker, oh, Jorian, quicker. I see the house. Thank God and all the saints, I shall be in time to calm him. I know what I'll say to him; Heaven forgive me! Poor Catherine; 'tis of her I think: she has been a mother to me.”
“Then faster, oh, Jorian, faster. I see the house. Thank God and all the saints, I’ll make it in time to calm him down. I know what I’ll say to him; Heaven forgive me! Poor Catherine; it’s her I’m thinking of: she has been like a mother to me.”
The shop was a corner house, with two doors; one in the main street, for customers, and a house-door round the corner.
The shop was a corner building with two doors: one facing the main street for customers, and a door around the corner for the house.
Margaret and Jorian were now within twenty yards of the shop, when they heard a roar inside, like as of some wild animal, and the friar burst out, white and raging, and went tearing down the street.
Margaret and Jorian were now twenty yards from the shop when they heard a roar inside, like that of a wild animal, and the friar burst out, pale and furious, and ran down the street.
Margaret screamed, and sank fainting on Jorian's arm.
Margaret screamed and collapsed, fainting in Jorian's arms.
Jorian shouted after him, “Stay, madman, know thy friends.” But he was deaf, and went headlong, shaking his clenched fists high, high in the air.
Jorian yelled after him, “Stop, crazy person, recognize your friends.” But he couldn't hear and charged forward, shaking his clenched fists high, high in the air.
“Help me in, good Jorian,” moaned Margaret, turning suddenly calm. “Let me know the worst; and die.”
“Help me in, good Jorian,” Margaret said, suddenly calm. “Just tell me what the worst is; and let me die.”
He supported her trembling limbs into the house.
He helped her shaky limbs into the house.
It seemed unnaturally still; not a sound.
It felt unusually quiet; not a single sound.
Jorian's own heart beat fast.
Jorian's heart raced.
A door was before him, unlatched. He pushed it softly with his left hand, and Margaret and he stood on the threshold.
A door was in front of him, unlatched. He gently pushed it with his left hand, and he and Margaret stood at the threshold.
What they saw there you shall soon know.
What they saw there, you will find out soon.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII
It was supper-time. Eli's family were collected round the board; Margaret only was missing. To Catherine's surprise, Eli said he would wait a bit for her.
It was dinner time. Eli's family was gathered around the table; only Margaret was missing. To Catherine's surprise, Eli said he would wait a little longer for her.
“Why, I told her you would not wait for the duke.”
“Look, I told her you wouldn’t wait for the duke.”
“She is not the duke; she is a poor, good lass, that hath waited not minutes, but years, for a graceless son of mine. You can put the meat on the board all the same; then we can fall to, without farther loss o' time, when she does come.”
“She’s not the duke; she’s just a poor, good girl who’s waited not minutes, but years, for a worthless son of mine. You can still put the food on the table; then we can dig in without wasting any more time when she finally arrives.”
The smoking dishes smelt so savoury that Eli gave way. “She will come if we begin,” said he; “they always do, Come, sit ye down, Mistress Joan; y'are not here for a slave, I trow, but a guest. There, I hear a quick step off covers, and fall to.”
The smoking dishes smelled so delicious that Eli couldn't resist. “She'll come if we start,” he said; “they always do. Come, sit down, Mistress Joan; you’re not here to be a servant, I hope, but a guest. There, I hear someone approaching, let’s eat.”
The covers were withdrawn, and the knives brandished.
The covers were taken off, and the knives were drawn.
Then burst into the room, not the expected Margaret, but a Dominican friar, livid with rage.
Then burst into the room, not the expected Margaret, but a Dominican friar, furious with anger.
He was at the table in a moment, in front of Cornelis and Sybrandt, threw his tall body over the narrow table, and with two hands hovering above their shrinking heads, like eagles over a quarry, he cursed them by name, soul and body, in this world and the next. It was an age eloquent in curses; and this curse was so full, so minute, so blighting, blasting, withering, and tremendous, that I am afraid to put all the words on paper. “Cursed be the lips,” he shrieked, “which spoke the lie that Margaret was dead; may they rot before the grave, and kiss white-hot iron in hell thereafter; doubly cursed be the hands that changed those letters, and be they struck off by the hangman's knife, and handle hell fire for ever; thrice accursed be the cruel hearts that did conceive that damned lie, to part true love for ever; may they sicken and wither on earth joyless, loveless, hopeless; and wither to dust before their time; and burn in eternal fire,” He cursed the meat at their mouths and every atom of their bodies, from their hair to the soles of their feet. Then turning from the cowering, shuddering pair, who had almost hid themselves beneath the table, he tore a letter out of his bosom, and flung it down before his father.
He was at the table in a flash, facing Cornelis and Sybrandt, leaning his tall body over the narrow table. With both hands hovering above their shrinking heads like eagles over prey, he cursed them by name, body and soul, in this world and the next. It was a time filled with curses; and this curse was so complete, so detailed, so destructive and intense, that I'm afraid to write all the words down. “Cursed be the lips,” he yelled, “that said the lie that Margaret was dead; may they rot before the grave and kiss blazing iron in hell afterward; doubly cursed be the hands that changed those letters, may they be cut off by the hangman's knife, and handle hellfire forever; thrice accursed be the cruel hearts that created that damned lie, to separate true love for eternity; may they suffer and wither here on earth joyless, loveless, hopeless; and crumble to dust before their time; and burn in eternal fire.” He cursed the food in their mouths and every part of their bodies, from their hair to the soles of their feet. Then, turning away from the cowering, trembling pair, who had nearly hidden themselves beneath the table, he pulled a letter from his chest and threw it down in front of his father.
“Read that, thou hard old man, that didst imprison thy son, read, and see what monsters thou hast brought into the world, The memory of my wrongs and hers dwell with you all for ever! I will meet you again at the judgment day; on earth ye will never see me more.”
“Read that, you cruel old man, who locked up your son; read, and see what monsters you’ve brought into the world. The memory of my wrongs and hers will stay with you forever! I’ll meet you again on judgment day; you will never see me on earth again.”
And in a moment, as he had come, so he was gone, leaving them stiff, and cold, and white as statues round the smoking board.
And in an instant, just as he had arrived, he was gone, leaving them frozen, chilly, and pale like statues around the smoking table.
And this was the sight that greeted Margaret's eyes and Jorian's—pale figures of men and women petrified around the untasted food, as Eastern poets feigned.
And this was the scene that welcomed Margaret and Jorian—pale figures of men and women frozen around the untouched food, just like Eastern poets imagined.
Margaret glanced her eye round, and gasped out, “Oh, joy! all here; no blood hath been shed. Oh, you cruel, cruel men! I thank God he hath not slain you.”
Margaret looked around and gasped, “Oh, joy! Everyone's here; no blood has been shed. Oh, you cruel, cruel men! I thank God he hasn't killed you.”
At sight of her Catherine gave an eloquent scream; then turned her head away. But Eli, who had just cast his eye over the false letter, and begun to understand it all, seeing the other victim come in at that very moment with her wrongs reflected in her sweet, pale face, started to his feet in a transport of rage, and shouted, “Stand clear, and let me get at the traitors, I'll hang for them,” And in a moment he whipped out his short sword, and fell upon them.
At the sight of her, Catherine let out a powerful scream and quickly turned her head away. But Eli, who had just glanced at the fake letter and was starting to piece everything together, saw the other victim walk in right at that moment, her sweet, pale face showing her pain. He jumped to his feet in a fit of rage and yelled, “Get back, and let me get to the traitors; I’ll hang them for this!” Immediately, he pulled out his short sword and charged at them.
“Fly!” screamed Margaret. “Fly!”
“Fly!” screamed Margaret. “Fly!”
They slipped howling under the table, and crawled out the other side.
They crawled under the table, howling, and came out the other side.
But ere they could get to the door, the furious old man ran round and intercepted them. Catherine only screamed and wrung her hands; your notables are generally useless at such a time; and blood would certainly have flowed, but Margaret and Jorian seized the fiery old man's arms, and held them with all their might, whilst the pair got clear of the house; then they let him go; and he went vainly raging after them out into the street.
But before they could reach the door, the angry old man ran around and blocked their path. Catherine just screamed and wrung her hands; notable people are usually useless in moments like this; and blood would definitely have been shed, but Margaret and Jorian grabbed the furious old man's arms and held on tightly while the pair escaped from the house. Then they let him go, and he ran out into the street after them, still raging in vain.
They were a furlong off, running like hares.
They were a furlong away, running like rabbits.
He hacked down the board on which their names were written, and brought it indoors, and flung it into the chimney-place. Catherine was sitting rocking herself with her apron over her head. Joan had run to her husband. Margaret had her arms round Catherine's neck; and pale and panting, was yet making efforts to comfort her.
He chopped down the board with their names on it, took it inside, and tossed it into the fireplace. Catherine was sitting there, rocking herself with her apron over her head. Joan had gone to her husband. Margaret had her arms around Catherine's neck; though pale and out of breath, she was still trying to comfort her.
But it was not to be done, “Oh, my poor children!” she cried. “Oh, miserable mother! 'Tis a mercy Kate was ill upstairs. There, I have lived to thank God for that!” she cried, with a fresh burst of sobs. “It would have killed her. He had better have stayed in Italy, as come home to curse his own flesh and blood and set us all by the ears.
But it couldn’t be done. “Oh, my poor kids!” she cried. “Oh, miserable mother! Thank goodness Kate was sick upstairs. I’m grateful for that!” she exclaimed through another wave of sobs. “It would have crushed her. He should have stayed in Italy instead of coming home to curse his own family and make us all fight.”
“Oh, hold your chat, woman,” cried Eli angrily; “you are still on the side of the ill-doer, You are cheap served; your weakness made the rogues what they are; I was for correcting them in their youth: for sore ills, sharp remedies; but you still sided with their faults, and undermined me, and baffled wise severity. And you, Margaret, leave comforting her that ought rather to comfort you; for what is her hurt to yours? But she never had a grain of justice under her skin; and never will. So come thou to me, that am thy father from this hour.”
“Oh, stop your talking, woman,” Eli shouted angrily; “you’re still on the side of the wrongdoer. You don’t deserve any sympathy; your weakness made the criminals what they are. I wanted to correct them while they were young: for serious problems, you need strong remedies; but you kept supporting their faults and undermining me, frustrating my efforts to be strict. And you, Margaret, stop comforting her when you should be the one being comforted; what’s her injury compared to yours? She never had an ounce of justice in her and she never will. So come to me, for I am your father from this moment on.”
This was a command; so she kissed Catherine, and went tottering to him, and he put her on a chair beside him, and she laid her feeble head on his honest breast; but not a tear: it was too deep for that.
This was an order; so she kissed Catherine and stumbled over to him, and he placed her on a chair next to him, and she rested her weak head on his sincere chest; but not a tear: it was too profound for that.
“Poor lamb,” said he. After a while—“Come, good folks,” said true Eli, in a broken voice, to Jorian and Joan, “we are in a little trouble, as you see; but that is no reason you should starve. For our Lady's sake, fall to; and add not to my grief the reputation of a churl. What the dickens!” added he, with a sudden ghastly attempt at stout-heartedness, “the more knaves I have the luck to get shut of, the more my need of true men and women, to help me clear the dish, and cheer mine eye with honest faces about me where else were gaps. Fall to, I do entreat ye.”
“Poor lamb,” he said. After a while—“Come on, good folks,” said true Eli, in a strained voice, to Jorian and Joan, “we’re in a bit of trouble, as you can see; but that doesn’t mean you should starve. For our Lady's sake, dig in; and don’t make my grief worse by acting stingy. What on earth!” he added with a sudden, grim attempt at bravery, “the more scoundrels I manage to get rid of, the more I need honest men and women to help me clear the table and brighten my day with friendly faces where there would otherwise be emptiness. Please, I urge you to eat.”
Catherine, sobbing, backed his request. Poor, simple, antique, hospitable souls! Jorian, whose appetite, especially since his illness, was very keen, was for acting on this hospitable invitation; but Joan whispered a word in his ear, and he instantly drew back, “Nay, I'll touch no meat that Holy Church hath cursed.”
Catherine, crying, supported his request. Poor, simple, old-fashioned, welcoming souls! Jorian, whose appetite, especially since his sickness, was very strong, wanted to accept this warm invitation; but Joan whispered something in his ear, and he immediately pulled back, “No, I won’t eat any food that the Holy Church has condemned.”
“In sooth, I forgot,” said Eli apologetically. “My son, who was reared at my table, hath cursed my victuals. That seems strange. Well, what God wills, man must bow to.”
“Honestly, I forgot,” Eli said apologetically. “My son, who was raised at my table, has cursed my food. That seems strange. Well, what God wants, man must accept.”
The supper was flung out into the yard.
The dinner was thrown out into the yard.
Jorian took his wife home, and heavy sadness reigned in Eli's house that night.
Jorian took his wife home, and a deep sadness filled Eli's house that night.
Meantime, where was Clement?
In the meantime, where was Clement?
Lying at full length upon the floor of the convent church, with his lips upon the lowest step of the altar, in an indescribable state of terror, misery, penitence, and self-abasement: through all which struggled gleams of joy that Margaret was alive.
Lying flat on the floor of the convent church, with his lips touching the lowest step of the altar, in a state of complete terror, misery, repentance, and humiliation: through all of this, flashes of joy broke through, knowing that Margaret was alive.
Night fell and found him lying there weeping and praying; and morning would have found him there too; but he suddenly remembered that, absorbed in his own wrongs and Margaret's, he had committed another sin besides intemperate rage. He had neglected a dying man.
Night fell and found him lying there, crying and praying; and morning would have found him there too; but he suddenly remembered that, caught up in his own grievances and Margaret's, he had committed another sin besides his uncontrolled anger. He had ignored a dying man.
He rose instantly, groaning at his accumulated wickedness, and set out to repair the omission. The weather had changed; it was raining hard, and when he got clear of the town, he heard the wolves baying; they were on the foot, But Clement was himself again, or nearly; he thought little of danger or discomfort, having a shameful omission of religious duty to repair: he went stoutly forward through rain and darkness.
He got up right away, lamenting his past wrongdoings, and went out to make it right. The weather had turned; it was pouring rain, and when he got out of the town, he heard the wolves howling; they were on the move. But Clement was back to his old self, or almost; he barely thought about the danger or discomfort, focused instead on correcting his shameful neglect of religious duty: he pressed on bravely through the rain and darkness.
And as he went, he often beat his breast, and cried, “MEA CULPA! MEA CULPA!”
And as he walked, he often pounded his chest and shouted, “MY FAULT! MY FAULT!”
CHAPTER LXXXIX
What that sensitive mind, and tender conscience, and loving heart, and religious soul, went through even in a few hours, under a situation so sudden and tremendous, is perhaps beyond the power of words to paint.
What that sensitive mind, tender conscience, loving heart, and religious soul experienced in just a few hours, under such a sudden and overwhelming situation, might be beyond what words can express.
Fancy yourself the man; and then put yourself in his place! Were I to write a volume on it, we should have to come to that at last.
Fancy yourself as that man; and then imagine being in his position! If I were to write a whole book about it, we would eventually have to get to that point.
I shall relate his next two overt acts. They indicate his state of mind after the first fierce tempest of the soul had subsided. After spending the night with the dying hermit in giving and receiving holy consolations, he set out not for Rotterdam, but for Tergou. He went there to confront his fatal enemy the burgomaster, and by means of that parchment, whose history, by-the-by was itself a romance, to make him disgorge; and give Margaret her own.
I will share his next two actions. They reveal his mindset after the initial storm of emotions had calmed down. After spending the night with the dying hermit, offering and receiving spiritual comfort, he headed not for Rotterdam, but for Tergou. He went there to confront his deadly rival, the mayor, and with that parchment, which, by the way, had its own intriguing backstory, to make him give back what belonged to Margaret.
Heated and dusty, he stopped at the fountain, and there began to eat his black bread and drink of the water. But in the middle of his frugal meal a female servant came running, and begged him to come and shrive her dying master, He returned the bread to his wallet, and followed her without a word.
Heated and dusty, he stopped at the fountain and started to eat his black bread and drink the water. But in the middle of his simple meal, a female servant came running and begged him to come and hear her dying master's confession. He put the bread back in his bag and followed her without saying a word.
She took him—to the Stadthouse.
She took him to the City Hall.
He drew back with a little shudder when he saw her go in.
He flinched slightly when he saw her walk in.
But he almost instantly recovered himself, and followed her into the house, and up the stairs. And there in bed, propped up by pillows, lay his deadly enemy, looking already like a corpse.
But he quickly composed himself and went after her into the house and up the stairs. There, in bed and propped up by pillows, lay his deadly enemy, already looking like a corpse.
Clement eyed him a moment from the door, and thought of all the tower, the wood, the letter. Then he said in a low voice, “Pax vobiscum!” He trembled a little while he said it.
Clement looked at him for a moment from the door and thought about everything—the tower, the woods, the letter. Then he said softly, “Peace be with you!” He felt a slight tremble as he said it.
The sick man welcomed him as eagerly as his weak state permitted. “Thank Heaven, thou art come in time to absolve me from my sins, father, and pray for my soul, thou and thy brethren.”
The sick man welcomed him as eagerly as his frail condition allowed. “Thank God, you’ve arrived just in time to free me from my sins, father, and to pray for my soul, you and your brothers.”
“My son,” said Clement, “before absolution cometh confession. In which act there must be no reservation, as thou valuest thy soul's weal. Bethink thee, therefore, wherein thou hast most offended God and the Church, while I offer up a prayer for wisdom to direct thee.”
“My son,” said Clement, “before forgiveness comes confession. In this act, there should be no holding back, as you care for the health of your soul. So think carefully about where you have most offended God and the Church, while I say a prayer for wisdom to guide you.”
Clement then kneeled and prayed; and when he rose from his knees, he said to Ghysbrecht, with apparent calmness, “My son, confess thy sins.”
Clement then knelt and prayed; and when he got up from his knees, he said to Ghysbrecht, with a calm expression, “My son, confess your sins.”
“Ah, father,” said the sick man, “they are many and great.”
“Ah, Dad,” said the sick man, “they are numerous and significant.”
“Great, then, be thy penitence, my son; so shalt thou find God's mercy great.”
“Alright, then, your repentance, my son, will lead you to find God's mercy abundant.”
Ghysbrecht put his hands together, and began to confess with every appearance of contrition.
Ghysbrecht clasped his hands and started to confess with a show of genuine remorse.
He owned he had eaten meat in mid-Lent. He had often absented himself from mass on the Lord's day, and saints' days; and had trifled with other religious observances, which he enumerated with scrupulous fidelity.
He admitted that he had eaten meat during Lent. He had frequently missed mass on Sundays and holy days, and had taken lightly other religious practices, which he listed with careful detail.
When he had done, the friar said quietly, “'Tis well, my son, These be faults. Now to thy crimes, Thou hadst done better to begin with them.”
When he finished, the friar said softly, “That’s good, my son. These are faults. Now, about your crimes, it would have been better if you had started with those.”
“Why, father, what crimes lie to my account if these be none?”
“Why, Dad, what crimes do I have if these aren't any?”
“Am I confessing to thee, or thou to me?” said Clement somewhat severely.
“Am I confessing to you, or are you confessing to me?” said Clement somewhat sternly.
“Forgive me, father! Why, surely, I to you. But I know not what you call crimes.”
“Forgive me, Dad! Why, of course, I do. But I have no idea what you consider crimes.”
“The seven deadly sins, art thou clear of them?”
“Are you free from the seven deadly sins?”
“Heaven forefend I should be guilty of them. I know them not by name.”
“Heaven forbid I should be guilty of them. I don’t know them by name.”
“Many do them all that cannot name them. Begin with that one which leads to lying, theft, and murder.”
“Many people do all these things without being able to name them. Start with the one that leads to lying, stealing, and killing.”
“I am quit of that one, any way. How call you it?”
“I’m done with that one, anyway. What do you call it?”
“AVARICE, my son.”
"Greed, my son."
“Avarice? Oh, as to that, I have been a saving man all my day; but I have kept a good table, and not altogether forgotten the poor. But, alas, I am a great sinner, Mayhap the next will catch me, What is the next?”
“Avarice? Well, I’ve been a frugal person my whole life; but I’ve maintained a decent table and haven’t completely ignored the less fortunate. But, unfortunately, I am a great sinner. Maybe the next will catch me. What’s next?”
“We have not yet done with this one. Bethink thee, the Church is not to be trifled with.”
“We're not finished with this one yet. Remember, the Church isn't something to mess around with.”
“Alas! am I in a condition to trifle with her now? Avarice? Avarice?”
“Alas! Am I in a position to play games with her now? Greed? Greed?”
He looked puzzled and innocent.
He looked confused and naive.
“Hast thou ever robbed the fatherless?” inquired the friar.
“Have you ever robbed the fatherless?” the friar asked.
“Me? robbed the fatherless?” gasped Ghysbrecht; “not that I mind.”
“Me? Robbed the fatherless?” gasped Ghysbrecht; “not that I care.”
“Once more, my son, I am forced to tell thee thou art trifling with the Church. Miserable man! another evasion, and I leave thee, and fiends will straightway gather round thy bed, and tear thee down to the bottomless pit.”
“Once again, my son, I have to tell you that you are messing around with the Church. You miserable man! Another excuse, and I will leave you, and demons will immediately surround your bed and drag you down to the bottomless pit.”
“Oh, leave me not! leave me not!” shrieked the terrified old man. “The Church knows all. I must have robbed the fatherless. I will confess. Who shall I begin with? My memory for names is shaken.”
“Oh, don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!” screamed the terrified old man. “The Church knows everything. I must have taken from the fatherless. I will confess. Where should I start? My memory for names is fading.”
The defence was skilful, but in this case failed.
The defense was skilled, but in this case, it didn't succeed.
“Hast thou forgotten Floris Brandt?” said Clement stonily.
“Have you forgotten Floris Brandt?” said Clement, unfeelingly.
The sick man reared himself in bed in a pitiable state of terror. “How knew you that?” said he.
The sick man propped himself up in bed, visibly terrified. “How did you know that?” he asked.
“The Church knows many things,” said Clement coldly, “and by many ways that are dark to thee, Miserable impenitent, you called her to your side, hoping to deceive her, You said, 'I will not confess to the cure but to some friar who knows not my misdeeds. So will I cheat the Church on my deathbed, and die as I have lived,' But God, kinder to thee than thou art to thyself, sent to thee one whom thou couldst not deceive. He has tried thee; He was patient with thee, and warned thee not to trifle with Holy Church; but all is in vain; thou canst not confess; for thou art impenitent as a stone. Die, then, as thou hast lived. Methinks I see the fiends crowding round the bed for their prey. They wait but for me to go. And I go.”
“The Church knows many things,” Clement said coldly, “and through many ways that are unclear to you, miserable unrepentant sinner, you called her to your side, hoping to trick her. You said, 'I won’t confess to the priest but to some friar who doesn't know my wrongs. This way, I'll fool the Church on my deathbed and die as I have lived.' But God, kinder to you than you are to yourself, sent you someone you couldn’t deceive. He has tested you; He was patient and warned you not to toy with Holy Church, but it was all in vain; you cannot confess because you are as unrepentant as a stone. So die as you have lived. I can almost see the demons gathering around your bed for their prize. They’re just waiting for me to leave. And I’m leaving.”
He turned his back; but Ghysbrecht, in extremity of terror, caught him by the frock. “Oh, holy man, mercy! stay. I will confess all, all. I robbed my friend Floris, Alas! would it had ended there; for he lost little by me; but I kept the land from Peter his son, and from Margaret, Peter's daughter. Yet I was always going to give it back; but I couldn't, I couldn't.”
He turned away, but Ghysbrecht, terrified, grabbed his coat. “Oh, holy man, please, have mercy! Wait. I’ll confess everything, all of it. I robbed my friend Floris. Oh, if only it had stopped there; he didn’t lose much because of me, but I kept the land from Peter’s son and from Margaret, Peter's daughter. I always meant to give it back, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.”
“Avarice, my son, avarice, Happy for thee 'tis not too late.”
“Avarice, my son, greed, it’s good for you that it’s not too late.”
“No; I will leave it her by will. She will not have long to wait for it now; not above a month or two at farthest.”
“No; I will leave it to her by will. She won’t have to wait long for it now; not more than a month or two at most.”
“For which month's possession thou wouldst damn thy soul for ever, Thou fool!”
“For which month’s possession would you damn your soul forever, you fool!”
The sick man groaned, and prayed the friar to be reasonable.
The sick man groaned and asked the friar to be reasonable.
The friar firmly, but gently and persuasively, persisted, and with infinite patience detached the dying man's gripe from another's property. There were times when his patience was tried, and he was on the point of thrusting his hand into his bosom and producing the deed, which he had brought for that purpose; but after yesterday's outbreak he was on his guard against choler; and to conclude, he conquered his impatience; he conquered a personal repugnance to the man, so strong as to make his own flesh creep all the time he was struggling with this miser for his soul; and at last, without a word about the deed, he won upon him to make full and prompt restitution.
The friar persistently, yet gently and convincingly, continued his efforts, showing incredible patience as he separated the dying man’s grip from another person’s property. There were moments when his patience was tested, and he almost reached into his pocket to pull out the deed he had brought for this very situation; however, after yesterday's outburst, he was cautious about losing his temper. In the end, he overcame his impatience and his strong aversion to the man, which made his skin crawl while he was wrestling with this miser for his soul; ultimately, without mentioning the deed, he succeeded in convincing him to make full and immediate restitution.
How the restitution was made will be briefly related elsewhere: also certain curious effects produced upon Ghysbrecht by it; and when and on what terms Ghysbrecht and Clement parted.
How the restitution was made will be briefly discussed elsewhere; also, some interesting effects it had on Ghysbrecht; and when and on what terms Ghysbrecht and Clement separated.
I promised to relate two acts of the latter, indicative of his mind.
I promised to share two actions of the latter that reflect his mindset.
This is one. The other is told in two words.
This is one. The other is said in two words.
As soon as he was quite sure Margaret had her own, and was a rich woman—
As soon as he was sure that Margaret had her own wealth and was a rich woman—
He disappeared.
He vanished.
CHAPTER XC
It was the day after that terrible scene: the little house in the Hoog Straet was like a grave, and none more listless and dejected than Catherine, so busy and sprightly by nature, After dinner, her eyes red with weeping, she went to the convent to try and soften Gerard, and lay the first stone at least of a reconciliation.
It was the day after that awful scene: the small house on Hoog Straet felt like a tomb, and no one was more lifeless and downcast than Catherine, who was usually so energetic and lively. After dinner, her eyes swollen from crying, she went to the convent to try and reach out to Gerard, hoping to at least start on a path toward reconciliation.
It was some time before she could make the porter understand whom she was seeking. Eventually she learned he had left late last night, and was not expected back, She went sighing with the news to Margaret. She found her sitting idle, like one with whom life had lost its savour; she had her boy clasped so tight in her arms, as if he was all she had left, and she feared some one would take him too. Catherine begged her to come to the Hoog Straet.
It took a while for her to get the porter to understand who she was looking for. Eventually, she found out that he had left late last night and wasn’t expected back. She went sighing with the news to Margaret. She found her sitting there, like someone who had lost all joy in life; she held her boy tightly in her arms, as if he was all she had left and she was afraid someone would take him away too. Catherine urged her to come to the Hoog Straet.
“What for?” sighed Margaret. “You cannot but say to yourselves, she is the cause of all.”
“What for?” sighed Margaret. “You can’t help but say to yourselves, she is the reason for everything.”
“Nay, nay,” said Catherine, “we are not so ill-hearted, and Eli is so fond on you; you will maybe soften him.”
“Nah, nah,” said Catherine, “we're not that unkind, and Eli really likes you; maybe you'll ease him up a bit.”
“Oh, if you think I can do any good, I'll come,” said Margaret, with a weary sigh.
“Oh, if you think I can help in any way, I’ll come,” said Margaret, with a tired sigh.
They found Eli and a carpenter putting up another name in place of Cornelis and Sybrandt's; and what should that name be but Margaret Brandt's.
They found Eli and a carpenter putting up a new sign to replace Cornelis and Sybrandt's, and what was that name? It was Margaret Brandt's.
With all her affection for Margaret, this went through poor Catherine like a knife. “The bane of one is another's meat,” said she.
With all her love for Margaret, this hit poor Catherine hard. “What’s a curse for one is a benefit for another,” she said.
“Can he make me spend the money unjustly?” replied Margaret coldly.
“Can he force me to spend the money unfairly?” replied Margaret coldly.
“You are a good soul,” said Catherine. “Ay, so best, sith he is the strongest.”
“You have a good heart,” Catherine said. “Yes, that’s true, since he is the strongest.”
The next day Giles dropped in, and Catherine told the story all in favour of the black sheep, and invited his pity for them, anathematized by their brother, and turned on the wide world by their father. But Giles's prejudices ran the other way; he heard her out, and told her bluntly the knaves had got off cheap; they deserved to be hanged at Margaret's door into the bargain, and dismissing them with contempt, crowed with delight at the return of his favourite. “I'll show him,” said he, “what 'tis to have a brother at court with a heart to serve a friend, and a head to point the way.”
The next day, Giles stopped by, and Catherine told the story all in support of the black sheep, asking for his sympathy for them, cursed by their brother and abandoned by their father. But Giles had the opposite view; he listened to her and bluntly told her that the scoundrels got off easy; they deserved to be hanged at Margaret's door as well, and dismissing them with contempt, he gleefully celebrated the return of his favorite. “I'll show him,” he said, “what it’s like to have a brother at court who has a heart to help a friend and the smarts to guide the way.”
“Bless thee, Giles,” murmured Margaret softly.
“Bless you, Giles,” murmured Margaret softly.
“Thou wast ever his stanch friend, dear Giles,” said little Kate; “but alack, I know not what thou canst do for him now.”
“You were always his loyal friend, dear Giles,” said little Kate; “but alas, I don’t know what you can do for him now.”
Giles had left them, and all was sad and silent again, when a well-dressed man opened the door softly, and asked was Margaret Brandt here.
Giles had left them, and everything was sad and quiet again, when a well-dressed man opened the door quietly and asked if Margaret Brandt was there.
“D'ye hear, lass? You are wanted,” said Catherine briskly. In her the Gossip was indestructible.
“Do you hear me, girl? They need you,” said Catherine quickly. In her, the gossip was unbreakable.
“Well, mother,” said Margaret listlessly, “and here I am.”
“Well, mom,” said Margaret with a lack of energy, “and here I am.”
A shuffling of feet was heard at the door, and a colourless, feeble old man was assisted into the room. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. At sight of him Catherine shrieked, and threw her apron over her head, and Margaret shuddered violently, and turned her head swiftly away, not to see him.
A shuffling of feet was heard at the door, and a pale, frail old man was helped into the room. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. When Catherine saw him, she screamed and pulled her apron over her head, and Margaret shuddered violently and quickly turned her head away to avoid looking at him.
A feeble voice issued from the strange visitor's lips, “Good people, a dying man hath come to ask your forgiveness.”
A weak voice came from the strange visitor, “Good people, a dying man has come to ask for your forgiveness.”
“Come to look on your work, you mean,” said Catherine, taking down her apron and bursting out sobbing. “There, there, she is fainting; look to her, Eli, quick.”
“Come to check on your work, you mean,” Catherine said, taking off her apron and start sobbing. “There, there, she’s fainting; help her, Eli, quick.”
“Nay,” said Margaret, in a feeble voice, “the sight of him gave me a turn, that is all, Prithee, let him say his say, and go; for he is the murderer of me and mine.”
“Nah,” Margaret said weakly, “just seeing him made me feel faint, that’s all. Please, let him say what he needs to say and leave; he’s the murderer of me and my family.”
“Alas,” said Ghysbrecht, “I am too feeble to say it standing and no one biddeth me sit down.”
“Unfortunately,” said Ghysbrecht, “I’m too weak to say it while standing, and no one is telling me to sit down.”
Eli, who had followed him into the house, interfered here, and said, half sullenly, half apologetically, “Well, burgomaster, 'tis not our wont to leave a visitor standing whiles we sit. But man, man, you have wrought us too much ill.” And the honest fellow's voice began to shake with anger he fought hard to contain, because it was his own house.
Eli, who had followed him into the house, interrupted, saying, half sulky and half apologetic, “Well, burgomaster, it’s not our usual way to leave a guest standing while we sit. But come on, you’ve done us too much harm.” And the honest guy’s voice started to tremble with the anger he struggled to hold back because it was his own home.
Then Ghysbrecht found an advocate in one who seldom spoke in vain in that family.
Then Ghysbrecht found support from someone who rarely spoke uselessly in that family.
It was little Kate. “Father, mother,” said she, “my duty to you, but this is not well. Death squares all accounts, And see you not death in his face? I shall not live long, good friends; and his time is shorter than mine.”
It was little Kate. “Dad, Mom,” she said, “I owe you a duty, but this isn’t right. Death settles everything, and don’t you see death in his face? I won’t live long, good friends; and his time is shorter than mine.”
Eli made haste and set a chair for their dying enemy with his own hands. Ghysbrecht's attendants put him into it. “Go fetch the boxes,” said he. They brought in two boxes, and then retired, leaving their master alone in the family he had so cruelly injured.
Eli quickly set up a chair for their dying enemy with his own hands. Ghysbrecht's attendants placed him in it. “Go get the boxes,” he said. They brought in two boxes and then left, leaving their master alone with the family he had so brutally harmed.
Every eye was now bent on him, except Margaret's. He undid the boxes with unsteady fingers, and brought out of one the title-deeds of a property at Tergou. “This land and these houses belonged to Floris Brandt, and do belong to thee of right, his granddaughter. These I did usurp for a debt long since defrayed with interest. These I now restore their rightful owner with penitent tears. In this other box are three hundred and forty golden angels, being the rent and fines I have received from that land more than Floris Brandt's debt to me, I have kept it compt, still meaning to be just one day; but Avarice withheld me, pray, good people, against temptation! I was not born dishonest: yet you see.”
Every eye was now focused on him, except for Margaret's. He opened the boxes with shaky hands and took out of one the title deeds for a property in Tergou. “This land and these houses belonged to Floris Brandt, and they rightfully belong to you, his granddaughter. I took these for a debt that was paid off a long time ago, with interest. Now I return them to their rightful owner, with tears of regret. In this other box are three hundred and forty golden angels, which is the rent and fines I collected from that land beyond what Floris Brandt owed me. I kept track of it, always planning to be fair one day; but greed held me back, I beg you, dear people, against temptation! I wasn’t born dishonest: yet you see.”
“Well, to be sure!” cried Catherine. “And you the burgomaster! Hast whipt good store of thieves in thy day. However,” said she, on second thoughts, “'tis better late than never, What, Margaret, art deaf? The good man hath brought thee back thine own. Art a rich woman. Alack, what a mountain o' gold!”
“Well, for sure!” shouted Catherine. “And you, the mayor! You've whipped quite a few thieves in your time. But,” she said, thinking it over, “it's better late than never. What, Margaret, are you deaf? The good man has brought you back your own. You're a rich woman. Wow, what a mountain of gold!”
“Bid him keep land and gold, and give me back my Gerard, that he stole from me with his treason,” said Margaret, with her head still averted.
“Tell him to keep his land and gold, and give me back my Gerard, who he stole from me with his betrayal,” said Margaret, with her head still turned away.
“Alas!” said Ghysbrecht, “would I could, what I can I have done. Is it nought? It cost me a sore struggle; and I rose from my last bed to do it myself, lest some mischance should come between her and her rights.”
“Alas!” said Ghysbrecht, “I wish I could; what I can do, I have done. Is it nothing? It cost me a great struggle; and I got up from my deathbed to do it myself, to make sure no bad luck would interfere with her rights.”
“Old man,” said Margaret, “since thou, whose idol is pelf, hast done this, God and the saints will, as I hope, forgive thee. As for me, I am neither saint nor angel, but only a poor woman, whose heart thou hast broken, Speak to him, Kate, for I am like the dead.”
“Old man,” said Margaret, “since you, whose idol is money, have done this, God and the saints will, I hope, forgive you. As for me, I am neither a saint nor an angel, just a poor woman whose heart you have broken. Talk to him, Kate, because I feel like I’m dead.”
Kate meditated a little while; and then her soft silvery voice fell like a soothing melody upon the air, “My poor sister hath a sorrow that riches cannot heal, Give her time, Ghysbrecht; 'tis not in nature she should forgive thee all. Her boy is fatherless; and she is neither maid, wife, nor widow; and the blow fell but two days syne, that laid her heart a bleeding.”
Kate meditated for a moment, and then her soft, silvery voice flowed like a soothing melody through the air. “My poor sister has a sorrow that money cannot fix. Give her time, Ghysbrecht; it’s not in her nature to forgive you completely. Her son is fatherless, and she is neither a girl, a wife, nor a widow; and the blow that broke her heart happened just two days ago.”
A single heavy sob from Margaret was the comment to these words.
A single, heavy sob from Margaret responded to these words.
“Therefore, give her time! And ere thou diest, she will forgive thee all, ay, even to pleasure me, that haply shall not be long behind thee, Ghysbrecht. Meantime, we, whose wounds be sore, but not so deep as hers, do pardon thee, a penitent and a dying man; and I, for one, will pray for thee from this hour; go in peace!”
“So, give her some time! And before you die, she will forgive you for everything, yes, even for my pleasure, which won't be far behind you, Ghysbrecht. In the meantime, we, whose wounds are painful but not as deep as hers, forgive you, a remorseful and dying man; and I, for one, will pray for you from this moment on; go in peace!”
Their little oracle had spoken; it was enough. Eli even invited him to break a manchet and drink a stoup of wine to give him heart for his journey.
Their little oracle had spoken; that was sufficient. Eli even invited him to share a small loaf and drink a cup of wine to lift his spirits for the journey ahead.
But Ghysbrecht declined, and said what he had done was a cordial to him, “Man seeth but a little way before him, neighbour. This land I clung so to it was a bed of nettles to me all the time. 'Tis gone; and I feel happier and livelier like for the loss on't.”
But Ghysbrecht refused, saying that what he had done was a relief to him, “People can only see so far ahead, neighbor. I held onto this land so tightly that it was like a bed of nettles to me all the time. It's gone now, and I feel happier and more vibrant because of its loss.”
He called his men, and they lifted him into the litter.
He called his men, and they lifted him into the stretcher.
When he was gone Catherine gloated over the money. She had never seen so much together, and was almost angry with Margaret, for “sitting out there like an image.” And she dilated on the advantages of money.
When he left, Catherine reveled in the money. She had never seen so much all at once and was almost irritated with Margaret for “sitting out there like a statue.” And she went on about the benefits of having money.
And she teased Margaret till at last she prevailed on her to come and look at it.
And she playfully teased Margaret until she finally convinced her to come and take a look at it.
“Better let her be, mother,” said Kate, “How can she relish gold, with a heart in her bosom liker lead?” But Catherine persisted.
“Better leave her alone, Mom,” Kate said, “How can she enjoy gold when her heart feels like lead?” But Catherine kept insisting.
The result was, Margaret looked down at all her wealth with wondering eyes. Then suddenly wrung her hands and cried with piercing anguish, “TOO LATE! TOO LATE!” And shook off her leaden despondency, only to go into strong hysterics over the wealth that came too late to be shared with him she loved.
The result was, Margaret looked down at all her wealth with wide eyes full of wonder. Then suddenly she wrung her hands and cried out with deep pain, “TOO LATE! TOO LATE!” She shook off her heavy sadness, only to fall into strong hysterics over the wealth that had come too late to be shared with the one she loved.
A little of this gold, a portion of this land, a year or two ago, when it was as much her own as now; and Gerard would have never left her side for Italy or any other place.
A little of this gold, a portion of this land, a year or two ago, when it was just as much hers as it is now; and Gerard would have never left her side for Italy or anywhere else.
“Too late! Too late!”
"Too late! Too late!"
CHAPTER XCI
Not many days after this came the news that Margaret Van Eyck was dead and buried. By a will she had made a year before, she left all her property, after her funeral expenses and certain presents to Reicht Heynes, to her dear daughter Margaret Brandt, requesting her to keep Reicht as long as unmarried.
Not many days later, news came that Margaret Van Eyck had died and been buried. In a will she had made a year earlier, she left all her property, after covering her funeral expenses and certain gifts to Reicht Heynes, to her beloved daughter Margaret Brandt, asking her to take care of Reicht for as long as she remained unmarried.
By this will Margaret inherited a furnished house, and pictures and sketches that in the present day would be a fortune: among the pictures was one she valued more than a gallery of others.
By this will, Margaret inherited a furnished house, along with paintings and sketches that would be worth a fortune today; among the paintings was one she valued more than a gallery of others.
It represented “A Betrothal.” The solemnity of the ceremony was marked in the grave face of the man, and the demure complacency of the woman. She was painted almost entirely by Margaret Van Eyck, but the rest of the picture by Jan. The accessories were exquisitely finished, and remain a marvel of skill to this day. Margaret Brandt sent word to Reicht to stay in the house till such time as she could find the heart to put foot in it, and miss the face and voice that used to meet her there; and to take special care of the picture “in the little cubboord:” meaning the diptych.
It represented “A Betrothal.” The seriousness of the ceremony was evident in the man's serious expression and the woman's modest composure. She was mostly painted by Margaret Van Eyck, while Jan did the rest of the artwork. The details were beautifully crafted and still amaze people today. Margaret Brandt told Reicht to stay in the house until she felt ready to step inside again, missing the face and voice that used to greet her there; and to take special care of the picture “in the little cubboord,” referring to the diptych.
The next thing was, Luke Peterson came home, and heard that Gerard was a monk.
The next thing that happened was Luke Peterson came home and heard that Gerard was a monk.
He was like to go mad with joy. He came to Margaret, and said—“heed, mistress. If he cannot marry you I can.”
He was about to go crazy with joy. He went to Margaret and said, “Listen, mistress. If he can't marry you, I can.”
“You?” said Margaret. “Why, I have seen him.”
“You?” Margaret said. “I’ve seen him.”
“But he is a friar.”
“But he’s a friar.”
“He was my husband, and my boy's father long ere he was a friar. And I have seen him, I've seen him.”
“He was my husband and the father of my boy long before he became a friar. And I’ve seen him, I’ve seen him.”
Luke was thoroughly puzzled. “I'll tell you what,” said he; “I have got a cousin a lawyer. I'll go and ask him whether you are married or single.”
Luke was completely confused. “You know what,” he said; “I have a lawyer cousin. I’ll go ask him if you’re married or single.”
“Nay, I shall ask my own heart, not a lawyer. So that is your regard for me; to go making me the town talk, oh, fie!”
“Nah, I’ll ask my own heart, not a lawyer. So that’s how you feel about me; turning me into the town gossip, oh, come on!”
“That is done already without a word from me.”
“That’s already taken care of without me saying a word.”
“But not by such as seek my respect. And if you do it, never come nigh me again.”
“But not by those who seek my respect. And if you do it, never come near me again.”
“Ay,” said Luke, with a sigh, “you are like a dove to all the rest; but you are a hardhearted tyrant to me.”
“Ay,” said Luke, with a sigh, “you are like a dove to everyone else; but you are a heartless tyrant to me.”
“'Tis your own fault, dear Luke, for wooing me. That is what lets me from being as kind to you as I desire, Luke, my bonny lad, listen to me. I am rich now; I can make my friends happy, though not myself. Look round the street, look round the parish. There is many a quean in it fairer than I twice told, and not spoiled with weeping. Look high; and take your choice. Speak you to the lass herself, and I'll speak to the mother; they shall not say thee nay; take my word for't.”
'It's your own fault, dear Luke, for pursuing me. That's what's keeping me from being as kind to you as I want to be. Luke, my sweet boy, pay attention. I'm rich now; I can make my friends happy, even if I'm not happy myself. Look around the street, look around the neighborhood. There are plenty of girls in it who are prettier than I am, and not burdened with tears. Look up high, and pick whoever you want. You talk to the girl herself, and I'll talk to her mother; they won't refuse you, I promise.'
“I see what ye mean,” said Luke, turning very red. “But if I can't have your liking, I will none o' your money. I was your servant when you were poor as I; and poorer. No; if you would liever be a friar's leman than an honest man's wife, you are not the woman I took you for: so part we withouten malice: seek you your comfort on yon road, where never a she did find it yet, and for me, I'll live and die a bachelor. Good even, mistress.”
“I understand what you mean,” said Luke, turning very red. “But if I can't have your affection, I don't want your money. I was your servant when you were as poor as I was, even poorer. No; if you’d rather be a friar's mistress than an honest man's wife, you’re not the woman I thought you were. So let's part ways without any hard feelings: you can look for happiness down that path where no woman has ever found it, and as for me, I’ll live and die a bachelor. Good evening, miss.”
“Farewell, dear Luke; and God forgive you for saying that to me.”
“Goodbye, dear Luke; and I hope God forgives you for saying that to me.”
For some days Margaret dreaded, almost as much as she desired, the coming interview with Gerard. She said to herself, “I wonder not he keeps away a while; for so should I.” However, he would hear he was a father; and the desire to see their boy would overcome everything. “And,” said the poor girl to herself, “if so be that meeting does not kill me, I feel I shall be better after it than I am now.”
For several days, Margaret both dreaded and looked forward to the upcoming meeting with Gerard. She thought to herself, “I can see why he’s staying away for a bit; I would too.” Still, he would eventually find out he was a father, and the desire to see their son would outweigh everything else. “And,” the poor girl told herself, “if this meeting doesn’t end up being unbearable, I believe I’ll feel better afterward than I do now.”
But when day after day went by, and he was not heard of, a freezing suspicion began to crawl and creep towards her mind. What if his absence was intentional? What if he had gone to some cold-blooded monks his fellows, and they had told him never to see her more? The convent had ere this shown itself as merciless to true lovers as the grave itself.
But as days passed without any word from him, a chilling suspicion began to creep into her mind. What if his absence was deliberate? What if he had gone to some heartless monks, and they had told him never to see her again? The convent had already proven to be as cruel to true lovers as the grave itself.
At this thought the very life seemed to die out of her.
At that thought, she felt like her life was fading away.
And now for the first time deep indignation mingled at times with her grief and apprehension. “Can he have ever loved me? To run from me and his boy without a word! Why, this poor Luke thinks more of me than he does.”
And now, for the first time, deep anger mixed at times with her grief and anxiety. “Did he ever really love me? To just leave me and our son without saying anything! This poor Luke cares more about me than he does.”
While her mind was in this state, Giles came roaring. “I've hit the clout; our Gerard is Vicar of Gouda.”
While her mind was in this state, Giles came bursting in. “I've got some great news; our Gerard is the Vicar of Gouda.”
A very brief sketch of the dwarf's court life will suffice to prepare the reader for his own account of this feat. Some months before he went to court his intelligence had budded. He himself dated the change from a certain 8th of June, when, swinging by one hand along with the week's washing on a tight rope in the drying ground, something went crack inside his head; and lo! intellectual powers unchained. At court his shrewdness and bluntness of speech, coupled with his gigantic voice and his small stature, made him a Power: without the last item I fear they would have conducted him to that unpopular gymnasium, the gallows. The young Duchess of Burgundy, and Marie the heiress apparent, both petted him, as great ladies have petted dwarfs in all ages; and the court poet melted butter by the six-foot rule, and poured enough of it down his back to stew Goliah in. He even amplified, versified, and enfeebled certain rough and ready sentences dictated by Giles.
A quick overview of the dwarf's life at court will set the stage for his own story about this achievement. A few months before he arrived at court, his intellect began to develop. He marked the change to a certain June 8th, when, hanging by one hand alongside the week’s laundry on a tightrope in the drying area, he felt a crack inside his head; and suddenly, his intellectual abilities were unleashed. At court, his cleverness and straightforward way of speaking, combined with his booming voice and small size, made him influential: without that last detail, I fear they would have sent him to that dreaded place, the gallows. The young Duchess of Burgundy and Marie, the heiress apparent, both spoiled him, just as highborn women have done with dwarfs throughout history; and the court poet poured syrupy praise on him like it was a six-foot rule, enough to drown Goliath in. He even took some rough and ready phrases from Giles, expanded them, put them into verse, and softened them.
The centipedal prolixity that resulted went to Eli by letter, thus entitled—
The excessive wordiness that resulted went to Eli by letter, thus entitled—
“The high and puissant Princess Marie
of Bourgogne her lytel jantilman hys
complaynt of y' Coort, and
praise of a rusticall lyfe, versificated, and empapyred
by me the lytel jantilman's right lovynge
and obsequious servitor, etc.”
“The noble and powerful Princess Marie of Burgundy, her little gentleman, his complaint about the court, and praise for a simple country life, written in verse and dedicated by me, the little gentleman's devoted and loving servant, etc.”
But the dwarf reached his climax by a happy mixture of mind and muscle; thus:
But the dwarf achieved his peak through a fortunate blend of intellect and strength; thus:
The day before a grand court joust he challenged the Duke's giant to a trial of strength. This challenge made the gravest grin, and aroused expectation.
The day before a big court joust, he challenged the Duke's giant to a test of strength. This challenge brought a serious smile and sparked anticipation.
Giles had a lofty pole planted ready, and at the appointed hour went up it like a squirrel, and by strength of arm made a right angle with his body, and so remained: then slid down so quickly, that the high and puissant princess squeaked, and hid her face in her hands, not to see the demise of her pocket-Hercules.
Giles had a tall pole set up and at the scheduled time climbed it like a squirrel. With impressive strength, he positioned his body at a right angle and stayed that way. Then he slid down so fast that the powerful princess squeaked and covered her face with her hands, not wanting to witness the downfall of her little hero.
The giant effected only about ten feet, then looked ruefully up and ruefully down, and descended, bathed in perspiration to argue the matter.
The giant moved only about ten feet, then looked sadly up and sadly down, and came down, soaked in sweat to discuss the issue.
“It was not the dwarf's greater strength, but his smaller body.”
“It wasn't the dwarf's greater strength, but his smaller size.”
The spectators received this excuse with loud derision. There was the fact, the dwarf was great at mounting a pole: the giant only great at excuses. In short Giles had gauged their intellects: with his own body no doubt.
The audience reacted to this excuse with loud laughter. The truth was, the dwarf was amazing at climbing a pole, while the giant was only good at making excuses. In short, Giles had assessed their intelligence: probably with his own body.
“Come,” said he, “an ye go to that, I'll wrestle ye, my lad, if so be you will let me blindfold your eyne.”
“Come,” he said, “if you want to do that, I’ll wrestle you, my friend, if you let me blindfold your eyes.”
The giant, smarting under defeat, and thinking he could surely recover it by this means, readily consented.
The giant, stinging from defeat and believing he could definitely regain it this way, quickly agreed.
“Madam,” said Giles, “see you yon blind Samson? At a signal from me he shall make me a low obeisance, and unbonnet to me.”
“Ma'am,” said Giles, “do you see that blind Samson over there? At a signal from me, he will bow down low and take off his hat for me.”
“How may that be, being blinded?” inquired a maid of honour.
“How can that happen, being blinded?” asked a maid of honor.
“I'll wager on Giles for one,” said the princess.
“I’ll bet on Giles for one,” said the princess.
“That is my affair.”
“That's my business.”
When several wagers were laid pro and con, Giles hit the giant in the bread-basket. He went double (the obeisance), and his bonnet fell off.
When several bets were placed for and against, Giles punched the giant in the stomach. He went down (the bow), and his hat fell off.
The company yelled with delight at this delicate stroke of wit, and Giles took to his heels. The giant followed as soon as he could recover his breath and tear off his bandage. But it was too late; Giles had prepared a little door in the wall, through which he could pass, but not a giant, and had coloured it so artfully, it looked like a wall; this door he tore open, and went headlong through, leaving no vestige but this posy, written very large upon the reverse of his trick door—
The company cheered with joy at this clever joke, and Giles made a run for it. The giant chased after him as soon as he caught his breath and ripped off his bandage. But it was too late; Giles had crafted a small door in the wall that he could fit through, but not the giant. He had painted it so skillfully that it looked just like the wall; the giant tore it open and rushed through, leaving nothing behind but a flower message written in large letters on the back of his trick door—
Long limbs, big body, panting wit
By wee and wise is bet and bit
Long arms, large body, breathing heavy with wit
By small and clever is better and more insightfulAfter this Giles became a Force.
After this, Giles became a force.
He shall now speak for himself.
He will now speak for himself.
Finding Margaret unable to believe the good news, and sceptical as to the affairs of Holy Church being administered by dwarfs, he narrated as follows:
Finding Margaret unable to believe the good news and skeptical about the affairs of the Holy Church being managed by dwarfs, he told her the story as follows:
“When the princess sent for me to her bedroom as of custom, to keep her out of languor, I came not mirthful nor full of country dicts, as is my wont, but dull as lead.
“When the princess called me to her bedroom, as was customary, to keep her from feeling bored, I didn't come in cheerful or with my usual country sayings, but as dull as lead.”
“'Why, what aileth thee?' quo' she. 'Art sick?' 'At heart,' quo' I. 'Alas, he is in love,' quo' she. Whereat five brazen hussies, which they call them maids of honour, did giggle loud. 'Not so mad as that,' said I, 'seeing what I see at court of women folk.'
“'What's wrong with you?' she asked. 'Are you sick?' 'In my heart,' I replied. 'Oh no, he's in love,' she said. At that, five bold girls, whom they call maids of honor, giggled loudly. 'Not as crazy as that,' I said, 'considering what I see among the women at court.'”
“'There, ladies,' quo' the princess, 'best let him a be. 'Tis a liberal mannikin, and still giveth more than he taketh of saucy words.'
“'There, ladies,' said the princess, 'it's best to leave him be. He's a generous little man and gives more cheek than he takes.'”
“'In all sadness,' quo' she, 'what is the matter?'
"In all sadness," she said, "what's the matter?"
“I told her I was meditating, and what perplexed me was, that other folk could now and then keep their word, but princes never.
“I told her I was meditating, and what puzzled me was that other people could occasionally keep their promises, but royalty never could.”
“'Heyday,' says she, 'thy shafts fly high this morn.' I told her, 'Ay, for they hit the Truth.'
“'Heyday,' she says, 'your arrows are flying high this morning.' I replied, 'Yeah, because they’re hitting the Truth.'”
“She said I was as keen as keen; but it became not me to put riddles to her, nor her to answer them. 'Stand aloof a bit, mesdames,' said she, 'and thou speak withouten fear;' for she saw I was in sad earnest.
“She said I was very eager; but it wasn’t right for me to challenge her with riddles, nor for her to respond to them. 'Step back a bit, ladies,' she said, 'and you can speak freely;' because she noticed I was quite serious.
“I began to quake a bit; for mind ye, she can doff freedom and don dignity quicker than she can slip out of her dressing-gown into kirtle of state. But I made my voice so soft as honey (wherefore smilest?), and I said 'Madam, one evening, a matter of five years agone, as ye sat with your mother, the Countess of Charolois, who is now in heaven, worse luck, you wi' your lute, and she wi' her tapestry, or the like, do ye mind there came came into ye a fair youth with a letter from a painter body, one Margaret Van Eyck?”
“I started to tremble a little because, just so you know, she can shed her freedom and put on her dignity faster than she can change from her dressing gown into her formal outfit. But I made my voice as sweet as honey (why are you smiling?), and I said, 'Madam, one evening, about five years ago, while you were sitting with your mother, the Countess of Charolois, who is now in heaven, unfortunately, you with your lute and she with her tapestry or something like that, do you remember a handsome young man arriving with a letter from a painter named Margaret Van Eyck?'"
“She said she thought she did, 'Was it not a tall youth, exceeding comely?'
“She said she thought she did, 'Was it not a tall young man, extremely handsome?'”
“'Ay, madam,' said I; 'he was my brother.'
“'Yes, ma'am,' I said; 'he was my brother.'”
“'Your brother?' said she, and did eye me like all over, (What dost smile at?”)
“‘Your brother?’ she said, looking me up and down. (What are you smiling at?)”
“So I told her all that passed between her and Gerard, and how she was for giving him a bishopric; but the good countess said, 'Gently, Marie! he is too young; and with that they did both promise him a living: 'Yet,' said I, 'he hath been a priest a long while, and no living. Hence my bile.'
“So I told her everything that happened between her and Gerard, and how she wanted to give him a bishopric; but the kind countess said, 'Easy there, Marie! He’s too young for that.' With that, they both promised him a position. 'But,' I said, 'he’s been a priest for a long time and hasn’t gotten a position yet. That’s what’s bothering me.'”
“'Alas!' said she, ''tis not by my good will; for all this thou hast said is sooth, and more. I do remember my dear mother said to me, “See thou to it if I be not here.”' So then she cried out, 'Ay, dear mother, no word of thine shall ever fall to the ground.'
“'Oh no!' she said, 'it's not my choice; everything you've said is true and more. I remember my dear mother telling me, “Make sure I’m not forgotten if I'm not around.”' Then she shouted, 'Yes, dear mother, I will always honor your words.'”
“I, seeing her so ripe, said quickly, 'Madam, the Vicar of Gouda died last week.' (For when ye seek favours of the great, behoves ye know the very thing ye aim at.)
“I, seeing her so capable, said quickly, 'Ma'am, the Vicar of Gouda died last week.' (For when you seek favors from those in power, you should know exactly what you’re aiming for.)
“'Then thy brother is vicar of Gouda,' quo' she, 'so sure as I am heiress of Burgundy and the Netherlands. Nay, thank me not, good Giles,' quo' she, 'but my good mother. And I do thank thee for giving of me somewhat to do for her memory. And doesn't she fall a weeping for her mother? And doesn't that set me off a-snivelling for my good brother that I love so dear, and to think that a poor little elf like me could yet speak in the ear of princes, and make my beautiful brother vicar of Gouda; eh, lass, it is a bonny place, and a bonny manse, and hawthorn in every bush at spring-tide, and dog-roses and eglantine in every summer hedge. I know what the poor fool affects, leave that to me.”
“'Then your brother is the vicar of Gouda,' she said, 'as surely as I am the heiress of Burgundy and the Netherlands. No need to thank me, good Giles,' she continued, 'thank my wonderful mother instead. And I appreciate you letting me do something for her memory. Doesn’t she cry for her mother? Doesn’t that make me tear up for my dear brother, whom I love so much, and to think that a little person like me could actually speak to princes and make my handsome brother the vicar of Gouda; huh, girl, it’s a lovely place, and a lovely house, with hawthorn in every bush in spring, and dog-roses and eglantine in every summer hedge. I know what that poor fool wants, just leave that to me.”
The dwarf began his narrative strutting to and fro before Margaret, but he ended it in her arms; for she could not contain herself, but caught him, and embraced him warmly. “Oh, Giles,” she said, blushing, and kissing him, “I cannot keep my hands off thee, thy body it is so little, and thy heart so great. Thou art his true friend. Bless thee! bless thee! bless thee! Now we shall see him again. We have not set eyes on him since that terrible day.”
The dwarf started telling his story, pacing back and forth in front of Margaret, but he ended up in her arms; she couldn't help herself and grabbed him, hugging him tightly. “Oh, Giles,” she said, blushing and kissing him, “I can't keep my hands off you, your body is so small, and your heart so big. You are his true friend. Bless you! Bless you! Bless you! Now we’ll see him again. We haven't seen him since that awful day.”
“Gramercy, but that is strange,” said Giles. “Maybe he is ashamed of having cursed those two vagabones, being our own flesh and blood, worse luck.”
“Thanks, but that’s odd,” said Giles. “Maybe he feels ashamed for cursing those two drifters, who are our own family, unfortunately.”
“Think you that is why he hides?” said Margaret eagerly;
“Do you think that’s why he hides?” Margaret asked eagerly;
“Ay, if he is hiding at all. However, I'll cry him by bellman.
“Ay, if he is hiding at all. However, I’ll call him by the bellman."
“Nay, that might much offend him.”
“Nah, that might really upset him.”
“What care I? Is Gouda to go vicarless and the manse in nettles?”
“What do I care? Is Gouda going to be without a vicar and the manse overgrown with nettles?”
And to Margaret's secret satisfaction, Giles had the new vicar cried in Rotterdam and the neighbouring towns. He easily persuaded Margaret that in a day or two Gerard would be sure to hear, and come to his benefice. She went to look at his manse, and thought how comfortable it might be made for him, and how dearly she should love to do it.
And to Margaret's hidden delight, Giles had the new vicar announced in Rotterdam and the nearby towns. He easily convinced Margaret that in a day or two, Gerard would definitely hear about it and come to his benefice. She went to check out his manse and imagined how cozy it could be made for him, and how much she would love to help with it.
But the days rolled on, and Gerard came neither to Rotterdam nor Gouda. Giles was mortified, Margaret indignant, and very wretched. She said to herself, “Thinking me dead, he comes home, and now, because I am alive, he goes back to Italy, for that is where he has gone.”
But the days went by, and Gerard didn’t come to Rotterdam or Gouda. Giles was embarrassed, Margaret was furious, and very unhappy. She said to herself, “Thinking I’m dead, he comes home, and now, because I’m alive, he goes back to Italy, because that’s where he’s gone.”
Joan advised her to consult the hermit of Gouda.
Joan advised her to talk to the hermit of Gouda.
“Why, sure he is dead by this time.”
“Of course he's dead by now.”
“Yon one, belike. But the cave is never long void; Gouda ne'er wants a hermit.”
“Maybe that one. But the cave is never empty for long; Gouda never lacks a hermit.”
But Margaret declined to go again to Gouda on such an errand, “What can he know, shut up in a cave? less than I, belike. Gerard hath gone back t' Italy. He hates me for not being dead.”
But Margaret refused to go back to Gouda for that reason, “What can he know, locked away in a cave? Probably less than I do. Gerard has returned to Italy. He hates me for not being dead.”
Presently a Tergovian came in with a word from Catherine that Ghysbrecht Van Swieten had seen Gerard later than any one else. On this Margaret determined to go and see the house and goods that had been left her, and take Reicht Heynes home to Rotterdam. And as may be supposed, her steps took her first to Ghysbrecht's house. She found him in his garden, seated in a chair with wheels. He greeted her with a feeble voice, but cordially; and when she asked him whether it was true he had seen Gerard since the fifth of August, he replied, “Gerard no more, but Friar Clement. Ay, I saw him; and blessed be the day he entered my house.”
Currently, a Tergovian came in with a message from Catherine that Ghysbrecht Van Swieten had seen Gerard later than anyone else. Hearing this, Margaret decided to go check out the house and belongings that had been left to her and take Reicht Heynes back home to Rotterdam. As you might imagine, she first headed to Ghysbrecht's house. She found him in his garden, sitting in a wheeled chair. He greeted her with a weak but warm voice, and when she asked if it was true that he had seen Gerard since August 5th, he replied, “Not Gerard, but Friar Clement. Yes, I saw him; and blessed be the day he came into my house.”
He then related in his own words his interview with Clement.
He then shared in his own words his conversation with Clement.
He told her, moreover, that the friar had afterwards acknowledged he came to Tergou with the missing deed in his bosom on purpose to make him disgorge her land; but that finding him disposed towards penitence, he had gone to work the other way.
He also told her that the friar later admitted he had come to Tergou with the missing deed hidden in his robe just to force him to give back her land; but when he saw that he was inclined toward repentance, he decided to act differently.
“Was not this a saint; who came to right thee, but must needs save his enemy's soul in the doing it?”
“Wasn’t this a saint who came to help you, but had to save his enemy’s soul while doing it?”
To her question, whether he had recognized him, he said, “I ne'er suspected such a thing. 'Twas only when he had been three days with me that he revealed himself, Listen while I speak my shame and his praise.
To her question about whether he had recognized him, he said, “I never suspected anything like that. It was only after he had spent three days with me that he revealed himself. Listen while I share my shame and his praise.
“I said to him, 'The land is gone home, and my stomach feels lighter; but there is another fault that clingeth to me still;' then told I him of the letter I had writ at request of his brethren, I whose place it was to check them. Said I, 'Yon letter was writ to part two lovers, and the devil aiding, it hath done the foul work. Land and houses I can give back, but yon mischief is done for ever.' 'Nay,' quoth he, 'not for ever, but for life. Repent it then while thou livest.' 'I shall,' said I, 'but how can God forgive it? I would not,' said I, 'were I He.'
"I said to him, 'The land is gone home, and I feel lighter; but there's another issue that still sticks with me;' then I told him about the letter I wrote at the request of his brothers, which I was supposed to check. I said, 'That letter was meant to separate two lovers, and with the devil's help, it has done the dirty work. I can give back the land and houses, but that damage is permanent.' 'No,' he replied, 'not permanent, but for life. Repent it while you can.' 'I will,' I said, 'but how can God forgive it? I wouldn't,' I said, 'if I were Him.'"
“'Yet will He certainly forgive it,' quoth he; 'for He is ten times more forgiving than I am, and I forgive thee.' I stared at him; and then he said softly, but quavering like, 'Ghysbrecht, look at me closer. I am Gerard, the son of Eli.' And I looked, and looked, and at last, lo! it was Gerard. Verily I had fallen at his feet with shame and contrition, but he would not suffer me. 'That became not mine years and his, for a particular fault. I say not I forgive thee without a struggle,' said he, 'not being a saint. But these three days thou hast spent in penitence, I have worn under thy roof in prayer; and I do forgive thee.' Those were his very words.”
“'But He will definitely forgive it,' he said; 'because He is way more forgiving than I am, and I forgive you.' I stared at him, and then he said softly, though his voice trembled, 'Ghysbrecht, look at me more closely. I am Gerard, the son of Eli.' And I looked and looked, and finally, it was really Gerard. I honestly had fallen at his feet in shame and regret, but he wouldn’t let me. 'That wasn't fitting for someone my age and him, because of a specific fault. I don't say I forgive you without a fight,' he said, 'since I’m no saint. But these three days you’ve spent in penitence, I have spent under your roof in prayer; and I do forgive you.' Those were his exact words.”
Margaret's tears began to flow, for it was in a broken and contrite voice the old man told her this unexpected trait in her Gerard. He continued, “And even with that he bade me farewell.
Margaret's tears started to fall, because it was in a broken and remorseful voice that the old man revealed this surprising quality in her Gerard. He went on, “And even with that, he said goodbye to me.
“'My work here is done now,' said he. I had not the heart to stay him; for let him forgive me ever so, the sight of me must be wormwood to him. He left me in peace, and may a dying man's blessing wait on him, go where he will. Oh, girl, when I think of his wrongs, and thine, and how he hath avenged himself by saving this stained soul of mine, my heart is broken with remorse, and these old eyes shed tears by night and day.”
“’My work here is done now,’ he said. I couldn’t bring myself to stop him; no matter how much he forgave me, just seeing me must be incredibly painful for him. He left me in peace, and I hope a dying man’s blessing follows him wherever he goes. Oh, girl, when I think of his wrongs and yours, and how he has taken revenge by saving this tainted soul of mine, my heart is filled with remorse, and these old eyes cry day and night.”
“Ghysbrecht,” said Margaret, weeping, “since he hath forgiven thee, I forgive thee too: what is done, is done; and thou hast let me know this day that which I had walked the world to hear. But oh, burgomaster, thou art an understanding man, now help a poor woman, which hath forgiven thee her misery.”
“Ghysbrecht,” Margaret said, crying, “since he has forgiven you, I forgive you too: what’s done is done; and you've made me aware today of what I’ve traveled the world to learn. But oh, burgomaster, you’re a reasonable man, so please help a poor woman who has forgiven you for her suffering.”
She then told him all that had befallen, “And,” said she, “they will not keep the living for him for ever. He bids fair to lose that, as well as break all our hearts.”
She then told him everything that had happened, “And,” she said, “they won’t keep the living for him forever. He’s likely to lose that, just as well as break all our hearts.”
“Call my servant,” cried the burgomaster, with sudden vigour.
“Call my servant,” shouted the mayor, with sudden energy.
He sent him for a table and writing materials, and dictated letters to the burgomasters in all the principal towns in Holland, and one to a Prussian authority, his friend. His clerk and Margaret wrote them, and he signed them. “There,” said he, “the matter shall be despatched throughout Holland by trusty couriers, and as far as Basle in Switzerland; and fear not, but we will soon have the vicar of Gouda to his village.”
He sent him to get a table and writing supplies, and dictated letters to the mayors in all the major towns in Holland, along with one to a Prussian official, his friend. His clerk and Margaret wrote them down, and he signed them. “There,” he said, “the message will be sent all over Holland by reliable couriers, and as far as Basel in Switzerland; don’t worry, we will have the vicar of Gouda back in his village soon.”
She went home animated with fresh hopes, and accusing herself of ingratitude to Gerard. “I value my wealth now,” said she.
She went home filled with new hopes, and blaming herself for being ungrateful to Gerard. “I appreciate my wealth now,” she said.
She also made a resolution never to blame his conduct till she should hear from his own lips his reason.
She also resolved never to judge his behavior until she heard the reason from him directly.
Not long after her return from Tergou a fresh disaster befell. Catherine, I must premise, had secret interviews with the black sheep, the very day after they were expelled; and Cornelis followed her to Tergou, and lived there on secret contributions, but Sybrandt chose to remain in Rotterdam. Ere Catherine left, she asked Margaret to lend her two gold angels. “For,” said she, “all mine are spent.” Margaret was delighted to lend them or give them; but the words were scarce out of her mouth ere she caught a look of regret and distress on Kate's face, and she saw directly whither her money was going. She gave Catherine the money, and went and shut herself up with her boy. Now this money was to last Sybrandt till his mother could make some good excuse for visiting Rotterdam again, and then she would bring the idle dog some of her own industrious savings.
Not long after she got back from Tergou, another disaster struck. Catherine, I should mention, had secret meetings with the troublemaker, the very day after they were kicked out; and Cornelis followed her to Tergou, living there on hidden donations, but Sybrandt decided to stay in Rotterdam. Before Catherine left, she asked Margaret to lend her two gold angels. “Because,” she said, “I’ve spent all mine.” Margaret was thrilled to lend or even give them; but barely had she finished speaking when she noticed a look of regret and distress on Kate's face, and she immediately understood where her money was going. She gave Catherine the money and went to shut herself in with her boy. Now this money was meant to last Sybrandt until his mother could come up with a good excuse to visit Rotterdam again, and then she would bring the lazy guy some of her own hard-earned savings.
But Sybrandt, having gold in his pocket, thought it inexhaustible: and being now under no shadow of restraint, led the life of a complete sot; until one afternoon, in a drunken frolic, he climbed on the roof of the stable at the inn he was carousing in, and proceeded to walk along it, a feat he had performed many times when sober. But now his unsteady brain made his legs unsteady, and he rolled down the roof and fell with a loud thwack on to an horizontal paling, where he hung a moment in a semicircle; then toppled over and lay silent on the ground, amidst roars of laughter from his boon companions. When they came to pick him up he could not stand; but fell down giggling at each attempt.
But Sybrandt, having gold in his pocket, thought it was endless: and now free from any constraints, he lived like a complete drunk; until one afternoon, in a drunken spree, he climbed onto the roof of the stable at the inn where he was partying, and tried to walk on it, something he had done many times when sober. But now his unsteady mind made his legs wobble, and he rolled off the roof, landing with a loud thud on a horizontal fence, where he hung for a moment in a semicircle; then he tipped over and lay still on the ground, amidst the laughter of his friends. When they tried to pick him up, he couldn't stand; he just kept falling down and giggling at every attempt.
On this they went staggering and roaring down the street with him, and carried him at great risk of another fall to the shop in the Hoog Straet. For he had babbled his own shame all over the place.
On this, they went stumbling and shouting down the street with him, and carried him at great risk of another fall to the shop on Hoog Straet. For he had spilled his own shame everywhere.
As soon as he saw Margaret he hiccupped out, “Here is the doctor that cures all hurts, a bonny lass.” He also bade her observe he bore her no malice, for he was paying her a visit sore against his will. “Wherefore, prithee send away these drunkards, and let you and me have t'other glass, to drown all unkindness.”
As soon as he saw Margaret, he hiccuped, “Here’s the doctor who fixes all wounds, a pretty girl.” He also told her to note that he held no grudge against her since he was visiting her against his wishes. “So please, send these drunkards away, and let’s have another drink together to put all unkindness aside.”
All this time Margaret was pale and red by turns at sight of her enemy and at his insolence; but one of the men whispered what had happened, and a streaky something in Sybrandt's face arrested her attention.
All this time, Margaret was alternating between looking pale and flushed at the sight of her enemy and his arrogance; but one of the men whispered what had happened, and something streaky on Sybrandt's face caught her attention.
“And he cannot stand up, say you?”
“And he can’t stand up, you say?”
“A couldn't just now. Try, comrade! Be a man now!”
“A couldn't just now. Come on, buddy! Step it up!”
“I am a better man than thou,” roared Sybrandt. “I'll stand up and fight ye all for a crown.”
“I’m a better man than you,” shouted Sybrandt. “I’ll stand up and fight all of you for a crown.”
He started to his feet, and instantly rolled into his attendant's arms with a piteous groan. He then began to curse his boon companions, and declare they had stolen away his legs. “He could feel nothing below the waist.”
He jumped to his feet and immediately fell into his attendant's arms with a painful groan. Then he started to curse his so-called friends, claiming they had taken his legs. “He couldn't feel anything below the waist.”
“Alas, poor wretch,” said Margaret. She turned very gravely to the men, and said, “Leave him here. And if you have brought him to this, go on your knees, for you have spoiled him for life. He will never walk again; his back is broken.”
“Alas, poor thing,” said Margaret. She turned very seriously to the men and said, “Leave him here. And if you’ve done this to him, get on your knees, because you’ve ruined his life. He’ll never walk again; his back is broken.”
The drunken man caught these words, and the foolish look of intoxication fled, and a glare of anguish took its place. “The curse,” he groaned; “the curse!”
The drunk man heard these words, and the foolish expression from the alcohol faded, replaced by a look of deep pain. “The curse,” he groaned; “the curse!”
Margaret and Reicht Heynes carried him carefully, and laid him on the softest bed.
Margaret and Reicht Heynes carefully carried him and placed him on the softest bed.
“I must do as he would do,” whispered Margaret. “He was kind to Ghysbrecht.”
“I have to do what he would do,” whispered Margaret. “He was nice to Ghysbrecht.”
Her opinion was verified, Sybrandt's spine was fatally injured; and he lay groaning and helpless, fed and tended by her he had so deeply injured.
Her opinion was confirmed; Sybrandt's spine was severely injured, and he lay there, groaning and helpless, cared for by the person he had hurt so deeply.
The news was sent to Tergou, and Catherine came over.
The news was sent to Tergou, and Catherine came over.
It was a terrible blow to her. Moreover, she accused herself as the cause. “Oh, false wife; oh, weak mother,” she cried, “I am rightly punished for my treason to my poor Eli.”
It was a devastating blow to her. On top of that, she blamed herself for it. “Oh, deceitful wife; oh, feeble mother,” she cried, “I deserve this punishment for my betrayal of my poor Eli.”
She sat for hours at a time by his bedside rocking herself in silence, and was never quite herself again; and the first grey hairs began to come in her poor head from that hour.
She sat for hours by his bedside, rocking herself in silence, and she was never quite herself again; the first gray hairs started to appear in her poor head from that moment.
As for Sybrandt, all his cry was now for Gerard, He used to whine to Margaret like a suffering hound, “Oh, sweet Margaret, oh, bonny Margaret, for our Lady's sake find Gerard, and bid him take his curse off me. Thou art gentle, thou art good; thou wilt entreat for me, and he will refuse thee nought.”
As for Sybrandt, all he could do was call out for Gerard. He would moan to Margaret like a hurt dog, “Oh, sweet Margaret, oh, lovely Margaret, for the love of our Lady, please find Gerard and ask him to lift this curse off me. You are kind, you are good; you will plead for me, and he won’t turn you down.”
Catherine shared his belief that Gerard could cure him, and joined her entreaties to his, Margaret hardly needed this. The burgomaster and his agents having failed, she employed her own, and spent money like water. And among these agents poor Luke enrolled himself. She met him one day looking very thin, and spoke to him compassionately. On this he began to blubber, and say he was more miserable than ever; he would like to be good friends again upon almost any terms.
Catherine believed that Gerard could help him, and she added her pleas to his. Margaret barely needed this. After the burgomaster and his agents had failed, she decided to take matters into her own hands and spent money freely. Among these agents, poor Luke found himself involved. She ran into him one day, looking very skinny, and spoke to him with compassion. This made him start to cry and say he was more miserable than ever; he just wanted to be good friends again on almost any terms.
“Dear heart,” said Margaret sorrowfully, “why can you not say to yourself, now I am her little brother, and she is my old, married sister, worn down with care? Say so, and I will indulge thee, and pet thee, and make thee happier than a prince.”
“Dear heart,” said Margaret sadly, “why can’t you just tell yourself, now I'm her little brother, and she’s my old, married sister, tired from all the responsibilities? Just say that, and I’ll spoil you, and pamper you, and make you happier than a prince.”
“Well, I will,” said Luke savagely, “sooner than keep away from you altogether. But above all give me something to do. Perchance I may have better luck this time.”
“Well, I will,” Luke said fiercely, “sooner than stay away from you completely. But above all, give me something to do. Maybe I'll have better luck this time.”
“Get me my marriage lines,” said Margaret, turning sad and gloomy in a moment.
“Bring me my marriage lines,” said Margaret, her expression shifting to sadness and gloom in an instant.
“That is as much as to say, get me him! for where they are, he is.”
"That's basically saying, go get him! Because wherever they are, he is."
“Not so. He may refuse to come nigh me; but certes he will not deny a poor woman, who loved him once, her lines of betrothal. How can she go without them into any honest man's house?”
“Not at all. He might refuse to come close to me, but he certainly won’t deny a poor woman, who once loved him, her engagement lines. How can she go into any decent man's house without them?”
“I'll get them you if they are in Holland,” said Luke.
“I'll get them for you if they're in Holland,” said Luke.
“They are as like to be in Rome,” replied Margaret.
“They are just as likely to be in Rome,” replied Margaret.
“Let us begin with Holland,” observed Luke prudently.
“Let’s start with Holland,” Luke said wisely.
The slave of love was furnished with money by his soft tyrant, and wandered hither and thither, Coopering, and carpentering, and looking for Gerard. “I can't be worse if I find the vagabone,” said he, “and I may be a hantle better.”
The love-struck man was given money by his gentle master and wandered around everywhere, doing odd jobs like coopering and carpentry, while searching for Gerard. “I can't be worse off if I find that scoundrel,” he said, “and I might be a lot better.”
The months rolled on, and Sybrandt improved in spirit, but not in body; he was Margaret's pensioner for life; and a long-expected sorrow fell upon poor Catherine, and left her still more bowed down; and she lost her fine hearty bustling way, and never went about the house singing now; and her nerves were shaken, and she lived in dread of some terrible misfortune falling on Cornelis. The curse was laid on him as well as Sybrandt. She prayed Eli, if she had been a faithful partner all these years, to take Cornelis into his house again, and let her live awhile at Rotterdam.
The months went by, and Sybrandt felt better emotionally, but not physically; he was Margaret's dependent for life. A long-anticipated grief struck poor Catherine, leaving her even more weighed down. She lost her vibrant, energetic spirit and stopped singing around the house. Her nerves were frayed, and she lived in constant fear of something terrible happening to Cornelis. The same misfortune seemed to shadow him as well as Sybrandt. She prayed to Eli, asking that if she had been a loyal partner all these years, he would take Cornelis back into his home and allow her to stay in Rotterdam for a while.
“I have good daughters here,” said she; “but Margaret is so tender, and thoughtful, and the little Gerard, he is my joy; he grows liker his father every day, and his prattle cheers my heavy heart; and I do love children.”
“I have great daughters here,” she said; “but Margaret is so caring and considerate, and little Gerard, he brings me so much joy; he resembles his father more with each passing day, and his chatter brightens my heavy heart; and I really love kids.”
And Eli, sturdy but kindly, consented sorrowfully.
And Eli, strong yet gentle, agreed with a heavy heart.
And the people of Gouda petitioned the duke for a vicar, a real vicar. “Ours cometh never nigh us,” said they, “this six months past; our children they die unchristened, and our folk unburied, except by some chance comer.” Giles' influence baffled this just complaint once; but a second petition was prepared, and he gave Margaret little hope that the present position could be maintained a single day.
And the people of Gouda asked the duke for a vicar, a real vicar. “Ours hasn’t been near us for the last six months,” they said, “our children are dying unbaptized, and our people are left unburied, except by some stranger passing through.” Giles managed to block this reasonable request once, but a second petition was set up, and he gave Margaret little hope that the current situation could last even one more day.
So then Margaret went sorrowfully to the pretty manse to see it for the last time, ere it should pass for ever into stranger's hands.
So Margaret went sadly to the beautiful house to see it one last time before it passed forever into someone else's hands.
“I think he would have been happy here,” she said, and turned heart-sick away.
“I think he would have been happy here,” she said, and turned away, feeling heartbroken.
On their return, Reicht Heynes proposed to her to go and consult the hermit.
On their way back, Reicht Heynes suggested that she go see the hermit.
“What,” said Margaret, “Joan has been at you. She is the one for hermits. I'll go, if 'tis but to show thee they know no more than we do.” And they went to the cave.
“What,” said Margaret, “Joan has been bothering you. She's perfect for hermits. I'll go, even if it's just to prove they know no more than we do.” And they went to the cave.
It was an excavation partly natural, partly artificial, in a bank of rock overgrown by brambles. There was a rough stone door on hinges, and a little window high up, and two apertures, through one of which the people announced their gifts to the hermit, and put questions of all sorts to him; and when he chose to answer, his voice came dissonant and monstrous out at another small aperture.
It was a mix of natural and man-made digging into a rock bank covered in brambles. There was a rough stone door on hinges, a small window up high, and two openings—one where people announced their gifts to the hermit and asked him all kinds of questions; when he decided to respond, his voice came out distorted and strange through another small opening.
On the face of the rock this line was cut—
On the surface of the rock, this line was carved—
Felix qui in Domino nixus ab orbe fugit.
Felix, who relies on the Lord, flees from the world.
Margaret observed to her companion that this was new since she was here last.
Margaret remarked to her friend that this was new since she was here last.
“Ay,” said Reicht, “like enough;” and looked up at it with awe. Writing even on paper she thought no trifle; but on rock! She whispered, “Tis a far holier hermit than the last; he used to come in the town now and then, but this one ne'er shows his face to mortal man.”
“Yeah,” said Reicht, “sounds about right;” and looked up at it in awe. Writing even on paper seemed significant to her; but on rock! She whispered, “This is a much holier hermit than the last; he used to come into town now and then, but this one never shows his face to anyone.”
“And that is holiness?”
"Is that what holiness is?"
“Ay, sure.”
"Yeah, sure."
“Then what a saint a dormouse must be?”
“Then what a saint must a dormouse be?”
“Out, fie, mistress. Would ye even a beast to a man?”
“Get out, you fiend. Would you really compare a beast to a man?”
“Come, Reicht,” said Margaret, “my poor father taught me overmuch, So I will e'en sit here, and look at the manse once more. Go thou forward and question thy solitary, and tell me whether ye get nought or nonsense out of him, for 'twill be one.”
“Come on, Reicht,” said Margaret, “my poor father taught me too much, so I’ll just sit here and look at the manse one more time. You go ahead and ask your solitary, and let me know if you get anything useful or just nonsense from him, because it’ll be one or the other.”
As Reicht drew near the cave a number of birds flew out of it., She gave a little scream, and pointed to the cave to show Margaret they had come thence, On this Margaret felt sure there was no human being in the cave, and gave the matter no further attention, She fell into a deep reverie while looking at the little manse.
As Reicht approached the cave, several birds flew out. She let out a small scream and pointed to the cave to show Margaret where they had come from. At this, Margaret was certain that there was no one inside the cave, and she didn't think about it any further. She fell into a deep daydream while gazing at the little manse.
She was startled from it by Reicht's hand upon her shoulder, and a faint voice saying, “Let us go home.”
She was jolted out of it by Reicht's hand on her shoulder and a soft voice saying, “Let’s go home.”
“You got no answer at all, Reicht,” said Margaret calmly.
“You didn't answer at all, Reicht,” Margaret said calmly.
“No, Margaret,” said Reicht despondently. And they returned home.
“No, Margaret,” Reicht said sadly. And they went home.
Perhaps after all Margaret had nourished some faint secret hope in her heart, though her reason had rejected it, for she certainly went home more dejectedly.
Perhaps, after all, Margaret had held some faint secret hope inside her, even though her mind had dismissed it, because she certainly went home feeling more downcast.
Just as they entered Rotterdam, Reicht said, “Stay! Oh, Margaret, I am ill at deceit; but 'tis death to utter ill news to thee; I love thee so dear.”
Just as they entered Rotterdam, Reicht said, “Wait! Oh, Margaret, I’m terrible at lying; but it feels like death to tell you bad news; I care about you so much.”
“Speak out, sweetheart,” said Margaret. “I have gone through so much, I am almost past feeling any fresh trouble.”
“Speak up, sweetheart,” said Margaret. “I’ve been through so much that I’m almost beyond feeling any new pain.”
“Margaret, the hermit did speak to me.”
“Margaret, the hermit talked to me.”
“What, a hermit there? among all those birds.”
“What, a hermit there? Among all those birds?”
“Ay; and doth not that show him a holy man?”
“Aya; and doesn't that show he's a holy man?”
“I' God's name, what said he to thee, Reicht?”
“I swear to God, what did he say to you, Reicht?”
“Alas! Margaret, I told him thy story, and I prayed him for our Lady's sake tell me where thy Gerard is, And I waited long for an answer, and presently a voice came like a trumpet: 'Pray for the soul of Gerard the son of Eli!”
“Unfortunately! Margaret, I shared your story with him, and I begged him for our Lady's sake to tell me where your Gerard is. I waited for a long time for an answer, and then a voice came like a trumpet: 'Pray for the soul of Gerard the son of Eli!'”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“Oh, woe is me that I have this to tell thee, sweet Margaret! bethink thee thou hast thy boy to live for yet.”
“Oh, woe is me that I have this to tell you, sweet Margaret! Remember, you still have your boy to live for.”
“Let me get home,” said Margaret faintly.
“Let me get home,” said Margaret weakly.
Passing down the Brede Kirk Straet they saw Joan at the door. Reicht said to her, “Eh, woman, she has been to your hermit, and heard no good news.”
Passing down the Brede Kirk Straet, they saw Joan at the door. Reicht said to her, “Hey, woman, she’s been to your hermit and didn’t hear any good news.”
“Come in,” said Joan, eager for a gossip.
“Come in,” said Joan, excited for some gossip.
Margaret would not go in; but she sat down disconsolate on the lowest step but one of the little external staircase that led into Joan's house, and let the other two gossip their fill at the top of it.
Margaret wouldn’t go in; instead, she sat down sadly on the second-to-last step of the small outdoor staircase leading into Joan's house and let the other two chat away at the top.
“Oh,” said Joan, “what yon hermit says is sure to be sooth, He is that holy, I am told, that the very birds consort with him.”
“Oh,” said Joan, “what that hermit says is definitely true. I’ve heard he’s so holy that even the birds hang out with him.”
“What does that prove?” said Margaret deprecatingly. “I have seen my Gerard tame the birds in winter till they would eat from his hand.”
“What does that prove?” Margaret said dismissively. “I’ve seen my Gerard tame the birds in winter so they would eat from his hand.”
A look of pity at this parallel passed between the other two, but they were both too fond of her to say what they thought.
A glance of sympathy at this similarity exchanged between the other two, but they both cared for her too much to express what they were thinking.
Joan proceeded to relate all the marvellous tales she had heard of this hermit's sanctity; how he never came out but at night, and prayed among the wolves, and they never molested him; and now he bade the people not bring him so much food to pamper his body, but to bring him candles.
Joan went on to share all the amazing stories she had heard about this hermit's holiness; how he only came out at night and prayed among the wolves, who never bothered him; and now he told the people not to bring him so much food to indulge his body, but to bring him candles.
“The candles are to burn before his saint,” whispered Reicht solemnly.
“The candles are to burn before his saint,” Reicht whispered solemnly.
“Ay, lass; and to read his holy books wi'. A neighbour o' mine saw his hand come out, and the birds sat thereon and pecked crumbs. She went for to kiss it, but the holy man whippit it away in a trice. They can't abide a woman to touch 'en, or even look at 'em, saints can't.”
“Aye, girl; and to read his holy books with. A neighbor of mine saw his hand come out, and the birds sat on it and pecked at crumbs. She went to kiss it, but the holy man quickly pulled it away. They can’t stand a woman touching them, or even looking at them, saints can’t.”
“What like was his hand, wife? Did you ask her?”
“What was his hand like, wife? Did you ask her?”
“What is my tongue for, else? Why, dear heart, all one as yourn; by the same token a had a thumb and four fingers.”
“What is my tongue for, then? Well, sweetheart, just like yours; by the same token, I have a thumb and four fingers.”
“Look ye there now.”
"Look over there now."
“But a deal whiter nor yourn and mine.”
“But a deal whiter than yours and mine.”
“Ay, ay.”
"Aye, aye."
“And main skinny.”
“And main skinny.”
“Alas.”
"Unfortunately."
“What could ye expect? Why, a live upon air, and prayer, and candles.”
“What did you expect? Living on air, prayer, and candles.”
“Ah, well,” continued Joan; “poor thing, I whiles think 'tis best for her to know the worst. And now she hath gotten a voice from heaven, Or almost as good, and behoves her pray for his soul. One thing, she is not so poor now as she was; and never fell riches to a better hand; and she is only come into her own for that matter, so she can pay the priest to say masses for him, and that is a great comfort.”
“Ah, well,” continued Joan; “poor thing, I sometimes think it's best for her to know the worst. And now she’s heard a voice from heaven, or something pretty close, so she needs to pray for his soul. One thing’s for sure, she isn’t as poor as she used to be, and no one deserves the riches more than she does; she’s finally gotten what’s rightfully hers, so she can pay the priest to say masses for him, and that’s a huge comfort.”
In the midst of their gossip, Margaret, in whose ears it was all buzzing, though she seemed lost in thought, got softly up, and crept away with her eyes on the ground, and her brows bent.
In the middle of their gossip, Margaret, whose ears were buzzing with it all, got up quietly, even though she looked lost in thought, and slipped away with her eyes on the ground and her brows furrowed.
“She hath forgotten I am with her,” said Reicht Heynes ruefully.
“She has forgotten I’m here,” said Reicht Heynes sadly.
She had her gossip out with Joan, and then went home.
She had her chat with Joan, and then went home.
She found Margaret seated cutting out a pelisse of grey cloth, and a cape to match. Little Gerard was standing at her side, inside her left arm, eyeing the work, and making it more difficult by wriggling about, and fingering the arm with which she held the cloth steady, to all which she submitted with imperturbable patience and complacency, Fancy a male workman so entangled, impeded, worried!
She found Margaret sitting and cutting out a grey cloth coat and a matching cape. Little Gerard was standing beside her, under her left arm, watching her work and making it harder by squirming around and tugging at the arm she was using to hold the fabric steady. She dealt with all of this with unshakable patience and good humor. Just imagine a male worker being so tangled up, hindered, and bothered!
“Ot's that, mammy?”
"What's that, mom?"
“A pelisse, my pet.”
“A coat, my dear.”
“Ot's a p'lisse?”
"Is it a police?"
“A great frock. And this is the cape to't.”
“A great dress. And here's the matching cape.”
“Ot's it for?”
"What’s it for?"
“To keep his body from the cold; and the cape is for his shoulders, or to go over his head like the country folk. 'Tis for a hermit.”
“To keep his body warm; and the cape is for his shoulders, or to go over his head like the locals. It’s for a hermit.”
“Ot's a 'ermit?”
"Is it a 'erm?"
“A holy man that lives in a cave all by himself.”
“A holy man who lives alone in a cave.”
“In de dark?”
"In the dark?"
“Ay, whiles.”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
In the morning Reicht was sent to the hermit with the pelisse, and a pound of thick candles.
In the morning, Reicht was sent to the hermit with the coat and a pound of thick candles.
As she was going out of the door Margaret said to her, “Said you whose son Gerard was?”
As she was walking out the door, Margaret said to her, “Whose son did you say Gerard was?”
“Nay, not I.”
“No, not me.”
“Think, girl! How could he call him Gerard, son of Eli, if you had not told him?”
“Think, girl! How could he call him Gerard, son of Eli, if you hadn't told him?”
Reicht persisted she had never mentioned him but as plain Gerard. But Margaret told her flatly she did not believe her; at which Reicht was affronted, and went out with a little toss of the head. However, she determined to question the hermit again, and did not doubt he would be more liberal in his communication when he saw his nice new pelisse and the candles.
Reicht insisted she had only referred to him as plain Gerard. But Margaret told her bluntly that she didn’t believe her, which offended Reicht, and she left with a slight toss of her head. Nevertheless, she decided to ask the hermit again, believing he would be more open in his answers when he saw her nice new coat and the candles.
She had not been gone long when Giles came in with ill news.
She hadn't been gone long when Giles came in with bad news.
The living of Gouda would be kept vacant no longer.
The position in Gouda would not remain unfilled any longer.
Margaret was greatly distressed at this.
Margaret was very upset about this.
“Oh, Giles,” said she, “ask for another month. They will give thee another month, maybe.”
“Oh, Giles,” she said, “ask for another month. They might give you another month, maybe.”
He returned in an hour to tell her he could not get a month.
He came back in an hour to tell her he couldn't get a month.
“They have given me a week,” said he. “And what is a week?”
“They’ve given me a week,” he said. “And what is a week?”
“Drowning bodies catch at strawen,” was her reply. “A week? a little week?”
“Drowning people grab at straws,” was her reply. “A week? Just a little week?”
Reicht came back from her errand out of spirits. Her oracle had declined all further communication. So at least its obstinate silence might fairly be interpreted.
Reicht returned from her errand feeling down. Her oracle had stopped all further communication. So at least its stubborn silence could be understood that way.
The next day Margaret put Reicht in charge of the shop, and disappeared all day. So the next day, and so the next. Nor would she tell any one where she had been. Perhaps she was ashamed. The fact is, she spent all those days on one little spot of ground. When they thought her dreaming, she was applying to every word that fell from Joan and Reicht the whole powers of a far acuter mind than either of them possessed.
The next day, Margaret put Reicht in charge of the shop and vanished all day. This continued for the following days as well. She wouldn’t tell anyone where she had gone. Maybe she was embarrassed. The truth is, she spent all those days in one small spot. When they thought she was daydreaming, she was using every word that came from Joan and Reicht to engage the much sharper mind she had, far beyond what either of them had.
She went to work on a scale that never occurred to either of them. She was determined to see the hermit, and question him face to face, not through a wall. She found that by making a circuit she could get above the cave, and look down without being seen by the solitary. But when she came to do it, she found an impenetrable mass of brambles. After tearing her clothes, and her hands and feet, so that she was soon covered with blood, the resolute, patient girl took out her scissors and steadily snipped and cut till she made a narrow path through the enemy. But so slow was the work that she had to leave it half done. The next day she had her scissors fresh ground, and brought a sharp knife as well, and gently, silently, cut her way to the roof of the cave. There she made an ambush of some of the cut brambles, so that the passers-by might not see her, and couched with watchful eye till the hermit should come out. She heard him move underneath her. But he never left his cell. She began to think it was true that he only came out at night.
She went to work on a level that neither of them had ever imagined. She was determined to see the hermit and question him face to face, not through a wall. She figured out that by taking a circuitous route, she could get above the cave and look down without being seen by the hermit. But when she tried to do it, she encountered an impenetrable thicket of brambles. After tearing her clothes and injuring her hands and feet so that she was soon covered in blood, the determined, patient girl took out her scissors and steadily snipped and cut until she made a narrow path through the obstacles. But the work was so slow that she had to leave it half finished. The next day, she had her scissors sharpened and brought a sharp knife as well, and quietly, quietly cut her way to the top of the cave. There, she made a hideout from some of the cut brambles so that passers-by wouldn’t see her, and lay in wait with a watchful eye until the hermit would come out. She heard him move below her, but he never left his cell. She began to think it was true that he only came out at night.
The next day she came early and brought a jerkin she was making for little Gerard, and there she sat all day, working, and watching with dogged patience.
The next day she arrived early and brought a vest she was making for little Gerard, and there she sat all day, working and keeping a close watch with determined patience.
At four o'clock the birds began to feed; and a great many of the smaller kinds came fluttering round the cave, and one or two went in. But most of them, taking a preliminary seat on the bushes, suddenly discovered Margaret, and went off with an agitated flirt of their little wings. And although they sailed about in the air, they would not enter the cave. Presently, to encourage them, the hermit, all unconscious of the cause of their tremors, put out a thin white hand with a few crumbs in it, Margaret laid down her work softly, and gliding her body forward like a snake, looked down at it from above; it was but a few feet from her. It was as the woman described it, a thin, white hand.
At four o'clock, the birds started to feed, and many of the smaller ones fluttered around the cave, with a couple even flying inside. Most of them, however, perched on the bushes and suddenly spotted Margaret, which made them take off nervously, flapping their tiny wings. Even though they flew around in the air, they refused to enter the cave. To encourage them, the hermit, completely unaware of why they were scared, extended a thin white hand holding a few crumbs. Margaret quietly set down her work and, gliding forward like a snake, leaned over to look down at it; it was only a few feet away. Just as the woman had described, it was a thin, white hand.
Presently the other hand came out with a piece of bread, and the two hands together broke it and scattered the crumbs.
Currently, the other hand came out with a piece of bread, and the two hands together broke it apart and scattered the crumbs.
But that other hand had hardly been out two seconds ere the violet eyes that were watching above dilated; and the gentle bosom heaved, and the whole frame quivered like a leaf in the wind.
But that other hand had barely been out for two seconds when the violet eyes watching above widened, and the gentle chest rose and fell, and the whole body trembled like a leaf in the wind.
What her swift eye had seen I leave the reader to guess. She suppressed the scream that rose to her lips, but the effort cost her dear. Soon the left hand of the hermit began to swim indistinctly before her gloating eyes; and with a deep sigh her head drooped, and she lay like a broken lily.
What her quick eye had seen, I'll let the reader figure out. She held back the scream that wanted to escape her lips, but it took a toll on her. Soon the hermit's left hand started to blur in front of her eager eyes; with a deep sigh, her head fell, and she lay there like a wilted lily.
She was in a deep swoon, to which perhaps her long fast to-day and the agitation and sleeplessness of many preceding days contributed.
She was in a deep faint, likely because of her long fast today and the anxiety and lack of sleep from many days before.
And there lay beauty, intelligence, and constancy, pale and silent, And little that hermit guessed who was so near him. The little birds hopped on her now, and one nearly entangled his little feet in her rich auburn hair.
And there was beauty, intelligence, and loyalty, pale and quiet, And little did that hermit realize who was so close to him. The little birds hopped on her now, and one almost got its tiny feet tangled in her beautiful auburn hair.
She came back to her troubles. The sun was set. She was very cold, She cried a little, but I think it was partly from the remains of physical weakness. And then she went home, praying God and the saints to enlighten her and teach her what to do for the best.
She returned to her worries. The sun had set. She felt really cold. She cried a little, but I think it was partly because she was still physically weak. Then she went home, praying to God and the saints to guide her and show her the best course of action.
When she got home she was pale and hysterical, and would say nothing in answer to all their questions but her favourite word, “We are wading in deep waters.”
When she got home, she was pale and frantic, and would say nothing in response to all their questions except her favorite phrase, “We are wading in deep waters.”
The night seemed to have done wonders for her.
The night seemed to have worked wonders for her.
She came to Catherine, who was sitting sighing by the fireside, and kissed her, and said—
She walked over to Catherine, who was sitting there sighing by the fireplace, kissed her, and said—
“Mother, what would you like best in the world?”
“Mom, what would you like the most in the world?”
“Eh, dear,” replied Catherine despondently, “I know nought that would make me smile now; I have parted from too many that were dear to me. Gerard lost again as soon as found; Kate in heaven; and Sybrandt down for life.”
“Eh, dear,” replied Catherine sadly, “I don’t know anything that could make me smile right now; I’ve lost too many people I cared about. Gerard is gone again as soon as I found him; Kate is in heaven; and Sybrandt is down for life.”
“Poor mother! Mother dear, Gouda manse is to be furnished, and cleaned, and made ready all in a hurry, See, here be ten gold angels. Make them go far, good mother; for I have ta'en over many already from my boy for a set of useless loons that were aye going to find him for me.”
“Poor mom! Mom, the Gouda house needs to be furnished, cleaned, and prepared quickly. Look, here are ten gold coins. Make them stretch, please; I've already borrowed a lot from my son for a bunch of useless things that were supposed to help find him.”
Catherine and Reicht stared at her a moment in silence, and then out burst a flood of questions, to none of which would she give a reply. “Nay,” said she, “I have lain on my bed and thought, and thought, and thought whiles you were all sleeping; and methinks I have got the clue to all, I love you, dear mother; but I'll trust no woman's tongue. If I fail this time, I'll have none to blame but Margaret Brandt.”
Catherine and Reicht stared at her for a moment in silence, and then a flood of questions burst out, to which she didn’t respond. "No," she said, "I've been lying on my bed thinking over and over while you were all sleeping, and I think I’ve figured it all out. I love you, dear mother; but I won't trust any woman’s word. If I fail this time, I’ll have no one to blame but Margaret Brandt."
A resolute woman is a very resolute thing. And there was a deep, dogged determination in Margaret's voice and brow that at once convinced Catherine it would be idle to put any more questions at that time, She and Reicht lost themselves in conjectures; and Catherine whispered Reicht, “Bide quiet; then 'twill leak out;” a shrewd piece of advice, founded on general observation.
A determined woman is a very powerful thing. There was a strong, unwavering determination in Margaret's voice and expression that immediately made Catherine realize it would be pointless to ask any more questions right then. She and Reicht got lost in their speculations, and Catherine whispered to Reicht, “Just stay quiet; then it will come out eventually,” a clever piece of advice based on general observation.
Within an hour Catherine was on the road to Gouda in a cart, with two stout girls to help her, and quite a siege artillery of mops, and pails, and brushes, She came back with heightened colour, and something of the old sparkle in her eye, and kissed Margaret with a silent warmth that spoke volumes, and at five in the morning was off again to Gouda.
Within an hour, Catherine was on the road to Gouda in a cart, accompanied by two sturdy girls to help her and a whole lot of mops, pails, and brushes. She returned with a rosy complexion and a hint of her old sparkle in her eye, kissing Margaret with a silent warmth that said everything, and at five in the morning, she headed back to Gouda again.
That night as Reicht was in her first sleep a hand gently pressed her shoulder, and she awoke, and was going to scream, “Whisht,” said Margaret, and put her finger to her lips.
That night, while Reicht was in a deep sleep, a hand gently pressed on her shoulder, waking her up. She was about to scream when Margaret said, “Shh,” and put her finger to her lips.
She then whispered, “Rise softly, don thy habits, and come with me!”
She then whispered, “Get up quietly, put on your clothes, and come with me!”
When she came down, Margaret begged her to loose Dragon and bring him along. Now Dragon was a great mastiff, who had guarded Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht, two lone women, for some years, and was devotedly attached to the latter.
When she came down, Margaret begged her to let Dragon go and bring him along. Dragon was a big mastiff who had looked after Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht, two solitary women, for several years, and was deeply devoted to Reicht.
Margaret and Reicht went out, with Dragon walking majestically behind them. They came back long after midnight, and retired to rest.
Margaret and Reicht went out, with Dragon walking proudly behind them. They returned long after midnight and went to bed.
Catherine never knew.
Catherine never found out.
Margaret read her friends: she saw the sturdy, faithful Frisian could hold her tongue, and Catherine could not. Yet I am not sure she would have trusted even Reicht had her nerve equalled her spirit; but with all her daring and resolution, she was a tender, timid woman, a little afraid of the dark, very afraid of being alone in it, and desperately afraid of wolves. Now Dragon could kill a wolf in a brace of shakes; but then Dragon would not go with her, but only with Reicht; so altogether she made one confidante.
Margaret knew her friends well: she realized that the solid, loyal Frisian could keep a secret, while Catherine could not. Still, I'm not sure she would have trusted even Reicht if her courage matched her spirit; despite all her boldness and determination, she was a sensitive, shy woman, a little scared of the dark, very anxious about being alone in it, and extremely fearful of wolves. Now, Dragon could take down a wolf in no time; but Dragon would only go with Reicht, not with her, so in the end, she had just one confidante.
The next night they made another moonlight reconnaissance, and as I think, with some result. For not the next night (it rained that night and extinguished their courage), but the next after they took with them a companion, the last in the world Reicht Heynes would have thought of; yet she gave her warm approval as soon as she was told he was to go with them.
The next night, they went out again for a moonlit reconnaissance, and I believe it was somewhat successful. Not the following night (it rained that night and dampened their spirits), but the night after, they brought along a companion, someone Reicht Heynes would have never imagined joining them; yet she expressed her full support as soon as she found out he was going with them.
Imagine how these stealthy assailants trembled and panted when the moment of action came; imagine, if you can, the tumult in Margaret's breast, the thrilling hopes, chasing, and chased by sickening fears; the strange and perhaps unparalleled mixture of tender familiarity and distant awe with which a lovely and high-spirited, but tender, adoring woman, wife in the eye of the Law, and no wife in the eye of the Church, trembling, blushing, paling, glowing, shivering, stole at night, noiseless as the dew, upon the hermit of Gouda.
Imagine how these sneaky attackers shook and breathed heavily when the moment of action arrived; picture, if you can, the turmoil in Margaret's chest, the exciting hopes, running alongside sickening fears; the strange and maybe unmatched mix of affectionate familiarity and distant respect with which a beautiful and spirited, yet gentle, loving woman, a wife in the eyes of the law, but not a wife in the eyes of the church, trembling, blushing, paling, glowing, shivering, quietly approached at night, as silent as the dew, the hermit of Gouda.
And the stars above seemed never so bright and calm.
And the stars above seemed brighter and calmer than ever.
CHAPTER XCII
Yes, the hermit of Gouda was the vicar of Gouda, and knew it not, so absolute was his seclusion.
Yes, the hermit of Gouda was the vicar of Gouda, and he didn’t even realize it, so complete was his isolation.
My reader is aware that the moment the frenzy of his passion passed, he was seized with remorse for having been betrayed into it. But perhaps only those who have risen as high in religious spirit as he had, and suddenly fallen, can realize the terror at himself that took possession of him. He felt like one whom self-confidence had betrayed to the very edge of a precipice.
My reader knows that once the excitement of his passion faded, he was overwhelmed with regret for having let himself get carried away. But maybe only those who have reached such heights of spiritual fervor as he did, and then suddenly plummeted, can truly understand the fear he felt about himself. He felt like someone whose confidence had led them right to the edge of a cliff.
“Ah, good Jerome,” he cried, “how much better you knew me than I knew myself! How bitter yet wholesome was your admonition!”
“Ah, good Jerome,” he exclaimed, “how much better you understood me than I understood myself! How harsh yet beneficial was your advice!”
Accustomed to search his own heart, he saw at once that the true cause of his fury was Margaret. “I love her then better than God,” said he despairingly; “better than the Church, From such a love what can spring to me, or to her?” He shuddered at the thought. “Let the strong battle temptation; 'tis for the weak to flee. And who is weaker than I have shown myself? What is my penitence, my religion? A pack of cards built by degrees into a fair-seeming structure; and lo! one breath of earthly love, and it lies in the dust, I must begin again, and on a surer foundation.” He resolved to leave Holland at once, and spend years of his life in some distant convent before returning to it. By that time the temptations of earthly passion would be doubly baffled; and older and a better monk, he should be more master of his earthly affections, and Margaret, seeing herself abandoned, would marry, and love another, The very anguish this last thought cost him showed the self-searcher and self-denier that he was on the path of religious duty.
Accustomed to examining his own feelings, he realized immediately that the real reason for his anger was Margaret. “I love her more than God,” he said in despair; “more than the Church. What can come from such a love for me or for her?” He shuddered at the idea. “Let the strong fight temptation; it's for the weak to run away. And who is weaker than I’ve shown myself to be? What is my repentance, my faith? A house of cards built up gradually into a nice-looking structure; and look! One breath of earthly love, and it crumbles to dust. I have to start over, and on a stronger foundation.” He decided to leave Holland immediately and spend years in some faraway convent before returning. By that time, the temptations of earthly desire would be even more manageable; and as an older, better monk, he would have more control over his earthly feelings. Meanwhile, Margaret, seeing him gone, would marry someone else and love another. The pain this last thought caused him revealed to the introspective and self-denying man that he was on the path of religious duty.
But in leaving her for his immortal good and hers, he was not to neglect her temporal weal. Indeed, the sweet thought, he could make her comfortable for life, and rich in this world's goods, which she was not bound to despise, sustained him in the bitter struggle it cost him to turn his back on her without one kind word or look, “Oh, what will she think of me?” he groaned. “Shall I not seem to her of all creatures the most heartless, inhuman? but so best; ay, better she should hate me, miserable that I am, Heaven is merciful, and giveth my broken heart this comfort; I can make that villain restore her own, and she shall never lose another true lover by poverty. Another? Ah me! ah me! God and the saints to mine aid!”
But in leaving her for his eternal well-being and hers, he couldn't ignore her earthly happiness. In fact, the comforting thought that he could provide for her for life and make her wealthy in material things, which she didn't have to look down on, kept him going during the painful struggle it took to walk away from her without a single kind word or glance. “Oh, what will she think of me?” he groaned. “Will I not seem to her like the most heartless, inhumane creature? But it's for the best; yes, it's better that she should hate me, miserable as I am. Heaven is merciful and gives my broken heart this comfort; I can make that villain return her own, and she will never lose another true lover to poverty. Another? Oh, woe is me! God and the saints, help me!”
How he fared on this errand has been related. But first, as you may perhaps remember, he went at night to shrive the hermit of Gouda. He found him dying, and never left him till he had closed his eyes and buried him beneath the floor of the little oratory attached to his cell. It was the peaceful end of a stormy life. The hermit had been a soldier, and even now carried a steel corselet next his skin, saying he was now Christ's soldier as he had been Satan's. When Clement had shriven him and prayed by him, he, in his turn, sought counsel of one who was dying in so pious a frame, The hermit advised him to be his successor in this peaceful retreat. “His had been a hard fight against the world, the flesh, and the devil, and he had never thoroughly baffled them till he retired into the citadel of Solitude.”
How he did on this mission has been told. But first, as you might remember, he went at night to confess the hermit of Gouda. He found him dying and stayed by his side until he closed his eyes and buried him beneath the floor of the small oratory attached to his cell. It was a peaceful end to a tumultuous life. The hermit had been a soldier, and even at that moment, he wore a steel breastplate against his skin, claiming he was now a soldier of Christ just as he had been of Satan. After Clement had confessed him and prayed beside him, he sought advice from someone in such a devout state. The hermit advised him to take his place in this peaceful retreat. “His fight against the world, the flesh, and the devil had been tough, and he never truly overcame them until he retreated into the fortress of Solitude.”
These words and the hermit's pious and peaceful death, which speedily followed, and set as it were the seal of immortal truth on them, made a deep impression upon Clement. Nor in his case had they any prejudice to combat; the solitary recluse was still profoundly revered in the Church, whether immured as an anchorite or anchoress in some cave or cell belonging to a monastery, or hidden in the more savage but laxer seclusion of the independent hermitage. And Clement knew more about the hermits of the Church than most divines at his time of life; he had read much thereon at the monastery near Tergou, had devoured their lives with wonder and delight in the manuscripts of the Vatican, and conversed earnestly about them with the mendicant friars of several nations. Before Printing these friars were the great circulators of those local annals and biographies which accumulated in the convents of every land. Then his teacher, Jerome, had been three years an anchorite on the heights of Camaldoli, where for more than four centuries the Thebaid had been revived; and Jerome, cold and curt on most religious themes, was warm with enthusiasm on this one. He had pored over the annals of St. John Baptist's abbey, round about which the hermit's caves were scattered, and told him the names of many a noble, and many a famous warrior who had ended his days there a hermit, and of many a bishop and archbishop who had passed from the see to the hermitage, or from the hermitage to the see. Among the former the Archbishop of Ravenna; among the latter Pope Victor the Ninth. He told him too, with grim delight, of their multifarious austerities, and how each hermit set himself to find where he was weakest, and attacked himself without mercy or remission till there, even there, he was strongest. And how seven times in the twenty-four hours, in thunder, rain, or snow, by daylight, twilight, moonlight, or torchlight, the solitaries flocked from distant points, over rugged precipitous ways, to worship in the convent church; at matins, at prime, tierce, sexte, nones, vespers, and compline. He even, under eager questioning, described to him the persons of famous anchorites he had sung the Psalter and prayed with there; the only intercourse their vows allowed, except with special permission. Moncata, Duke of Moncata and Cardova, and Hidalgo of Spain, who in the flower of his youth had retired thither from the pomps, vanities, and pleasures of the world; Father John Baptist of Novara, who had led armies to battle, but was now a private soldier of Christ; Cornelius, Samuel, and Sylvanus. This last, when the great Duchess de' Medici obtained the Pope's leave, hitherto refused, to visit Camaldoli, went down and met her at the first wooden cross, and there, surrounded as she was with courtiers and flatterers, remonstrated with her, and persuaded her, and warned her, not to profane that holy mountain, where no woman for so many centuries had placed her foot; and she, awed by the place and the man, retreated with all her captains, soldiers, courtiers, and pages from that one hoary hermit. At Basle Clement found fresh materials, especially with respect to German and English anchorites; and he had even prepared a “Catena Eremitarum” from the year of our Lord 250, when Paul of Thebes commenced his ninety years of solitude, down to the year 1470. He called them Angelorum amici et animalium, i.e.
These words and the hermit's devout and peaceful death that quickly followed, providing a sort of seal of eternal truth on them, left a strong impact on Clement. He didn't have any biases to overcome; the solitary hermit was still highly respected in the Church, whether living as an anchorite or anchoress in some cave or cell in a monastery, or secluded in the more rough but less strict environment of an independent hermitage. Clement had a deeper understanding of the Church's hermits than most clergy of his age; he had studied them extensively at the monastery near Tergou, immersed himself in their lives with amazement and joy in the manuscripts at the Vatican, and had serious discussions about them with mendicant friars from various countries. Before the advent of printing, these friars were the main distributors of local histories and biographies that accumulated in convents across the globe. Moreover, his mentor, Jerome, had spent three years as an anchorite on the heights of Camaldoli, where the Thebaid had been revived for over four centuries. Jerome, usually cool and curt on most religious matters, showed great enthusiasm on this subject. He had studied the records of St. John Baptist's abbey, where the hermit's caves were scattered, and shared with Clement the names of many nobles and famous warriors who had ended their lives as hermits there, as well as numerous bishops and archbishops who transitioned from their sees to the hermitage and vice versa. Among those who became hermits was the Archbishop of Ravenna; among those who returned to the Church was Pope Victor the Ninth. He also grimly delighted in recounting their various austerities, explaining how each hermit sought out his weaknesses and relentlessly confronted them until he became stronger in those very areas. He described how seven times a day, regardless of the weather—whether it was thunder, rain, or snow—and in daylight, twilight, moonlight, or torchlight, the hermits made their way from distant places, over treacherous paths, to worship in the convent church at matins, prime, tierce, sext, none, vespers, and compline. He even, under eager questioning, described the famous anchorites with whom he had prayed and sung the Psalter; this was the only interaction their vows allowed, except with special permission. Moncata, Duke of Moncata and Cordova, and a Spanish Hidalgo, who had retreated there in the prime of his youth from the world's pomp and pleasures; Father John Baptist of Novara, who had led armies into battle but was now a humble soldier of Christ; Cornelius, Samuel, and Sylvanus. The latter, when the great Duchess de' Medici received previously denied permission from the Pope to visit Camaldoli, went down to meet her at the first wooden cross. Surrounded by her courtiers and flatterers, he reproached her, persuaded her, and cautioned her not to desecrate that holy mountain, where no woman had stepped foot for centuries; intimidated by the place and the man, she withdrew with all her captains, soldiers, courtiers, and pages from that one ancient hermit. In Basle, Clement uncovered new materials, especially concerning German and English hermits. He even prepared a “Catena Eremitarum” from the year 250 AD, when Paul of Thebes began his ninety years of solitude, up to the year 1470. He referred to them as Angelorum amici et animalium, i.e.
FRIENDS OF ANGELS AND ANIMALS.
Friends of Angels and Animals.
Thus, though in those days he never thought to be a recluse, the road was paved, so to speak; and when the dying hermit of Gouda blessed the citadel of Solitude, where he had fought the good fight and won it, and invited him to take up the breast-plate of faith that now fell off his own shrunken body, Clement said within himself: “Heaven itself led my foot hither to this end.” It struck him, too, as no small coincidence that his patron, St. Bavon, was a hermit, and an austere one, a cuirassier of the solitary cell.
Thus, even though back then he never thought he’d become a recluse, the path had been set, so to speak; and when the dying hermit of Gouda blessed the citadel of Solitude, where he had fought valiantly and succeeded, and invited him to take up the breastplate of faith that now fell from his own weakened body, Clement thought to himself: “Heaven itself brought me here for this purpose.” He also found it quite the coincidence that his patron, St. Bavon, was a hermit—an austere one, a warrior of the solitary cell.
As soon as he was reconciled to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, he went eagerly to his abode, praying Heaven it might not have been already occupied in these three days. The fear was not vain; these famous dens never wanted a human tenant long. He found the rude stone door ajar; then he made sure he was too late; he opened the door and went softly in. No; the cell was vacant, and there were the hermit's great ivory crucifix, his pens, ink, seeds, and, memento mori, a skull; his cilice of hair, and another of bristles; his well-worn sheepskin pelisse and hood; his hammer, chisel, and psaltery, etc. Men and women had passed that way, but none had ventured to intrude, far less to steal. Faith and simplicity had guarded that keyless door more securely than the houses of the laity were defended by their gates like a modern gaol, and think iron bars at every window, and the gentry by moat, bastion, chevaux de frise, and portcullis.
As soon as he made up with Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, he eagerly went to his place, hoping that it hadn’t been taken in these three days. His fear wasn’t unfounded; these well-known spaces didn’t stay empty for long. He found the rough stone door slightly open, which confirmed his fears; he opened the door and stepped inside quietly. No, the cell was empty, and there was the hermit's large ivory crucifix, his pens, ink, seeds, and, to remind him of mortality, a skull; his hair shirt and another made of bristles; his tattered sheepskin cloak and hood; his hammer, chisel, and psaltery, etc. People had come and gone, but no one had dared to intrude, let alone steal. Faith and simplicity had protected that door without a lock more effectively than the homes of regular people were secured by gates like a modern prison, with iron bars on every window and the wealthy surrounded by moats, bastions, chevaux de frise, and portcullises.
As soon as Clement was fairly in the cell there was a loud flap, and a flutter, and down came a great brown owl from a corner, and whirled out of the window, driving the air cold on Clement's face, He started and shuddered.
As soon as Clement was completely in the cell, there was a loud flap and a flutter, and a huge brown owl swooped down from a corner and flew out of the window, sending a cold rush of air against Clement's face. He jumped and shivered.
Was this seeming owl something diabolical? trying to deter him from his soul's good? On second thoughts, might it not be some good spirit the hermit had employed to keep the cell for him, perhaps the hermit himself? Finally he concluded that it was just an owl, and that he would try and make friends with it.
Was this owl actually something evil? Trying to stop him from his soul's well-being? On second thoughts, could it be some good spirit the hermit had sent to watch over the cell for him, maybe even the hermit himself? In the end, he decided it was just an owl, and that he would try to befriend it.
He kneeled down and inaugurated his new life with prayer.
He knelt down and started his new life with a prayer.
Clement had not only an earthly passion to quell, the power of which made him tremble for his eternal weal, but he had a penance to do for having given way to ire, his besetting sin, and cursed his own brothers.
Clement not only had a strong earthly desire to control, the intensity of which made him worry about his eternal well-being, but he also had to atone for giving in to anger, his recurring sin, and for cursing his own brothers.
He looked round this roomy cell furnished with so many comforts, and compared it with the pictures in his mind of the hideous place, eremus in eremo, a desert in a desert, where holy Jerome, hermit, and the Plutarch of hermits, had wrestled with sickness, temptation, and despair four mortal years; and with the inaccessible and thorny niche, a hole in a precipice, where the boy hermit Benedict buried himself, and lived three years on the pittance the good monk Romanus could spare him from his scanty commons, and subdivided that mouthful with his friend, a raven; and the hollow tree of his patron St. Bavon; and the earthly purgatory at Fribourg, where lived a nameless saint in a horrid cavern, his eyes chilled with perpetual gloom, and his ears stunned with an eternal waterfall; and the pillar on which St. Simeon Stylita existed forty-five years; and the destina, or stone box, of St. Dunstan, where, like Hilarion in his bulrush hive, sepulchro potius quam domu, he could scarce sit, stand, or lie; and the living tombs, sealed with lead, of Thais, and Christina, and other recluses; and the damp dungeon of St. Alred. These and scores more of the dismal dens in which true hermits had worn out their wasted bodies on the rock, and the rock under their sleeping bodies, and their praying knees, all came into his mind, and he said to himself, “This sweet retreat is for safety of the soul; but what for penance Jesu aid me against faults to come; and for the fault I rue, face of man I will not see for a twelvemonth and a day.” He had famous precedents in his eye even for this last and unusual severity. In fact the original hermit of this very cell was clearly under the same vow. Hence the two apertures, through which he was spoken to, and replied.
He looked around this spacious cell filled with so many comforts and compared it to the images in his mind of the awful place, a desert in a desert, where holy Jerome, the hermit, and the ultimate hermit had struggled with sickness, temptation, and despair for four long years; and the inaccessible and thorny niche, a hole in a cliff, where the young hermit Benedict secluded himself and lived for three years on the small amount the kind monk Romanus could spare from his meager meals, sharing that little bit with his friend, a raven; and the hollow tree of his patron St. Bavon; and the earthly purgatory at Fribourg, where lived a nameless saint in a terrible cave, his eyes cold from constant darkness, and his ears overwhelmed by a never-ending waterfall; and the pillar on which St. Simeon Stylita spent forty-five years; and the destina, or stone box, of St. Dunstan, where, like Hilarion in his bulrush hive, he could hardly sit, stand, or lie; and the living tombs, sealed with lead, of Thais, Christina, and other recluses; and the damp dungeon of St. Alred. These, along with countless other dismal places where true hermits had exhausted their frail bodies upon the rock, and the rock beneath their sleeping bodies and praying knees, all came to his mind, and he said to himself, “This sweet retreat is for the safety of the soul; but as for penance, Jesus help me against future faults; and for the fault I regret, I will not see the face of man for a year and a day.” He had famous examples in mind even for this last and unusual severity. In fact, the original hermit of this very cell was clearly under the same vow. Hence the two openings through which he was spoken to and replied.
Adopting, in other respects, the uniform rule of hermits and anchorites, he divided his day into the seven offices, ignoring the petty accidents of light and dark, creations both of Him to whom he prayed so unceasingly. He learned the psalter by heart, and in all the intervals of devotion, not occupied by broken slumbers, he worked hard with his hands. No article of the hermit's rule was more strict or more ancient than this. And here his self-imposed penance embarrassed him, for what work could he do, without being seen, that should benefit his neighbours? for the hermit was to labour for himself in those cases only where his subsistence depended on it. Now Clement's modest needs were amply supplied by the villagers.
Following the standard practices of hermits and anchorites, he structured his day around the seven prayer times, disregarding the minor changes between light and dark, both of which were creations of the divine being he prayed to so diligently. He memorized the Psalms, and during every moment of devotion not spent in restless sleep, he worked hard with his hands. No aspect of the hermit's rules was stricter or older than this. Yet, his self-imposed discipline troubled him, as he wondered what work he could do without being noticed that would also help his neighbors, since a hermit was to labor only for himself when his survival depended on it. However, Clement's simple needs were more than adequately met by the villagers.
On moonlight nights he would steal out like a thief, and dig some poor man's garden on the outskirts of the village. He made baskets and dropped them slily at humble doors.
On moonlit nights, he would sneak out like a thief and dig up some poor guy's garden on the edge of the village. He made baskets and quietly left them at simple doorsteps.
And since he could do nothing for the bodies of those who passed by his cell in daytime, he went out in the dead of the night with his hammer and his chisel, and carved moral and religious sentences all down the road upon the sandstone rocks. “Who knows?” said he, “often a chance shaft strikes home.”
And since he couldn’t help the bodies of those who passed by his cell during the day, he went out in the dead of night with his hammer and chisel, carving moral and religious messages all along the sandstone rocks. “Who knows?” he said, “sometimes a random message hits the mark.”
Oh, sore heart, comfort thou the poor and bereaved with holy words of solace in their native tongue; for he said “well, 'tis 'clavis ad corda plebis.'” Also he remembered the learned Colonna had told him of the written mountains in the east, where kings had inscribed their victories, “What,” said Clement, “are they so wise, those Eastern monarchs, to engrave their war-like glory upon the rock, making a blood bubble endure so long as earth; and shall I leave the rocks about me silent on the King of Glory, at whose word they were, and at whose breath they shall be dust? Nay, but these stones shall speak to weary wayfarers of eternal peace, and of the Lamb, whose frail and afflicted yet happy servant worketh them among.”
Oh, aching heart, comfort the poor and grieving with gentle words of solace in their own language; for he said, “well, it's 'key to the hearts of the people.'” He also remembered the learned Colonna had told him about the written mountains in the east, where kings had carved their victories, “What,” said Clement, “are those Eastern kings so wise to engrave their military glory on the rocks, making a blood bubble last as long as the earth; and will I leave the stones around me silent about the King of Glory, who spoke them into existence and whose breath will turn them to dust? No, these stones will speak to weary travelers about eternal peace, and of the Lamb, whose frail and afflicted yet joyful servant shapes them.”
Now at this time the inspired words that have consoled the poor and the afflicted for so many ages were not yet printed in Dutch, so that these sentences of gold from the holy evangelists came like fresh oracles from heaven, or like the dew on parched flowers; and the poor hermit's written rocks softened a heart Or two, and sent the heavy laden singing on their way(1).
Now, at this time, the inspired words that had comforted the poor and the suffering for so many years were not yet printed in Dutch. So, these golden sentences from the holy evangelists felt like fresh messages from heaven, or like dew on thirsty flowers. The poor hermit's written rocks softened a heart or two and sent the heavy-laden singing on their way(1).
These holy oracles that seemed to spring up around him like magic; his prudent answers through his window to such as sought ghostly counsel; and above all, his invisibility, soon gained him a prodigious reputation, This was not diminished by the medical advice they now and then extorted from him sore against his will, by tears and entreaties; for if the patients got well they gave the holy hermit the credit, and if not they laid all the blame on the devil. “I think he killed nobody, for his remedies were womanish and weak.” Sage and wormwood, sion, hyssop, borage, spikenard, dog's-tongue, our Lady's mantle, feverfew, and Faith, and all in small quantities except the last.
These holy oracles that seemed to appear around him like magic; his careful answers through his window to those seeking spiritual advice; and above all, his invisibility, quickly earned him an extraordinary reputation. This was not diminished by the medical advice they occasionally forced from him against his will, through tears and pleas; because if the patients recovered, they credited the holy hermit, and if they didn’t, they blamed it all on the devil. "I don't think he harmed anyone, because his remedies were weak and feminine." Sage and wormwood, sion, hyssop, borage, spikenard, dog's-tongue, our Lady's mantle, feverfew, and Faith, all in small amounts except for the last.
Then his abstinence, sure sign of a saint. The eggs and milk they brought him at first he refused with horror. Know ye not the hermit's rule is bread, or herbs, and water? Eggs, they are birds in disguise; for when the bird dieth, then the egg rotteth. As for milk, it is little better than white blood. And when they brought him too much bread he refused it. Then they used to press it on him. “Nay, holy father; give the overplus to the poor.”
Then his abstinence, a clear sign of a saint. The eggs and milk they first brought him, he refused in horror. Don't you know the hermit's rule is bread, or herbs, and water? Eggs are just disguised birds; when the bird dies, the egg rots. As for milk, it’s barely better than white blood. And when they brought him too much bread, he turned it down. Then they would insist. “No, holy father; give the surplus to the poor.”
“You who go among the poor can do that better. Is bread a thing to fling haphazard from an hermit's window?” And to those who persisted after this: “To live on charity, yet play Sir Bountiful, is to lie with the right hand. Giving another's to the poor, I should beguile them of their thanks, and cheat thee the true giver. Thus do thieves, whose boast it is they bleed the rich into the lap of the poor. Occasio avaritiae nomen pauperum.”
“You who go among the poor can do that better. Is bread something to throw carelessly from a hermit's window?” And to those who kept pressing after this: “Living off charity while acting like a generous person is simply deceptive. Giving someone else's resources to the poor means stealing their gratitude and deceiving the real giver. That's what thieves do; they take from the rich to fill the pockets of the poor. The opportunity for greed is named after the poor.”
When nothing else would convince the good souls, this piece of Latin always brought them round. So would a line of Virgil's Aeneid.
When nothing else would persuade the good people, this piece of Latin always won them over. So would a line from Virgil's Aeneid.
This great reputation of sanctity was all external. Inside the cell was a man who held the hermit of Gouda as cheap as dirt.
This great reputation for holiness was all for show. Inside the cell was a man who thought the hermit of Gouda was worthless.
“Ah!” said he, “I cannot deceive myself; I cannot deceive God's animals. See the little birds, how coy they be; I feed and feed them, and long for their friendship, yet will they never come within, nor take my hand, by lighting on't. For why? No Paul, no Benedict, no Hugh of Lincoln, no Columba, no Guthlac bides in this cell. Hunted doe flieth not hither, for here is no Fructuosus, nor Aventine, nor Albert of Suabia; nor e'en a pretty squirrel cometh from the wood hard by for the acorns I have hoarded; for here abideth no Columban. The very owl that was here hath fled. They are not to be deceived; I have a Pope's word for that; Heaven rest his soul.”
“Ah!” he said, “I can’t fool myself; I can’t fool God’s creatures. Look at the little birds, how shy they are; I keep feeding them and hoping for their friendship, yet they never come close or land on my hand. Why? Because there’s no Paul, no Benedict, no Hugh of Lincoln, no Columba, no Guthlac living in this cell. A hunted doe doesn’t come here, because there’s no Fructuosus, nor Aventine, nor Albert of Suabia; not even a cute squirrel comes from the nearby woods for the acorns I’ve saved; because there’s no Columban here. Even the owl that used to be here has flown away. They can’t be fooled; I have a Pope’s word on that; may he rest in peace.”
Clement had one advantage over her whose image in his heart he was bent on destroying.
Clement had one advantage over her, whose image in his heart he was determined to erase.
He had suffered and survived the pang of bereavement, and the mind cannot quite repeat such anguish. Then he had built up a habit of looking on her as dead. After that strange scene in the church and churchyard of St. Laurens, that habit might be compared to a structure riven by a thunderbolt. It was shattered, but stones enough stood to found a similar habit on; to look on her as dead to him.
He had experienced the pain of loss and made it through, and the mind can't quite relive that kind of suffering. Then he had developed a habit of seeing her as if she were gone. After that odd moment in the church and graveyard of St. Laurens, that habit was like a building struck by lightning. It was wrecked, but enough pieces remained to establish a similar habit of viewing her as dead to him.
And by severe subdivision of his time and thoughts, by unceasing prayers and manual labour, he did in about three months succeed in benumbing the earthly half of his heart.
And by strictly dividing his time and thoughts, through constant prayers and hard work, he managed in about three months to numb the earthly part of his heart.
But lo! within a day or two of this first symptom of mental peace returning slowly, there descended upon his mind a horrible despondency.
But look! Within a day or two of this first sign of mental peace coming back slowly, a terrible feeling of hopelessness fell upon his mind.
Words cannot utter it, for words never yet painted a likeness of despair. Voices seemed to whisper in his ear, “Kill thyself! kill! kill! kill!”
Words can't express it, because words have never captured the essence of despair. Voices seemed to whisper in his ear, “End it! end it! end it!”
And he longed to obey the voices, for life was intolerable.
And he wished to follow the voices, because life was unbearable.
He wrestled with his dark enemy with prayers and tears; he prayed God but to vary his temptation. “Oh let mine enemy have power to scourge me with red-hot whips, to tear me leagues and leagues over rugged places by the hair of my head, as he has served many a holy hermit, that yet baffled him at last; to fly on me like a raging lion; to gnaw me with a serpent's fangs; any pain, any terror, but this horrible gloom of the soul that shuts me from all light of Thee and of the saints.”
He struggled with his dark enemy through prayers and tears; he prayed to God just to change his temptation. “Oh, let my enemy have the power to whip me with scorching lashes, to drag me for miles over rough terrain by my hair, just like he has done to many a holy hermit, who still overcame him in the end; to attack me like a fierce lion; to bite me with a serpent's fangs; any pain, any fear, but this awful darkness in my soul that shuts me out from all your light and that of the saints.”
And now a freezing thought crossed him. What if the triumphs of the powers of darkness over Christian souls in desert places had been suppressed, and only their defeats recorded, or at least in full; for dark hints were scattered about antiquity that now first began to grin at him with terrible meaning.
And now a chilling thought crossed his mind. What if the victories of the dark forces over Christian souls in desolate places had been hidden, and only their losses documented, or at least mostly? Because vague suggestions from the past began to emerge with terrifying significance.
“THEY WANDERED IN THE DESERT AND PERISHED BY SERPENTS,” said an ancient father of hermits that went into solitude, “and were seen no more.” And another at a more recent epoch wrote: Vertuntur ad melancholiam: “they turn to gloomy madness.” These two statements, were they not one? for the ancient fathers never spoke with regret of the death of the body. No, the hermits so lost were perished souls, and the serpents were diabolical (2) thoughts, the natural brood of solitude.
“THEY WANDERED IN THE DESERT AND DIED BY SNAKES,” said an ancient father of hermits who sought solitude, “and were never seen again.” And another, in a more recent time, wrote: Vertuntur ad melancholiam: “they spiral into gloomy madness.” Weren’t these two statements the same? Because the ancient fathers never expressed regret over the death of the body. No, the lost hermits were souls that had perished, and the snakes were evil (2) thoughts, the natural offspring of solitude.
St. Jerome went into the desert with three companions; one fled in the first year, two died; how? The single one that lasted was a gigantic soul with an iron body.
St. Jerome went into the desert with three friends; one ran away in the first year, and two died. How? The only one who stuck it out was a huge soul with a strong body.
The cotemporary who related this made no comment, expressed no wonder, What, then, if here was a glimpse of the true proportion in every age, and many souls had always been lost in solitude for one gigantic mind and iron body that survived this terrible ordeal.
The person who shared this didn’t comment or show any surprise. What if this is a glimpse of the real size of things in every era, and many souls have always been lost in loneliness for one powerful mind and strong body that endured this awful experience.
The darkened recluse now cast his despairing eyes over antiquity to see what weapons the Christian arsenal contained that might befriend him. The greatest of all was prayer. Alas! it was a part of his malady to be unable to pray with true fervour. The very system of mechanical supplication he had for months carried out so severely by rule had rather checked than fostered his power of originating true prayer.
The isolated figure now looked back at history to see what tools the Christian faith offered that could help him. The most powerful of all was prayer. Unfortunately, it was part of his struggle that he couldn't pray with real passion. The rigid, routine prayers he had followed for months had actually stifled rather than encouraged his ability to pray genuinely.
He prayed louder than ever, but the heart hung back cold and gloomy, and let the words go up alone.
He prayed louder than ever, but his heart remained cold and gloomy, letting the words rise alone.
“Poor wingless prayers,” he cried, “you will not get half-way to heaven.”
“Poor wingless prayers,” he shouted, “you won’t even make it halfway to heaven.”
A fiend of this complexion had been driven out of King Saul by music.
A demon of this nature had been driven out of King Saul by music.
Clement took up the hermit's psaltery, and with much trouble mended the strings and tuned it.
Clement picked up the hermit's psaltery and, after a lot of effort, fixed the strings and tuned it.
No, he could not play it. His soul was so out of tune. The sounds jarred on it, and made him almost mad.
No, he couldn't play it. His soul was completely out of sync. The sounds grated on him and almost drove him insane.
“Ah, wretched me!” he cried; “Saul had a saint to play to him. He was not alone with the spirits of darkness; but here is no sweet bard of Israel to play to me; I, lonely, with crushed heart, on which a black fiend sitteth mountain high, must make the music to uplift that heart to heaven; it may not be.” And he grovelled on the earth weeping and tearing his hair.
“Ah, poor me!” he shouted; “Saul had a saint to play for him. He wasn't alone with the dark spirits; but here I have no sweet bard of Israel to play for me; I, alone, with a broken heart that feels like a heavy weight, must create the music to lift that heart to heaven; it may not be.” And he fell to the ground, crying and pulling at his hair.
VERTEBATUR AD MELANCHOLIAM.
VERBATIM TO MELANCHOLY.
(1) It requires nowadays a strong effort of the imagination
to realize the effect on poor people who had never seen them
before of such sentences as this
“Blessed are the poor” etc.
(2) The primitive writer was so interpreted by others
besides Clement; and in particular by Peter of Blois, a
divine of the twelfth century, whose comment is noteworthy,
as he himself was a forty-year hermit.
(1) Nowadays, it takes a strong effort of the imagination to understand how poor people who had never encountered them before reacted to sentences like this: “Blessed are the poor,” etc.
(2) The original writer was interpreted by others besides Clement, particularly by Peter of Blois, a theologian from the twelfth century, whose commentary is significant since he himself was a hermit for forty years.CHAPTER XCIII
One day as he lay there sighing and groaning, prayerless, tuneless, hopeless, a thought flashed into his mind. What he had done for the poor and the wayfarer, he would do for himself. He would fill his den of despair with the name of God and the magic words of holy writ, and the pious, prayerful consolations of the Church.
One day, as he lay there sighing and groaning, without prayer, music, or hope, a thought suddenly struck him. What he had done for the poor and travelers, he would now do for himself. He would fill his space of despair with the name of God and the powerful words of scripture, along with the prayerful comforts of the Church.
Then, like Christian at Apollyon's feet, he reached his hand suddenly out and caught, not his sword, for he had none, but peaceful labour's humbler weapon, his chisel, and worked with it as if his soul depended on his arm.
Then, like Christian at Apollyon's feet, he suddenly reached out his hand and grabbed not his sword, since he had none, but instead the simpler tool of peaceful work, his chisel, and used it as if his very soul relied on his strength.
They say that Michael Angelo in the next generation used to carve statues, not like our timid sculptors, by modelling the work in clay, and then setting a mechanic to chisel it, but would seize the block, conceive the image, and at once, with mallet and steel, make the marble chips fly like mad about him, and the mass sprout into form. Even so Clement drew no lines to guide his hand. He went to his memory for the gracious words, and then dashed at his work and eagerly graved them in the soft stone, between working and fighting.
They say that Michelangelo, in the next generation, used to carve statues, not like our cautious sculptors who first model their work in clay and then have a worker chiseling it out, but would grab the block, envision the image, and immediately, with a mallet and chisel, send marble chips flying everywhere as the mass transformed into shape. In the same way, Clement didn’t draw any guidelines for his hand. He relied on his memory for the beautiful words and then jumped straight into his work, enthusiastically carving them into the soft stone, balancing between effort and struggle.
He begged his visitors for candle ends, and rancid oil.
He pleaded with his guests for used candle stubs and stale oil.
“Anything is good enough for me,” he said, “if 'twill but burn.” So at night the cave glowed afar off like a blacksmith's forge, through the window and the gaping chinks of the rude stone door, and the rustics beholding crossed themselves and suspected deviltries, and within the holy talismans, one after another, came upon the walls, and the sparks and the chips flew day and night, night and day, as the soldier of Solitude and of the Church plied, with sighs and groans, his bloodless weapon, between working and fighting.
“Anything is good enough for me,” he said, “as long as it burns.” So at night, the cave glowed in the distance like a blacksmith's forge, through the window and the large gaps of the rough stone door, and the locals, seeing this, crossed themselves and suspected witchcraft. Inside, the holy symbols appeared one after another on the walls, and the sparks and chips flew day and night, as the soldier of Solitude and the Church worked hard, with sighs and groans, wielding his bloodless weapon, caught between working and fighting.
Kyrie Eleison.
Kyrie Eleison.
Christe Eleison.
Lord, have mercy.
{ton Satanan suntripson upo tous pothas ymwn}(1)
{ton Satanan suntripson upo tous pothas ymwn}(1)
Sursum Corda.(2)
Lift up your hearts.
Deus Refugium nostrum et virtus.(3)
God is our refuge and strength.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi miserere mihi.(4)
Agnus Dei, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on me.
Sancta Trinitas unus Deus, miserere nobis.(5)
Sancta Trinitas unus Deus, have mercy on us.(5)
Ab infestationibus Daemonum, a ventura ira, a damnatione perpetua. Libera nos Domine.(6)
Ab infestationibus Daemonum, a ventura ira, a damnatione perpetua. Libera nos Domine.(6)
Deus, qui miro ordine Angelorum ministeria, etc, (the whole collect).(7)
Deus, qui miro ordine Angelorum ministeria, etc, (the whole collect).(7)
Quem quaerimus adjutorem nisi te Domine qui pro peccatis nostris juste irascaris? (8)
Quem quaerimus adjutorem nisi te Domine qui pro peccatis nostris juste irascaris? (8)
Sancte Deus, Sancte fortis, Sancte et misericors Salvator, amarae morti ne tradas nos.
Sanctus Deus, Sanctus fortis, Sanctus et misericors Salvator, do not hand us over to the bitter death.
And underneath the great crucifix, which was fastened to the wall, he graved this from Augustine:
And below the large crucifix that was attached to the wall, he engraved this quote from Augustine:
O anima Christiana, respice vulnera patientis, sanguinem morientis, pretium redemptionis. Haec quanta sint cogitate, et in statera mentis vestrae appendite, ut totus vobis figatur in corde, qui pro vobis totus fixus est in cruce. Nam si passio Christi ad memoriam revocetur, nihil est tam durum quod non aequo animo toleretur.
O Christian soul, look at the wounds of the suffering one, the blood of the dying one, the price of redemption. Think about how great these are, and weigh them in the balance of your mind, so that he who was completely fixed to the cross for you is firmly planted in your heart. For if the passion of Christ is called to mind, nothing is so harsh that it cannot be endured with a calm spirit.
Which may be thus rendered: O Christian soul, look on the wounds of the suffering One, the blood of the dying One, the price paid for our redemption! These things, oh, think how great they be, and weigh them in the balance of thy mind: that He may be wholly nailed to thy heart, who for thee was all nailed unto the cross. For do but call to mind the sufferings of Christ, and there is nought on earth too hard to endure with composure.
Which can be understood like this: O Christian soul, look at the wounds of the suffering One, the blood of the dying One, the price paid for our redemption! Think about how significant these are, and consider them carefully: so that He who was completely nailed to the cross for you may be fully nailed to your heart. Remember the sufferings of Christ, and nothing on earth will be too difficult to bear with grace.
Soothed a little, a very little, by the sweet and pious words he was raising all round him, and weighed down with watching and working night and day, Clement one morning sank prostrate with fatigue, and a deep sleep overpowered him for many hours. Awaking quietly, he heard a little cheep; he opened his eyes, and lo! upon his breviary, which was on a low stool near his feet, ruffling all his feathers with a single pull, and smoothing them as suddenly, and cocking his bill this way and that with a vast display of cunning purely imaginary, perched a robin redbreast.
Soothed a bit, just a bit, by the sweet and hopeful words he heard all around him, and weighed down by watching and working day and night, Clement one morning collapsed with exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep for many hours. When he woke up quietly, he heard a little chirp; he opened his eyes, and there on his breviary, which was on a low stool near his feet, fluffing all his feathers with a single shake and smoothing them just as fast, and tilting his beak this way and that with a display of totally imaginary cleverness, sat a robin.
Clement held his breath.
Clement took a deep breath.
He half closed his eyes lest they should frighten the airy guest.
He half-closed his eyes so he wouldn't scare the lighthearted guest.
Down came robin on the floor.
Down came the robin to the floor.
When there he went through his pantomime of astuteness; and then, pim, pim, pim, with three stiff little hops, like a ball of worsted on vertical wires, he was on the hermit's bare foot. On this eminence he swelled and contracted again, with ebb and flow of feathers; but Clement lost this, for he quite closed his eyes and scarce drew his breath in fear of frightening and losing his visitor. He was content to feel the minute claw on his foot. He could but just feel it, and that by help of knowing it was there.
When he got there, he performed his little act of cleverness; then, pim, pim, pim, with three stiff little hops, like a ball of yarn on vertical wires, he landed on the hermit's bare foot. From this high point, he puffed up and shrank down again, with the ebb and flow of feathers; but Clement lost track of this, as he closed his eyes tightly and barely breathed, afraid of scaring off his visitor. He was happy just feeling the tiny claw on his foot. He could barely feel it, and that was only because he knew it was there.
Presently a little flirt with two little wings, and the feathered busybody was on the breviary again.
Presently, a small flirt with two tiny wings, and the feathered busybody was back on the prayer book again.
Then Clement determined to try and feed this pretty little fidget without frightening it away. But it was very difficult.
Then Clement decided to try to feed this cute little creature without scaring it away. But it was really tough.
He had a piece of bread within reach, but how get at it? I think he was five minutes creeping his hand up to that bread, and when there he must not move his arm.
He had a piece of bread within reach, but how could he get to it? I think he spent five minutes trying to get his hand to that bread, and once he did, he couldn't move his arm.
He slily got a crumb between a finger and thumb and shot it as boys do marbles, keeping the hand quite still.
He slyly pinched a crumb between his finger and thumb and flicked it like boys do with marbles, keeping his hand perfectly still.
Cockrobin saw it fall near him, and did sagacity, but moved not.
Cockrobin saw it fall close by him and was wise, but didn't move.
When another followed, and then another, he popped down and caught up one of the crumbs, but not quite understanding this mystery fled with it, for more security, to an eminence; to wit, the hermit's knee.
When another crumb fell, and then another, he quickly went down and grabbed one of the crumbs, but not fully understanding what was happening, he ran away with it for safety to a higher spot; specifically, the hermit's knee.
And so the game proceeded till a much larger fragment than usual rolled along.
And so the game continued until a much bigger piece than usual came along.
Here was a prize. Cockrobin pounced on it, bore it aloft, and fled so swiftly into the world with it, the cave resounded with the buffeted air.
Here was a prize. Cockrobin jumped on it, lifted it up, and quickly darted into the world with it, causing the cave to echo with the rushing air.
“Now, bless thee, sweet bird,” sighed the stricken solitary; “thy wings are music, and thou a feathered ray camedst to light my darkened soul.”
“Now, bless you, sweet bird,” sighed the heartbroken soul; “your wings are music, and you, a feathered ray, have come to brighten my darkened spirit.”
And from that to his orisons, and then to his tools with a little bit of courage, and this was his day's work:
And from that to his prayers, and then to his tools with a little bit of courage, and this was his day's work:
Veni, Creator Spiritus,
Mentes tuorem visita,
Imple superna gratia
Quae tu creasti pectora
Accende lumen sensibus,
Mentes tuorum visita,
Infirma nostri corporis,
Virtute firmans perpeti.
Veni, Creator Spiritus,
Come, Creator Spirit,
Visit our minds,
Fill the hearts you created with heavenly grace.
Ignite our senses with your light,
Visit our minds,
Strengthen our fragile bodies,
Firming them with your power forever. And so the days rolled on; and the weather got colder, and Clement's heart got warmer, and despondency was rolling away; and by-and-by, somehow or another, it was gone. He had outlived it.
And so the days went by; the weather got colder, but Clement's heart grew warmer, and his feelings of despair started to fade; eventually, somehow, it disappeared completely. He had moved past it.
It had come like a cloud, and it went like one.
It arrived like a cloud, and it disappeared like one.
And presently all was reversed; his cell seemed illuminated with joy. His work pleased him; his prayers were full of unction; his psalms of praise. Hosts of little birds followed their crimson leader, and flying from snow, and a parish full of Cains, made friends one after another with Abel; fast friends. And one keen frosty night as he sang the praises of God to his tuneful psaltery, and his hollow cave rang forth the holy psalmody upon the night, as if that cave itself was Tubal's surrounding shell, or David's harp, he heard a clear whine, not unmelodious; it became louder and less in tune. He peeped through the chinks of his rude door, and there sat a great red wolf moaning melodiously with his nose high in the air.
And suddenly everything changed; his cell felt filled with joy. He was happy with his work; his prayers were heartfelt; his psalms were praises. A flock of little birds followed their bright red leader, flying away from the snow, and a community full of people who would typically be rivals became close friends with one another, really close friends. One cold, frosty night, as he sang praises to God on his lovely instrument, the walls of his cave echoed the holy songs through the night, almost as if that cave itself was Tubal's shell or David's harp. He heard a clear whine that was somewhat melodious; it grew louder and more out of tune. He peeked through the cracks of his rough door, and there sat a big red wolf, moaning sweetly with his nose in the air.
Clement was rejoiced. “My sins are going,” he cried, “and the creatures of God are owning me, one after another.” And in a burst of enthusiasm he struck up the laud:
Clement was overjoyed. “My sins are fading away,” he exclaimed, “and God's creations are accepting me, one after another.” And in a surge of excitement, he started to sing the praise:
“Praise Him all ye creatures of His!
“Praise Him, all you creatures of His!
“Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.”
“Let everyone who has breath praise the Lord.”
And all the time he sang the wolf bayed at intervals.
And all the while, he sang as the wolf howled every so often.
But above all he seemed now to be drawing nearer to that celestial intercourse which was the sign and the bliss of the true hermit; for he had dreams about the saints and angels, so vivid, they were more like visions. He saw bright figures clad in woven snow. They bent on him eyes lovelier than those of the antelope's he had seen at Rome, and fanned him with broad wings hued like the rainbow, and their gentle voices bade him speed upon his course.
But above all, he now seemed to be getting closer to that heavenly connection that was the mark and joy of a true hermit; he was having dreams about saints and angels so vivid that they felt more like visions. He saw bright figures dressed in woven snow. They looked at him with eyes more beautiful than those of the antelopes he had seen in Rome, and they fanned him with wide wings colored like a rainbow, urging him to hurry along his path.
He had not long enjoyed this felicity when his dreams began to take another and a strange complexion. He wandered with Fra Colonna over the relics of antique nations, and the friar was lame and had a staff, and this staff he waved over the mighty ruins, and were they Egyptian, Greek, or Roman, straightway the temples and palaces, whose wrecks they were, rose again like an exhalation, and were thronged with the famous dead. Songsters that might have eclipsed both Apollo and his rival poured forth their lays; women, god-like in form, and draped like Minerva, swam round the marble courts in voluptuous but easy and graceful dances. Here sculptors carved away amidst admiring pupils, and forms of supernatural beauty grew out of Parian marble in a quarter of an hour; and grave philosophers conversed on high and subtle matters, with youth listening reverently; it was a long time ago. And still beneath all this wonderful panorama a sort of suspicion or expectation lurked in the dreamer's mind. “This is a prologue, a flourish, there is something behind; something that means me no good, something mysterious, awful.”
He hadn’t enjoyed this happiness for long when his dreams started to take on a different and strange quality. He wandered with Fra Colonna among the remnants of ancient nations, and the friar was lame and used a staff. With this staff, he waved it over the mighty ruins, and whether they were Egyptian, Greek, or Roman, the temples and palaces, which were just wrecks, instantly rose again like a mirage, filled with famous figures from the past. Singers who could have outshone both Apollo and his rival burst forth with their songs; women, god-like in form and draped like Minerva, swirled around the marble courts in sensual yet graceful dances. Here, sculptors worked alongside eager students, and forms of supernatural beauty emerged from Parian marble in just a quarter of an hour; serious philosophers discussed high and subtle matters, with youth listening in awe; it was a long time ago. Still, beneath this breathtaking panorama, a sense of suspicion or anticipation lingered in the dreamer’s mind. “This is just a prelude, a flourish; there’s something more behind it; something that’s not good for me, something mysterious and terrifying."
And one night that the wizard Colonna had transcended himself, he pointed with his stick, and there was a swallowing up of many great ancient cities, and the pair stood on a vast sandy plain with a huge crimson sun sinking to rest, There were great palm-trees; and there were bulrush hives, scarce a man's height, dotted all about to the sandy horizon, and the crimson sun.
And one night when the wizard Colonna had reached a higher state, he pointed with his staff, and many great ancient cities disappeared. The two stood on a vast sandy plain with a huge red sun setting. There were tall palm trees, and there were bulrush hives, barely the height of a man, scattered all around to the sandy horizon and the red sun.
“These are the anchorites of the Theban desert,” said Colonna calmly; “followers not of Christ and His apostles, and the great fathers, but of the Greek pupils of the Egyptian pupils of the Brachmans and Gymnosophists.”
“These are the hermits of the Theban desert,” said Colonna calmly; “followers not of Christ and His apostles, and the great fathers, but of the Greek students of the Egyptian students of the Brachmans and Gymnosophists.”
And Clement thought that he burned to go and embrace the holy men and tell them his troubles, and seek their advice. But he was tied by the feet somehow, and could not move, and the crimson sun sank, and it got dusk, and the hives scarce visible, And Colonna's figure became shadowy and shapeless, but his eyes glowed ten times brighter; and this thing all eyes spoke and said: “Nay, let them be, a pack of fools I see how dismal it all is.” Then with a sudden sprightliness, “But I hear one of them has a manuscript of Petronius, on papyrus; I go to buy it; farewell for ever, for ever, for ever.”
And Clement felt a strong urge to go and hug the holy men, share his troubles, and ask for their advice. But he felt somehow stuck, unable to move, and the red sun set, turning it to dusk, with the hives barely visible. Colonna's figure faded into a shadowy shape, yet his eyes shone even brighter; and this was reflected in the gaze of everyone present, saying: “No, just leave them be, a bunch of fools. I can see how bleak it all is.” Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he added, “But I hear one of them has a manuscript of Petronius on papyrus; I’m going to buy it; goodbye forever, forever, forever.”
And it was pitch dark, and a light came at Clement's back like a gentle stroke, a glorious roseate light. It warmed as well as brightened. It loosened his feet from the ground; he turned round, and there, her face irradiated with sunshine, and her hair glittering like the gloriola of a saint, was Margaret Brandt.
And it was completely dark, and a light appeared behind Clement like a gentle touch, a beautiful rosy glow. It warmed him as much as it lit up the surroundings. It lifted his feet off the ground; he turned around, and there, with a face glowing in sunlight and hair sparkling like a saint's halo, was Margaret Brandt.
She blushed and smiled and cast a look of ineffable tenderness on him, “Gerard,” she murmured, “be whose thou wilt by day, but at night be mine!”
She blushed and smiled, looking at him with an indescribable tenderness. “Gerard,” she whispered, “be whoever you want to be during the day, but at night, be mine!”
Even as she spoke, the agitation of seeing her so suddenly awakened him, and he found himself lying trembling from head to foot.
Even as she talked, the shock of seeing her awake so suddenly stirred him up, and he realized he was lying there shaking all over.
That radiant figure and mellow voice seemed to have struck his nightly keynote.
That bright figure and smooth voice seemed to have set his nightly tone.
Awake he could pray, and praise, and worship God; he was master of his thoughts. But if he closed his eyes in sleep, Margaret, or Satan in her shape, beset him, a seeming angel of light. He might dream of a thousand different things, wide as the poles asunder, ere he woke the imperial figure was sure to come and extinguish all the rest in a moment, stellas exortus uti aetherius sol; for she came glowing with two beauties never before united, an angel's radiance and a woman's blushes.
Awake, he could pray, praise, and worship God; he was in control of his thoughts. But if he closed his eyes to sleep, Margaret—or Satan in her form—would confront him, appearing as a seeming angel of light. He might dream of a thousand different things, as different as night and day, but before he woke, the imposing figure would inevitably appear and overshadow everything else in an instant, like the dawn rising as the bright sun; for she came radiant, with two beauties never combined before: the glow of an angel and the blush of a woman.
Angels cannot blush. So he knew it was a fiend.
Angels can’t blush. So he knew it was a demon.
He was alarmed, but not so much surprised as at the demon's last artifice. From Anthony to Nicholas of the Rock scarce hermit that had not been thus beset; sometimes with gay voluptuous visions, sometimes with lovely phantoms, warm, tangible, and womanly without, demons within, nor always baffled even by the saints. Witness that “angel form with a devil's heart” that came hanging its lovely head, like a bruised flower, to St. Macarius, with a feigned tale, and wept, and wept, and wept, and beguiled him first of his tears and then of half his virtue.
He was alarmed, but not as surprised as he had been by the demon's last trick. From Anthony to Nicholas of the Rock, hardly a hermit hadn’t faced this challenge; sometimes with enticing, indulgent visions, sometimes with beautiful phantoms, warm, tangible, and womanly on the outside, demons on the inside, and not always thwarted even by the saints. Take, for example, that “angelic figure with a devil's heart” that came to St. Macarius, hanging its lovely head like a damaged flower, with a fabricated story, crying, and crying, and crying, and tricked him first out of his tears and then out of half his virtue.
But with the examples of Satanic power and craft had come down copious records of the hermits' triumphs and the weapons by which they had conquered.
But along with the examples of Satanic power and trickery, there were plenty of records of the hermits' victories and the tools they used to overcome challenges.
Domandum est Corpus; the body must be tamed; this had been their watchword for twelve hundred years. It was a tremendous war-cry; for they called the earthly affections, as well as appetites, body, and crushed the whole heart through the suffering and mortified flesh.
Domandum est Corpus; the body must be tamed; this had been their motto for twelve hundred years. It was a powerful battle cry; for they referred to earthly desires and appetites as the body and suppressed the whole heart through the pain and disciplined flesh.
Clement then said to himself that the great enemy of man had retired but to spring with more effect, and had allowed him a few days of true purity and joy only to put him off his guard against the soft blandishments he was pouring over the soul that had survived the buffeting of his black wings. He applied himself to tame the body, he shortened his sleep, lengthened his prayers, and increased his severe temperance to abstinence. Hitherto, following the ordinary rule, he had eaten only at sunset. Now he ate but once in forty-eight hours, drinking a little water every day.
Clement then thought to himself that the great enemy of man had retreated only to come back stronger, allowing him a few days of true purity and joy just to lower his guard against the tempting whispers that were being poured over the soul that had managed to survive the onslaught of his dark wings. He focused on controlling his body, reducing his sleep, increasing his prayers, and stepping up his strict discipline to complete abstinence. Until now, following the usual practice, he had eaten only at sunset. Now he ate just once every forty-eight hours, drinking only a little water each day.
On this the visions became more distinct.
On this, the visions became clearer.
Then he flew to a famous antidote, to “the grand febrifuge” of anchorites—cold water.
Then he flew to a well-known remedy, to “the ultimate fever reducer” of hermits—cold water.
He found the deepest part of the stream that ran by his cell; it rose not far off at a holy well; and clearing the bottom of the large stones, made a hole where he could stand in water to the chin, and fortified by so many examples, he sprang from his rude bed upon the next diabolical assault, and entered the icy water.
He discovered the deepest part of the stream that flowed by his cell; it originated not far away at a holy spring. After clearing the larger stones from the bottom, he created a spot where he could stand in water up to his chin. Strengthened by so many examples, he jumped from his rough bed at the next cruel attack and stepped into the freezing water.
It made him gasp and almost shriek with the cold. It froze his marrow. “I shall die,” he cried, “I shall die; but better this than fire eternal.”
It made him gasp and nearly scream from the cold. It chilled him to the bone. “I’m going to die,” he cried, “I’m going to die; but this is better than eternal fire.”
And the next day he was so stiff in all his joints he could not move, and he seemed one great ache. And even in sleep he felt that his very bones were like so many raging teeth, till the phantom he dreaded came and gave one pitying smile, and all the pain was gone.
And the next day he was so stiff in all his joints that he couldn't move, and he felt like one big ache. Even in his sleep, he felt like his bones were filled with sharp pain, until the phantom he feared came and gave one sympathetic smile, and all the pain disappeared.
Then, feeling that to go into the icy water again, enfeebled by fasts as he was, might perhaps carry the guilt of suicide, he scourged himself till the blood ran, and so lay down smarting. And when exhaustion began to blunt the smart down to a throb, that moment the present was away, and the past came smiling back. He sat with Margaret at the duke's feast, the minstrels played divinely, and the purple fountains gushed. Youth and love reigned in each heart, and perfumed the very air.
Then, feeling that diving into the icy water again, weakened by fasting as he was, might be seen as an act of suicide, he whipped himself until the blood flowed and lay down, stinging. And when exhaustion started to dull the sting into a throb, at that moment the present faded away, and the past returned with a smile. He sat with Margaret at the duke's feast, the musicians played beautifully, and the purple fountains flowed. Youth and love filled every heart and scented the very air.
Then the scene shifted, and they stood at the altar together man and wife. And no interruption this time, and they wandered hand in hand, and told each other their horrible dreams. As for him, “he had dreamed she was dead, and he was a monk; and really the dream had been so vivid and so full of particulars that only his eyesight could even now convince him it was only a dream, and they were really one.”
Then the scene changed, and they stood together at the altar as husband and wife. There were no interruptions this time, and they walked hand in hand, sharing their terrible dreams with each other. As for him, “he had dreamed she was dead, and he was a monk; and the dream had felt so real and detailed that only his sight could currently convince him it was just a dream, and that they were truly one.”
And this new keynote once struck, every tune ran upon it. Awake he was Clement the hermit, risen from unearthly visions of the night, as dangerous as they were sweet; asleep he was Gerard Eliassoen, the happy husband of the loveliest and best, and truest girl in Holland: all the happier that he had been for some time the sport of hideous dreams, in which he had lost her.
And once this new keynote was struck, every melody followed. He was awake, Clement the hermit, rising from otherworldly dreams of the night, as perilous as they were pleasant; he was asleep, Gerard Eliassoen, the joyful husband of the most beautiful, kindest, and truest girl in Holland: even happier because he had recently been tormented by awful nightmares, where he had lost her.
His constant fasts, coupled with other austerities, and the deep mental anxiety of a man fighting with a supernatural foe, had now reduced him nearly to a skeleton; but still on those aching bones hung flesh unsubdued, and quivering with an earthly passion; so, however, he thought; “or why had ill spirits such power over him?” His opinion was confirmed, when one day he detected himself sinking to sleep actually with a feeling of complacency, because now Margaret would come and he should feel no more pain, and the unreal would be real, and the real unreal, for an hour.
His constant fasting, along with other strict practices, and the deep mental stress of a man battling a supernatural enemy, had almost turned him into a skeleton; yet even on those aching bones, there was still flesh that was not subdued and was trembling with earthly desire; so he thought to himself, “or why would evil spirits have such control over him?” His belief was reinforced when one day he caught himself drifting off to sleep with a sense of satisfaction, because soon Margaret would come, and he would feel no more pain, and what was unreal would become real, while what was real would feel unreal, even if just for an hour.
On this he rose hastily with a cry of dismay, and stripping to the skin climbed up to the brambles above his cave, and flung himself on them, and rolled on them writhing with the pain: then he came into his den a mass of gore, and lay moaning for hours; till, out of sheer exhaustion, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
On this, he jumped up quickly with a cry of alarm, stripped down to his skin, climbed up to the thorns above his cave, threw himself onto them, and rolled around in agony. After that, he returned to his den covered in blood and lay there moaning for hours, until, completely worn out, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He awoke to bodily pain, and mental exultation; he had broken the fatal spell. Yes, it was broken; another and another day passed, and her image molested him no more. But he caught himself sighing at his victory.
He woke up in pain, both physically and mentally elated; he had shattered the deadly spell. Yes, it was gone; one day after another went by, and her image no longer troubled him. Yet, he found himself sighing at his triumph.
The birds got tamer and tamer, they perched upon his hand. Two of them let him gild their little claws. Eating but once in two days he had more to give them.
The birds became more and more tame, settling on his hand. Two of them allowed him to cover their tiny claws with gold. Since he only fed them once every two days, he had more to offer them.
His tranquility was not to last long.
His calm wouldn’t last.
A woman's voice came in from the outside, told him his own story in a very few words, and asked him to tell her where Gerard was to be found.
A woman's voice came from outside, briefly recounted his story, and asked him where Gerard could be found.
He was so astounded he could only say, with an instinct of self-defence, “Pray for the soul of Gerard the son of Eli!” meaning that he was dead to the world. And he sat wondering.
He was so shocked that he could only say, instinctively defending himself, “Pray for the soul of Gerard the son of Eli!” meaning that he was gone from this world. And he sat there, pondering.
When the woman was gone, he determined, after an inward battle, to risk being seen, and he peeped after her to see who it could be; but he took so many precautions, and she ran so quickly back to her friend, that the road was clear.
When the woman left, he decided, after a struggle within himself, to take the chance of being seen, so he looked after her to find out who she was; but he was so careful, and she hurried back to her friend so fast, that the path was clear.
“Satan!” said he directly.
“Satan!” he said directly.
And that night back came his visions of earthly love and happiness so vividly, he could count every auburn hair in Margaret's head, and see the pupils of her eyes.
And that night, his visions of earthly love and happiness returned so vividly that he could count every auburn hair on Margaret's head and see the pupils of her eyes.
Then he began to despair, and said, “I must leave this country; here I am bound fast in memory's chain;” and began to dread his cell. He said, “A breath from hell hath infected it, and robbed even these holy words of their virtue.” And unconsciously imitating St. Jerome, a victim of earthly hallucinations, as overpowering, and coarser, he took his warmest covering out into the wood hard by, and there flung down under a tree that torn and wrinkled leather bag of bones, which a little ago might have served a sculptor for Apollo.
Then he started to feel hopeless and said, “I need to leave this country; here I am stuck in the chains of memory;” and began to fear his cell. He said, “A breath from hell has tainted it, even stealing the power from these holy words.” Without realizing it, imitating St. Jerome, who was a victim of overwhelming earthly hallucinations, he took his warmest blanket out into the nearby woods and there threw down under a tree that torn and wrinkled leather bag of bones, which not long ago could have been used by a sculptor to create Apollo.
Whether the fever of his imagination intermitted, as a master mind of our day has shown that all things intermit(9) or that this really broke some subtle link, I know not, but his sleep was dreamless.
Whether the intensity of his imagination came and went, as a brilliant thinker of our time has demonstrated that all things come and go, or that this truly severed some delicate connection, I can't say, but his sleep was dreamless.
He awoke nearly frozen, but warm with joy within.
He woke up feeling almost frozen, but with warmth and joy inside.
“I shall yet be a true hermit, Dei gratia,” said he.
"I will still be a true hermit, God willing," he said.
The next day some good soul left on his little platform a new lambs-wool pelisse and cape, warm, soft, and ample.
The next day, someone kind left a new lamb's wool coat and cape on his little platform, cozy, soft, and roomy.
He had a moment's misgiving on account of its delicious softness and warmth; but that passed. It was the right skin(10), and a mark that Heaven approved his present course.
He felt a brief doubt because of its amazing softness and warmth, but that went away. It was the right skin(10), a sign that Heaven supported his current path.
It restored warmth to his bones after he came in from his short rest.
It warmed him up after he came in from his quick break.
And now, at one moment he saw victory before him if he could but live to it; at another, he said to himself, “'Tis but another lull; be on thy guard, Clement.”
And now, at one moment he saw victory ahead of him if he could just make it there; at another, he reminded himself, “It's just another pause; stay alert, Clement.”
And this thought agitated his nerves and kept him in continual awe.
And this thought made him anxious and kept him in a constant state of wonder.
He was like a soldier within the enemy's lines.
He felt like a soldier trapped behind enemy lines.
One night, a beautiful clear frosty night, he came back to his cell, after a short rest. The stars were wonderful. Heaven seemed a thousand times larger as well as brighter than earth, and to look with a thousand eyes instead of one.
One night, a beautiful, clear, frosty night, he returned to his cell after a short rest. The stars were amazing. The sky seemed a thousand times larger and brighter than the earth, as if it could see with a thousand eyes instead of just one.
“Oh, wonderful,” he cried, “that there should be men who do crimes by night; and others scarce less mad, who live for this little world, and not for that great and glorious one, which nightly, to all eyes not blinded by custom, reveals its glowing glories. Thank God I am a hermit.”
“Oh, wonderful,” he exclaimed, “that there are people who commit crimes at night; and others just as crazy, who live for this small world, and not for that amazing and glorious one, which nightly, to all eyes not blinded by habit, shows its brilliant wonders. Thank God I am a hermit.”
And in this mood he came to his cell door.
And in this mood, he arrived at his cell door.
He paused at it; it was closed.
He paused at it; it was shut.
“Why, methought I left it open,” said he, “The wind. There is not a breath of wind. What means this?”
“Why, I thought I left it open,” he said. “The wind. There isn’t a hint of wind. What does this mean?”
He stood with his hand upon the rugged door. He looked through one of the great chinks, for it was much smaller in places than the aperture it pretended to close, and saw his little oil wick burning just where he had left it.
He stood with his hand on the rough door. He looked through one of the big gaps, since it was much smaller in some spots than the opening it claimed to cover, and saw his small oil wick burning right where he had left it.
“How is it with me,” he sighed, “when I start and tremble at nothing? Either I did shut it, or the fiend hath shut it after me to disturb my happy soul. Retro Sathanas!”
“How is it with me,” he sighed, “when I start and tremble at nothing? Either I did shut it, or the fiend has shut it after me to disturb my happy soul. Back off, Satan!”
And he entered his cave rapidly, and began with somewhat nervous expedition to light one of his largest tapers. While he was lighting it, there was a soft sigh in the cave.
And he quickly entered his cave and nervously set about lighting one of his largest candles. As he was doing this, a soft sigh echoed in the cave.
He started and dropped the candle just as it was lighting, and it went out.
He started to light the candle but dropped it right as it caught flame, and it went out.
He stooped for it hurriedly and lighted it, listening intently.
He quickly bent down to grab it and lit it, listening carefully.
When it was lighted he shaded it with his hand from behind, and threw the faint light all round the cell.
When it was lit, he shielded it with his hand from behind and cast the dim light all around the cell.
In the farthest corner the outline of the wall seemed broken.
In the farthest corner, the outline of the wall looked uneven.
He took a step towards the place with his heart beating.
He took a step toward the spot with his heart racing.
The candle at the same time getting brighter, he saw it was the figure of a woman.
The candle was getting brighter, and he saw that it was the figure of a woman.
Another step with his knees knocking together.
Another step with his knees shaking together.
IT WAS MARGARET BRANDT.
It was Margaret Brandt.
(1) Beat down Satan under our feet.
(2) Up, hearts!
(3) O God our refuge and strength.
(4) O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world,
have mercy upon me!
(5) O Holy Trinity, one God, have mercy upon us.
(6) From the assaults of demons—from the wrath to come—
from everlasting damnation, deliver us, O Lord!
(7) See the English collect, St., Michael and all Angels.
(8) Of whom may we seek succour but of Thee, O Lord, who for
our sins art justly displeased (and that torrent of prayer,
the following verse).
(9) Dr. Dickson, author of Fallacies of the Faculty, etc.
(10) It is related of a mediaeval hermit, that being offered
a garment made of cats' skins, he rejected it, saying, “I
have heard of a lamb of God but I never heard of a cat of
God.”
(1) Crush Satan beneath our feet.
(2) Rise up, hearts!
(3) Oh God, our refuge and strength.
(4) Oh Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on me!
(5) Oh Holy Trinity, one God, have mercy on us.
(6) From the attacks of demons—from the coming wrath—from everlasting damnation, deliver us, Oh Lord!
(7) Refer to the English prayer, St. Michael and all Angels.
(8) Who else can we seek help from but You, Oh Lord, who are justly angry with us for our sins (and that stream of prayer, the following verse).
(9) Dr. Dickson, author of Fallacies of the Faculty, etc.
(10) It’s said that a medieval hermit, when offered a garment made of cats' skins, rejected it, saying, “I’ve heard of the Lamb of God but I’ve never heard of a cat of God.”CHAPTER XCIV
HER attitude was one to excite pity rather than terror, in eyes not blinded by a preconceived notion. Her bosom was fluttering like a bird, and the red and white coming and going in her cheeks, and she had her hand against the wall by the instinct of timid things, she trembled so; and the marvellous mixed gaze of love, and pious awe, and pity, and tender memories, those purple eyes cast on the emaciated and glaring hermit, was an event in nature.
HER attitude was more likely to evoke pity than fear, in eyes not clouded by preconceived ideas. Her chest was rising and falling like a bird, with the redness and paleness alternating in her cheeks. She had her hand against the wall instinctively, shivering from nervousness; and the incredible blend of love, reverence, pity, and fond memories in those purple eyes directed towards the thin, intense hermit was something remarkable in nature.
“Aha!” he cried. “Thou art come at last in flesh and blood; come to me as thou camest to holy Anthony. But I am ware of thee. I thought thy wiles were not exhausted. I am armed.” With this he snatched up his small crucifix and held it out at her, astonished, and the candle in the other hand, both crucifix and candle shaking violently. “Exorcizo te.”
“Aha!” he shouted. “You’ve finally come in person; just like you did to holy Anthony. But I’m onto you. I thought your tricks weren’t finished yet. I’m ready.” With that, he grabbed his small crucifix and held it out toward her, shocked, while the candle in his other hand shook violently along with the crucifix. “I command you to leave.”
“Ah, no!” cried she piteously; and put out two pretty deprecating palms. “Alas! work me no ill! It is Margaret.”
“Ah, no!” she cried sadly, holding out two delicate hands in a pleading gesture. “Please, don’t harm me! It’s Margaret.”
“Liar!” shouted the hermit. “Margaret was fair, but not so supernatural fair as thou. Thou didst shrink at that sacred name, thou subtle hypocrite. In Nomine Dei exorcizo vos.”
“Liar!” shouted the hermit. “Margaret was beautiful, but not as extraordinarily beautiful as you. You flinched at that sacred name, you cunning hypocrite. In the name of God, I exorcise you.”
“Ah, Jesu!” gasped Margaret, in extremity of terror, “curse me not! I will go home. I thought I might come. For very manhood be-Latin me not! Oh, Gerard, is it thus you and I meet after all, after all?”
“Ah, Jesus!” gasped Margaret, in extreme terror, “don’t curse me! I’ll go home. I thought I could come. For the sake of being a man, don’t put me down like this! Oh, Gerard, is this really how you and I meet after everything, after everything?”
And she cowered almost to her knees and sobbed with superstitious fear and wounded affection.
And she shrank down almost to her knees and cried with a mix of superstitious fear and hurt feelings.
Impregnated as he was with Satanophobia he might perhaps have doubted still whether this distressed creature, all woman and nature, was not all art and fiend. But her spontaneous appeal to that sacred name dissolved his chimera; and let him see with his eyes, and hear with his ears.
Impregnated as he was with Satanophobia he might perhaps have doubted still whether this distressed creature, all woman and nature, was not all art and fiend. But her spontaneous appeal to that sacred name dissolved his chimera; and let him see with his eyes, and hear with his ears.
He uttered a cry of self-reproach, and tried to raise her but what with fasts, what with the overpowering emotion of a long solitude so broken, he could not. “What,” he gasped, shaking over her, “and is it thou? And have I met thee with hard words? Alas!” And they were both choked with emotion and could not speak for a while.
He let out a cry of regret and tried to lift her, but between the fasting and the overwhelming emotion of their long separation, he couldn’t. “What,” he breathed, leaning over her, “is it really you? And did I greet you with harsh words? Oh no!” They were both overwhelmed with emotion and couldn’t speak for a while.
“I heed it not much,” said Margaret bravely, struggling with her tears; “you took me for another: for a devil; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!”
“I don’t care about it much,” said Margaret bravely, fighting back her tears; “you mistook me for someone else: for a monster; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!”
“Forgive me, sweet soul!” And as soon as he could speak more than a word at a time, he said, “I have been much beset by the evil one since I came here.”
“Forgive me, dear soul!” And as soon as he could speak more than a word at a time, he said, “I have been heavily troubled by the evil one since I got here.”
Margaret looked round with a shudder. “Like enow. Then oh take my hand, and let me lead thee from this foul place.”
Margaret looked around with a shiver. “That's enough. Then oh, take my hand, and let me guide you away from this horrible place.”
He gazed at her with astonishment.
He looked at her in amazement.
“What, desert my cell; and go into the world again? Is it for that thou hast come to me?” said he sadly and reproachfully.
“What, leave my cell and return to the world? Is that why you came to see me?” he said sadly and with reproach.
“Ay, Gerard, I am come to take thee to thy pretty vicarage: art vicar of Gouda, thanks to Heaven and thy good brother Giles; and mother and I have made it so neat for thee, Gerard. 'Tis well enow in winter I promise thee. But bide a bit till the hawthorn bloom, and anon thy walls put on their kirtle of brave roses, and sweet woodbine, Have we forgotten thee, and the foolish things thou lovest? And, dear Gerard, thy mother is waiting; and 'tis late for her to be out of her bed: prithee, prithee, come! And the moment we are out of this foul hole I'll show thee a treasure thou hast gotten, and knowest nought on't, or sure hadst never fled from us so. Alas! what is to do? What have I ignorantly said, to be regarded thus?”
“Hey, Gerard, I’m here to take you to your lovely vicarage: you're the vicar of Gouda, thanks to Heaven and your good brother Giles; and mom and I have made it really nice for you, Gerard. I promise it’s cozy in winter. But wait until the hawthorn blooms, and soon your walls will be dressed in beautiful roses and sweet honeysuckle. Have we forgotten you and the silly things you love? And, dear Gerard, your mom is waiting; it’s late for her to be out of bed: please, please, come! The moment we get out of this awful place, I’ll show you a treasure you've gotten that you don’t even know about, or you wouldn’t have run away from us. Oh no! What’s going on? What have I said without thinking to be treated like this?”
For he had drawn himself all up into a heap, and was looking at her with a strange gaze of fear and suspicion blended.
For he had curled himself into a ball and was staring at her with a mix of fear and suspicion.
“Unhappy girl,” said he solemnly, yet deeply agitated, “would you have me risk my soul and yours for a miserable vicarage and the flowers that grow on it? But this is not thy doing: the bowelless fiend sends thee, poor simple girl, to me with this bait. But oh, cunning fiend, I will unmask thee even to this thine instrument, and she shall see thee, and abhor thee as I do, Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because I love thee.”
“Unhappy girl,” he said seriously, though he was deeply troubled, “do you want me to risk my soul and yours for a miserable job as a vicar and the flowers that grow there? But this isn’t your fault: the heartless fiend is sending you, poor innocent girl, to me with this trap. But oh, clever fiend, I will expose you even to this your pawn, and she will see you and loathe you as I do. Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because I love you.”
“Oh! no, Gerard, you love me not or you would not have hidden from me; there was no need.”
“Oh! No, Gerard, you don't love me or you wouldn't have kept this from me; there was no need.”
“Let there be no deceit between us twain, that have loved so true; and after this night, shall meet no more on earth.”
“Let there be no lies between us two, who have loved so deeply; and after this night, we will meet no more on this earth.”
“Now God forbid!” said she.
"God forbid!" she said.
“I love thee, and thou hast not forgotten me, or thou hadst married ere this, and hadst not been the one to find me, buried here from sight of man. I am a priest, a monk: what but folly or sin can come of you and me living neighbours, and feeding a passion innocent once, but now (so Heaven wills it) impious and unholy? No, though my heart break I must be firm. 'Tis I that am the man, 'tis I that am the priest. You and I must meet no more, till I am schooled by solitude, and thou art wedded to another.”
“I love you, and you haven’t forgotten me, or else you would have married by now and wouldn’t be the one to find me, hidden away from everyone. I am a priest, a monk: what could come from us living so close and nourishing a once innocent passion, which now (as Heaven wills it) is wrong and unholy? No, even though my heart is breaking, I must stay strong. It's me who is the man, it’s me who is the priest. You and I can’t meet again until I’ve learned to be alone, and you’re married to someone else.”
“I consent to my doom but not to thine. I would ten times liever die; yet I will marry, ay, wed misery itself sooner than let thee lie in this foul dismal place, with yon sweet manse awaiting for thee.” Clement groaned; at each word she spoke out stood clearer and clearer two things—his duty, and the agony it must cost.
“I accept my fate, but not yours. I would rather die a hundred times; yet I will marry, yes, I’ll marry misery itself sooner than let you stay in this awful, bleak place, with that beautiful house waiting for you.” Clement groaned; with each word she uttered, two things became clearer and clearer—his duty, and the pain it would cause him.
“My beloved,” said he, with a strange mixture of tenderness and dogged resolution, “I bless thee for giving me one more sight of thy sweet face, and may God forgive thee, and bless thee, for destroying in a minute the holy peace it hath taken six months of solitude to build. No matter. A year of penance will, Dei gratia, restore me to my calm. My poor Margaret, I seem cruel: yet I am kind: 'tis best we part; ay, this moment.”
“My love,” he said, with a strange mix of tenderness and determination, “thank you for giving me one more glimpse of your sweet face. May God forgive you and bless you for shattering the holy peace that took me six months of solitude to find. It doesn’t matter. A year of penance will, God willing, bring me back to my calm. My poor Margaret, I may seem cruel, but I’m being kind: it’s best if we part; yes, right now.”
“Part, Gerard? Never: we have seen what comes of parting. Part? Why, you have not heard half my story; no, nor the tithe, 'Tis not for thy mere comfort I take thee to Gouda manse. Hear me!”
“Part, Gerard? Never: we know what happens when we part. Part? You haven’t even heard half of my story; not even a fraction. I'm not taking you to the Gouda manse just for your comfort. Listen to me!”
“I may not. Thy very voice is a temptation with its music, memory's delight.”
“I might not. Your voice alone is tempting with its music, a joy for my memories.”
“But I say you shall hear me, Gerard, for forth this place I go not unheard.”
“But I say you will listen to me, Gerard, for I will not leave this place without being heard.”
“Then must we part by other means,” said Clement sadly.
“Then we have to separate in a different way,” Clement said sadly.
“Alack! what other means? Wouldst put me to thine own door, being the stronger?”
“Alas! What other options do I have? Are you going to push me to your own doorstep, being the stronger one?”
“Nay, Margaret, well thou knowest I would suffer many deaths rather than put force on thee; thy sweet body is dearer to me than my own; but a million times dearer to me are our immortal souls, both thine and mine. I have withstood this direst temptation of all long enow. Now I must fly it: farewell! farewell!”
“Nah, Margaret, you know I would rather go through a million painful experiences than force you into anything; your beautiful body means more to me than my own; but our immortal souls, yours and mine, mean a million times more. I have resisted this ultimate temptation for a long time. Now I need to escape it: goodbye! goodbye!”
He made to the door, and had actually opened it and got half out, when she darted after and caught him by the arm.
He reached the door, actually opened it, and got halfway out when she rushed after him and grabbed his arm.
“Nay, then another must speak for me. I thought to reward thee for yielding to me; but unkind that thou art, I need his help I find; turn then this way one moment.”
“Nah, then someone else has to speak for me. I wanted to reward you for giving in to me; but since you’re being unkind, I need his help, it seems; so turn this way for just a moment.”
“Nay, nay.”
“No, no.”
“But I say ay! And then turn thy back on us an thou canst.” She somewhat relaxed her grasp, thinking he would never deny her so small a favour. But at this he saw his opportunity and seized it.
“But I say yes! And then turn your back on us if you can.” She slightly relaxed her grip, thinking he would never refuse her such a small favor. But at this, he saw his chance and took it.
“Fly, Clement, fly!” he almost shrieked; and his religious enthusiasm giving him for a moment his old strength, he burst wildly away from her, and after a few steps bounded over the little stream and ran beside it, but finding he was not followed stopped, and looked back.
“Fly, Clement, fly!” he nearly shouted; and in a moment of religious fervor that restored his old strength, he dashed away from her. After a few steps, he leaped over the small stream and ran alongside it, but realizing he wasn’t being followed, he stopped and looked back.
She was lying on her face, with her hands spread out.
She was lying face down, with her arms stretched out.
Yes, without meaning it, he had thrown her down and hurt her.
Yes, without intending to, he had pushed her down and injured her.
When he saw that, he groaned and turned back a step; but suddenly, by another impulse flung himself into the icy water instead.
When he saw that, he groaned and took a step back; but suddenly, driven by another impulse, he threw himself into the icy water instead.
“There, kill my body!” he cried, “but save my soul!”
“There, kill my body!” he shouted, “but save my soul!”
Whilst he stood there, up to his throat in liquid ice, so to speak, Margaret uttered one long, piteous moan, and rose to her knees.
While he stood there, up to his throat in freezing water, so to speak, Margaret let out one long, sorrowful moan and got up on her knees.
He saw her as plain almost as in midday. Saw her pale face and her eyes glistening; and then in the still night he heard these words:
He saw her as plain as if it were midday. He noticed her pale face and her glistening eyes; and then in the quiet night, he heard these words:
“Oh, God! Thou that knowest all, Thou seest how I am used. Forgive me then! For I will not live another day.” With this she suddenly started to her feet, and flew like some wild creature, wounded to death, close by his miserable hiding-place, shrieking:
“Oh, God! You who know everything, you see what I'm going through. Please forgive me! I can't live another day like this.” With that, she suddenly jumped to her feet and ran like a wild animal, mortally wounded, right by his miserable hiding place, screaming:
“CRUEL!—CRUEL!—CRUEL!—CRUEL!”
"CRUEL!—CRUEL!—CRUEL!—CRUEL!"
What manifold anguish may burst from a human heart in a single syllable. There were wounded love, and wounded pride, and despair, and coming madness all in that piteous cry. Clement heard, and it froze his heart with terror and remorse, worse than the icy water chilled the marrow of his bones.
What deep pain can come from a human heart in just one syllable? There was hurt love, wounded pride, despair, and the creeping madness all in that pitiful cry. Clement heard it, and it froze his heart with fear and guilt, even more than the icy water chilled the marrow in his bones.
He felt he had driven her from him for ever, and in the midst of his dismal triumph, the greatest he had won, there came an almost incontrollable impulse to curse the Church, to curse religion itself, for exacting such savage cruelty from mortal man. At last he crawled half dead out of the water, and staggered to his den. “I am safe here,” he groaned; “she will never come near me again; unmanly, ungrateful wretch that I am.” And he flung his emaciated, frozen body down on the floor, not without a secret hope that it might never rise thence alive.
He felt like he had pushed her away from him forever, and in the middle of his gloomy victory, the biggest he had ever achieved, an almost uncontrollable urge hit him to curse the Church, to curse religion itself for demanding such brutal cruelty from humanity. Finally, he crawled out of the water, feeling half dead, and stumbled to his hideout. “I'm safe here,” he moaned; “she'll never come near me again; what a coward and ungrateful jerk I am.” Then he threw his thin, frozen body down on the floor, secretly hoping it would never get up again.
But presently he saw by the hour-glass that it was past midnight.
But now he noticed by the hourglass that it was past midnight.
On this, he rose slowly and took off his wet things, and moaning all the time at the pain he had caused her he loved, put on the old hermit's cilice of bristles, and over that his breastplate. He had never worn either of these before, doubting himself worthy to don the arms of that tried soldier. But now he must give himself every aid; the bristles might distract his earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be holy virtue in the breastplate. Then he kneeled down and prayed God humbly to release him that very night from the burden of the flesh. Then he lighted all his candles, and recited his psalter doggedly; each word seemed to come like a lump of lead from a leaden heart, and to fall leaden to the ground; and in this mechanical office every now and then he moaned with all his soul. In the midst of which he suddenly observed a little bundle in the corner he had not seen before in the feebler light, and at one end of it something like gold spun into silk.
On this, he got up slowly and took off his wet clothes, moaning the entire time about the pain he had caused the woman he loved. He put on the old hermit's cilice made of bristles and then his breastplate over that. He had never worn either of these before, doubting he was worthy to wear the armor of that seasoned soldier. But now he had to give himself every help; the bristles might distract him from his earthly remorse through physical pain, and there might be some holy virtue in the breastplate. Then he knelt down and prayed humbly to God to release him that very night from the burden of the flesh. After that, he lit all his candles and recited his psalter stubbornly; each word felt heavy like a lump of lead coming from a leaden heart and fell heavily to the ground. During this mechanical task, he occasionally moaned with all his soul. In the midst of this, he suddenly noticed a small bundle in the corner that he hadn't seen before in the dim light, and at one end of it, something resembling gold spun into silk.
He went to see what it could be; and he had no sooner viewed it closer, than he threw up his hands with rapture. “It is a seraph,” he whispered, “a lovely seraph. Heaven hath witnessed my bitter trial, and approves my cruelty; and this flower of the skies is sent to cheer me, fainting under my burden.”
He went to see what it was; and as soon as he looked at it more closely, he threw up his hands in delight. “It’s an angel,” he whispered, “a beautiful angel. Heaven has seen my tough times and supports my struggles; and this flower from the sky is here to lift me up, as I’m struggling under my load.”
He fell on his knees, and gazed with ecstasy on its golden hair, and its tender skin, and cheeks like a peach.
He dropped to his knees and looked in awe at its golden hair, soft skin, and cheeks like a peach.
“Let me feast my sad eyes on thee ere thou leavest me for thine ever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at thy parting, as it did at hers.”
“Let me gaze at you with my sorrowful eyes before you leave me for your forever-blessed home, and my room darkens again when you go, just like it did when she left.”
With all this, the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He opened wide two eyes, the colour of heaven; and seeing a strange figure kneeling over him, he cried piteously, “MUMMA! MUM-MA!” And the tears began to run down his little cheeks.
With all this, the hermit startled the beautiful visitor. He opened his big, sky-blue eyes, and when he saw a strange figure kneeling over him, he cried out in distress, “MOM! MOM-MY!” And tears started to stream down his little cheeks.
Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had not looked on the human face divine, estimated childish beauty more justly than we can; and in truth, this fair northern child, with its long golden hair, was far more angelic than any of our imagined angels. But now the spell was broken.
Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months hadn't seen another human face, appreciated childish beauty more accurately than we can; and honestly, this lovely northern child, with its long golden hair, was way more angelic than any of the angels we've imagined. But now the magic was gone.
Yet not unhappily. Clement it may be remembered, was fond of children, and true monastic life fosters this sentiment. The innocent distress on the cherubic face, the tears that ran so smoothly from those transparent violets, his eyes, and his pretty, dismal cry for his only friend, his mother, went through the hermit's heart. He employed all his gentleness and all his art to soothe him; and as the little soul was wonderfully intelligent for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased to cry out, and wonder took the place of fear; while, in silence, broken only in little gulps, he scanned, with great tearful eyes, this strange figure that looked so wild, but spoke so kindly, and wore armour, yet did not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement was equally perplexed to know how this little human flower came to lie sparkling and blooming in his gloomy cave. But he remembered he had left the door wide open, and he was driven to conclude that, owing to this negligence, some unfortunate creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunity to get rid of her child for ever.(1). At this his bowels yearned so over the poor deserted cherub, that the tears of pure tenderness stood in his eyes, and still, beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the divine goodness, which had so directed her heartlessness as to comfort His servant's breaking heart.
Yet not unhappily. Clement, as you may remember, loved children, and true monastic life encourages this feeling. The innocent distress on the cherubic face, the tears that flowed so freely from those clear, violet-like eyes, and his pretty, sad cry for his only friend, his mother, touched the hermit's heart. He used all his gentleness and skill to soothe him; and since the little one was remarkably intelligent for his age, he soon succeeded enough that the crying stopped, and wonder replaced fear; while, in silence, broken only by small gasps, he stared with large, tear-filled eyes at this strange figure that looked so wild but spoke so kindly, and wore armor yet did not harm little boys but comforted them. Clement was equally confused about how this little human flower ended up sparkling and blooming in his dark cave. However, he remembered he had left the door wide open, and he concluded that, due to this oversight, some unfortunate person, high or low, had taken this chance to get rid of her child forever. At this, his heart ached for the poor abandoned cherub, and tears of pure tenderness filled his eyes; still, beneath the mother's wrongdoing, he saw the divine goodness that had turned her heartlessness into a way to comfort His servant's breaking heart.
“Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I would not change thee for e'en a cherub in heaven.”
“Now bless you, bless you, bless you, sweet innocent, I wouldn’t trade you for even a cherub in heaven.”
“At's pooty,” replied the infant, ignoring contemptuously, after the manner of infants, all remarks that did not interest him.
“At's pretty,” replied the baby, dismissing with indifference, like babies do, all comments that didn't catch his attention.
“What is pretty here, my love, besides thee?”
“What is beautiful here, my love, besides you?”
“Ookum-gars,(2) said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breastplate.
“Okay, look,” said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breastplate.
“Quot liberi, tot sententiunculae!” Hector's child screamed at his father's glittering casque and nodding crest; and here was a mediaeval babe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs assuaged.
“Quot liberi, tot sententiunculae!” Hector's child yelled at his father's shining helmet and swaying plume; and here was a medieval baby captivated by a shiny breastplate, and his sorrows soothed.
“There are prettier things here than that,” said Clement, “there are little birds; lovest thou birds?”
“There are nicer things here than that,” said Clement, “there are little birds; do you love birds?”
“Nay. Ay. En um ittle, ery ittle? Not ike torks. Hate torks um bigger an baby.”
“Nah. I mean, just a little, very little? Not like torques. I hate torques, they're bigger than a baby.”
He then confided, in very broken language, that the storks with their great flapping wings scared him, and were a great trouble and worry to him, darkening his existence more or less.
He then confided, in very halting speech, that the storks with their huge flapping wings scared him and were a significant source of trouble and worry, casting a shadow over his life.
“Ay, but my birds are very little, and good, and oh, so pretty!”
“Aww, but my birds are really small, cute, and just so pretty!”
“Den I ikes 'm,” said the child authoritatively, “I ont my mammy.”
“Then I don't like them,” said the child confidently, “I want my mommy.”
“Alas, sweet dove! I doubt I shall have to fill her place as best I may. Hast thou no daddy as well as mammy, sweet one?”
“Unfortunately, sweet dove! I doubt I can take her place as well as I can. Don’t you have a dad as well as a mom, sweet one?”
Now not only was this conversation from first to last, the relative ages, situations, and all circumstances of the parties considered, as strange a one as ever took place between two mortal creatures, but at or within a second or two of the hermit's last question, to turn the strange into the marvellous, came an unseen witness, to whom every word that passed carried ten times the force it did to either of the speakers.
Now, this conversation was, from start to finish, as strange as any that could occur between two people, considering their ages, situations, and all circumstances involved. Just a second or two after the hermit's last question, to make the strange even more incredible, an unseen witness arrived, for whom every word exchanged held ten times the impact it had for either of the speakers.
Since, therefore, it is with her eyes you must now see, and hear with her ears, I go back a step for her.
Since you now have to see with her eyes and hear with her ears, I’ll take a step back for her.
Margaret, when she ran past Gerard, was almost mad. She was in that state of mind in which affectionate mothers have been known to kill their children, sometimes along with themselves, sometimes alone, which last is certainly maniacal, She ran to Reicht Heynes pale and trembling, and clasped her round the neck, “Oh, Reicht! oh, Reicht!” and could say no more.
Margaret, as she sprinted past Gerard, was nearly frantic. She was in that frame of mind where loving mothers have been known to harm their children, sometimes alongside themselves, and sometimes alone, which is definitely insane. She rushed to Reicht Heyne, pale and shaking, and wrapped her arms around her neck, “Oh, Reicht! Oh, Reicht!” and couldn’t say anything more.
Reicht kissed her, and began to whimper; and would you believe it, the great mastiff uttered one long whine: even his glimmer of sense taught him grief was afoot.
Reicht kissed her and started to whimper; and would you believe it, the big mastiff let out a long whine: even he sensed that something sad was going on.
“Oh, Reicht!” moaned the despised beauty, as soon as she could utter a word for choking, “see how he has served me!” and she showed her hands, that were bleeding with falling on the stony ground. “He threw me down, he was so eager to fly from me, He took me for a devil; he said I came to tempt him. Am I the woman to tempt a man? you know me, Reicht.”
“Oh, Reicht!” moaned the hated beauty, as soon as she could speak through her choking, “look what he’s done to me!” and she showed her hands, which were bleeding from falling on the rocky ground. “He pushed me down, he was so desperate to get away from me. He thought I was a devil; he said I came to tempt him. Am I the kind of woman who tempts a man? You know me, Reicht.”
“Nay, in sooth, sweet Mistress Margaret, the last i' the world.”
“Nah, really, sweet Mistress Margaret, the last in the world.”
“And he would not look at my child. I'll fling myself and him into the Rotter this night.”
“And he wouldn’t look at my child. I’ll throw myself and him into the Rotter tonight.”
“Oh, fie! fie! eh, my sweet woman, speak not so. Is any man that breathes worth your child's life?”
“Oh, come on! Seriously, my sweet woman, don’t say that. Is there any man alive who’s worth your child’s life?”
“My child! where is he? Why, Reicht, I have left him behind. Oh, shame! is it possible I can love him to that degree as to forget my child? Ah! I am rightly served for it.”
“My child! Where is he? Oh no, Reicht, I’ve left him behind. How shameful! Is it possible that I could love him so much that I’d forget my own child? Ugh! I totally deserve this.”
And she sat down, and faithful Reicht beside her, and they sobbed in one another's arms.
And she sat down, with loyal Reicht beside her, and they cried in each other's arms.
After a while Margaret left off sobbing and said doggedly, “let us go home.”
After a bit, Margaret stopped crying and said firmly, “Let’s go home.”
“Ay, but the bairn?”
"Yeah, but what about the kid?"
“Oh! he is well where he is. My heart is turned against my very child, He cares nought for him; wouldn't see him, nor hear speak of him; and I took him there so proud, and made his hair so nice, I did, and put his new frock and cowl on him. Nay, turn about: it's his child as well as mine; let him keep it awhile: mayhap that will learn him to think more of its mother and his own.”
“Oh! he’s doing fine where he is. My heart is against my own child. He doesn’t care about him; wouldn’t see him or even want to hear his name. I took him there with so much pride, made his hair look so nice, I did, and put him in his new dress and hood. No, let’s switch it up: it’s his child just as much as mine; let him keep it for a while: maybe that will teach him to care more about its mother and his own.”
“High words off an empty stomach,” said Reicht.
“Empty words from an empty stomach,” said Reicht.
“Time will show. Come you home.”
“Time will tell. Come on home.”
They departed, and Time did show quicker than he levels abbeys, for at the second step Margaret stopped, and could neither go one way nor the other, but stood stock still.
They left, and Time moved faster than he levels abbeys, for at the second step Margaret stopped and could neither go one way nor the other, but stood completely still.
“Reicht,” said she piteously, “what else have I on earth? I cannot.”
“Rich,” she said sadly, “what else do I have in this world? I can’t.”
“Whoever said you could? Think you I paid attention? Words are woman's breath. Come back for him without more ado; 'tis time we were in our beds, much more he.”
“Whoever told you that you could? Do you think I was paying attention? Words are just empty talk. Come back for him without any more delay; it's time we were in bed, especially him.”
Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in that direction; but as they drew near the cell, she stopped again.
Reicht took the lead, and Margaret followed along without hesitation; but as they got closer to the cell, she stopped again.
“Reicht, go you and ask him, will he give me back my boy; for I could not bear the sight of him.”
“Reicht, go ask him if he’ll give me back my boy; I can’t stand to see him.”
“Alas! mistress, this do seem a sorry ending after all that hath been betwixt you twain. Bethink thee now, doth thine heart whisper no excuse for him? dost verily hate him for whom thou hast waited so long? Oh, weary world!”
“Wow! Mistress, this really does seem like a sad ending after everything that’s happened between you two. Think about it now; doesn’t your heart offer any excuse for him? Do you really hate him after waiting for so long? Oh, what a tiring world!”
“Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head for all that is in nature; but look on him I cannot; I have taken a horror of him. Oh! when I think of all I have suffered for him, and what I came here this night to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call him father. Ah, Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I have thought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised; and now my own is despised, Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he would have a good chance.”
“Hate him, Reicht? I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him for all the riches in the world; but I can’t even look at him; I’ve developed a deep aversion to him. Oh! when I think of everything I’ve endured for him, and what I came here tonight to do for him, bringing my own beloved to kiss him and call him father. Ah, Luke, my dear friend, my pain shows me yours. I haven’t thought enough about your suffering, whose true feelings I dismissed; and now my own feelings are dismissed, Reicht; if the poor guy were here now, he would have a good chance.”
“Well, he is not far off,” said Reicht Heynes; but somehow she did not say it with alacrity.
“Well, he’s not too far off,” Reicht Heynes said, but for some reason, she didn’t say it with enthusiasm.
“Speak not to me of any man,” said Margaret bitterly; “I hate them all.”
“Don’t talk to me about any guy,” Margaret said bitterly; “I hate all of them.”
“For the sake of one?”
“For one person's sake?”
“Flout me not, but prithee go forward, and get me what is my own, my sole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to my bosom again.”
“Don't tease me, but please go ahead and get me what is rightfully mine, my only joy in the world. You know I'm anxious until I have him in my arms again.”
Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her face with her apron, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, for her soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was the internal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, and started violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder.
Reicht moved ahead; Margaret sat by the roadside, covering her face with her apron and rocking back and forth like her people do, her heart heavy with bitterness and sorrow. The internal struggle was so intense that she didn't notice Reicht running back to her, and she jumped in surprise when the young woman placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Mistress Margaret!” said Reicht quietly, “take a fool's advice that loves ye. Go softly to yon cave, wi' all the ears and eyes your mother ever gave you.”
“Lady Margaret!” Reicht said softly, “take the advice of a fool who cares for you. Go carefully to that cave, with all the senses your mother ever gave you.”
“Why? Reicht?” stammered Margaret.
"Why? Right?" stammered Margaret.
“I thought the cave was afire, 'twas so light inside; and there were voices.”
“I thought the cave was on fire, it was so bright inside; and there were voices.”
“Voices?”
“Voices?”
“Ay, not one, but twain, and all unlike—a man's and a little child's talking as pleasant as you and me. I am no great hand at a keyhole for my part, 'tis paltry work; but if so be voices were a talking in yon cave, and them that owned those voices were so near to me as those are to thee, I'd go on all fours like a fox, and I'd crawl on my belly like a serpent, ere I'd lose one word that passes atwixt those twain.”
“Ay, not one, but two, and completely different—a man's voice and a little child's talking as comfortably as you and I do. I'm not very good at eavesdropping for my part, it's pretty lame; but if some voices were chatting in that cave, and their owners were as close to me as those are to you, I'd get down on all fours like a fox and crawl on my belly like a snake, before I'd miss a single word that passes between those two.”
“Whisht, Reicht! Bless thee! Bide thou here. Buss me! Pray for me!”
“Shh, Right! Bless you! Stay here. Kiss me! Please pray for me!”
And almost ere the agitated words had left her lips, Margaret was flying towards the hermitage as noiselessly as a lapwing.
And almost as soon as the troubled words left her lips, Margaret was darting towards the hermitage as quietly as a lapwing.
Arrived near it, she crouched, and there was something truly serpentine in the gliding, flexible, noiseless movements by which she reached the very door, and there she found a chink, and listened. And often it cost her a struggle not to burst in upon them; but warned by defeat, she was cautious, and resolute, let well alone, And after a while, slowly and noiselessly she reared her head, like a snake its crest, to where she saw the broadest chink of all, and looked with all her eyes and soul, as well as listened.
Arriving near it, she crouched down, and there was something truly snake-like in the smooth, flexible, silent way she moved right up to the door, where she found a crack and listened. Often, it took a lot of effort for her not to burst in on them; but having learned from past failures, she was careful and determined to keep her distance. After a while, she slowly and silently lifted her head, like a snake raising its crest, to where she spotted the widest crack of all, looking with all her eyes and soul, as well as listening.
The little boy then being asked whether he had no daddy, at first shook his head, and would say nothing; but being pressed he suddenly seemed to remember something, and said he, “Dad-da ill man; run away and left poor mum-ma.”
The little boy was asked if he didn't have a dad. At first, he shook his head and didn’t say anything. But when he was pressed, he suddenly seemed to remember something and said, “Dad-da is sick; he ran away and left poor mum-ma.”
She who heard this winced. It was as new to her as to Clement. Some interfering foolish woman had gone and said this to the boy, and now out it came in Gerard's very face. His answer surprised her; he burst out, “The villain! the monster! he must be born without bowels to desert thee, sweet one, Ah! he little knows the joy he has turned his back on. Well, my little dove, I must be father and mother to thee, since the one runs away, and t'other abandons thee to my care. Now to-morrow I shall ask the good people that bring me my food to fetch some nice eggs and milk for thee as well; for bread is good enough for poor old good-for-nothing me, but not for thee. And I shall teach thee to read.”
She who heard this winced. It was as new to her as it was to Clement. Some interfering, foolish woman had gone and told this to the boy, and now it came out right in Gerard's face. His response surprised her; he exclaimed, “The bastard! The monster! He must be heartless to abandon you, my dear. Ah! He has no idea what joy he's missing out on. Well, my little dove, I’ll have to be both your father and mother since one runs away and the other leaves you in my care. Tomorrow, I’ll ask the kind people who bring me my food to also get some nice eggs and milk for you; bread is good enough for poor old useless me, but not for you. And I’ll teach you how to read.”
“I can yead, I can yead.”
“I can yead, I can yead.”
“Ay, verily, so young? all the better; we will read good books together, and I shall show thee the way to heaven. Heaven is a beautiful place, a thousand times fairer and better than earth, and there be little cherubs like thyself, in white, glad to welcome thee and love thee. Wouldst like to go to heaven one day?”
“Ah, really, so young? That's even better; we’ll read great books together, and I’ll show you the way to heaven. Heaven is a beautiful place, a thousand times fairer and better than earth, and there are little cherubs like you, dressed in white, eager to welcome you and love you. Would you like to go to heaven someday?”
“Ay, along wi'-my-mammy.”
"Yeah, with my mom."
“What, not without her then?”
"What, not without her?"
“Nay. I ont my mammy. Where is my mammy?”
“Nah. I want my mom. Where is my mom?”
(Oh! what it cost poor Margaret not to burst in and clasp him to her heart!)
(Oh! how much it cost poor Margaret not to rush in and hug him to her heart!)
“Well, fret not, sweetheart, mayhap she will come when thou art asleep. Wilt thou be good now and sleep?”
“Well, don’t worry, sweetheart, maybe she’ll come while you’re asleep. Will you be good now and go to sleep?”
“I not eepy. Ikes to talk.”
“I’m not sleepy. I like to talk.”
“Well, talk we then; tell me thy pretty name.”
“Well, let's talk; tell me your lovely name.”
“Baby.” And he opened his eyes with amazement at this great hulking creature's ignorance.
“Baby.” He opened his eyes, amazed by this huge creature's lack of understanding.
“Hast none other?”
"Do you have anyone else?"
“Nay.”
"No."
“What shall I do to pleasure thee, baby? Shall I tell thee a story?”
“What should I do to please you, baby? Should I tell you a story?”
“I ikes tories,” said the boy, clapping his hands.
“I like stories,” said the boy, clapping his hands.
“Or sing thee a song?”
"Or should I sing you a song?"
“I ikes tongs,” and he became excited.
“I like tongs,” and he got excited.
“Choose then, a song or a story.”
“Choose a song or a story.”
“Ting I a tong. Nay, tell I a tory. Nay, ting I a tong. Nay—And the corners of his little mouth turned down and he had half a mind to weep because he could not have both, and could not tell which to forego. Suddenly his little face cleared: “Ting I a tory,” said he.
“Ting I a song. No, tell me a story. No, ting I a song. No—And the corners of his little mouth turned down, and he was about to cry because he couldn't have both and didn't know which to choose. Suddenly, his little face brightened: “Ting I a story,” he said.
“Sing thee a story, baby? Well, after all, why not? And wilt thou sit o' my knee and hear it?”
“Want me to tell you a story, baby? Well, why not? Will you sit on my lap and listen?”
“Yea.”
"Yeah."
“Then I must e'en doff this breastplate, 'Tis too hard for thy soft cheek. So. And now I must doff this bristly cilice; they would prick thy tender skin, perhaps make it bleed, as they have me, I see. So. And now I put on my best pelisse, in honour of thy worshipful visit. See how soft and warm it is; bless the good soul that sent it; and now I sit me down; so. And I take thee on my left knee, and put my arm under thy little head; so, And then the psaltery, and play a little tune; so, not too loud.”
“Then I guess I have to take off this breastplate. It’s too hard for your delicate cheek. Alright. Now I need to remove this scratchy shirt; it might poke your soft skin and possibly make you bleed, just like it did to me, I can see. Alright. Now I’m putting on my best coat to honor your wonderful visit. Look how soft and warm it is; bless the good person who gave it to me. Now I’m going to sit down; okay. I’ll place you on my left knee and put my arm under your little head; alright. Then I’ll get the psaltery and play a little tune; nothing too loud.”
“I ikes dat.”
"I like that."
“I am right glad on't. Now list the story.”
"I’m really glad about that. Now let’s hear the story."
He chanted a child's story in a sort of recitative, singing a little moral refrain now and then. The boy listened with rapture.
He recited a children's story in a sing-song way, adding a little moral refrain from time to time. The boy listened with delight.
“I ikes oo,” said he, “Ot is oo? is oo a man?”
“I like you,” he said, “What is you? Is you a man?”
“Ay, little heart, and a great sinner to boot.”
“Aye, little one, and a big sinner as well.”
“I ikes great tingers. Ting one other tory.”
“I like great things. Here’s another story.”
Story No. 2 was Chanted.
Story No. 2 was Recited.
“I ubbs oo,” cried the child impetuously, “Ot caft(3) is oo?”
“I love you,” cried the child impulsively, “What cake is it?”
“I am a hermit, love.”
"I'm a hermit, babe."
“I ubbs vermins. Ting other one.”
I love vermin. Bring the other one.
But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her leaden sceptre over the youthful eyelids. “I is not eepy,” whined he very faintly, and succumbed.
But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her heavy scepter over the young eyelids. “I’m not sleepy,” he whined very faintly and gave in.
Clement laid down his psaltery softly and began to rock his new treasure in his arms, and to crone over him a little lullaby well known in Tergou, with which his own mother had often sent him off.
Clement gently set aside his psaltery and started to cradle his new treasure in his arms, humming a familiar lullaby from Tergou, the same one his mother had often used to soothe him to sleep.
And the child sank into a profound sleep upon his arm. And he stopped croning and gazed on him with infinite tenderness, yet sadness; for at that moment he could not help thinking what might have been but for a piece of paper with a lie in it.
And the child fell into a deep sleep on his arm. He stopped singing softly and looked at him with endless love, but also sadness; because at that moment he couldn't help but think about what could have been if it weren't for a piece of paper with a lie on it.
He sighed deeply.
He sighed.
The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with it, and in it, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was down at his knee with a timorous hand upon his shoulder.
The next moment, the moonlight flooded into his cell, and with it, in it, and almost as quickly as it, Margaret Brandt was down at his knee with a nervous hand on his shoulder.
“GERARD, YOU DO NOT REJECT US, YOU CANNOT.”
“GERARD, YOU CAN'T REFUSE US, YOU HAVE TO.”
(1) More than one hermit had received a present of this
kind.
(2) Query, “looking glass.”
(3) Craft. He means trade or profession.
(1) More than one hermit has received a gift like this.
(2) Query, “mirror.”
(3) Craft. It refers to a trade or job.CHAPTER XCV
The startled hermit glared from his nurseling to Margaret, and from her to him, in amazement, equalled only by his agitation at her so unexpected return. The child lay asleep on his left arm, and she was at his right knee; no longer the pale, scared, panting girl he had overpowered so easily an hour or two ago, but an imperial beauty, with blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and lips sweetly parted in triumph, and her whole face radiant with a look he could not quite read; for he had never yet seen it on her: maternal pride.
The surprised hermit looked from the child in his arms to Margaret, and then back to the child, astonished, his shock matched only by his agitation at her sudden return. The child was asleep on his left arm, and she was at his right knee; no longer the pale, frightened girl he had easily overpowered just an hour or two earlier, but a stunning beauty, with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, her lips slightly parted in triumph, and her whole face glowing with an expression he couldn't fully understand; for he had never seen it on her before: maternal pride.
He stared and stared from the child to her, in throbbing amazement.
He kept staring back and forth between the child and her, in intense amazement.
“Us?” he gasped at last. And still his wonder-stricken eyes turned to and fro.
“Us?” he gasped finally. And still his astonished eyes darted back and forth.
Margaret was surprised in her turn, It was an age of impressions not facts, “What!” she cried, “doth not a father know his own child? and a man of God, too? Fie, Gerard, to pretend! nay, thou art too wise, too good, not to have—why, I watched thee; and e'en now look at you twain! 'Tis thine own flesh and blood thou holdest to thine heart.”
Margaret was surprised in her turn. It was an age of impressions, not facts. “What!” she exclaimed, “Doesn't a father know his own child? And a man of God, too? Come on, Gerard, to pretend! No, you are too wise, too good, not to have—why, I watched you; and even now, look at you two! It's your own flesh and blood you’re holding to your heart.”
Clement trembled, “What words are these,” he stammered, “this angel mine?”
Clement shook with fear, “What are these words,” he stuttered, “this angel of mine?”
“Whose else? since he is mine.”
“Whose else? Since he belongs to me.”
Clement turned on the sleeping child, with a look beyond the power of the pen to describe, and trembled all over, as his eyes seemed to absorb the little love.
Clement faced the sleeping child, with an indescribable look, and trembled all over as his eyes seemed to take in the small love.
Margaret's eyes followed his. “He is not a bit like me,” said she proudly; “but oh, at whiles he is thy very image in little; and see this golden hair. Thine was the very colour at his age; ask mother else. And see this mole on his little finger; now look at thine own; there! 'Twas thy mother let me weet thou wast marked so before him; and oh, Gerard, 'twas this our child found thee for me; for by that little mark on thy finger I knew thee for his father, when I watched above thy window and saw thee feed the birds.” Here she seized the child's hand, and kissed it eagerly, and got half of it into her mouth, Heaven knows how, “Ah! bless thee, thou didst find thy poor daddy for her, and now thou hast made us friends again after our little quarrel; the first, the last. Wast very cruel to me but now, my poor Gerard, and I forgive thee; for loving of thy child.”
Margaret's eyes followed his. “He's nothing like me,” she said proudly; “but sometimes he looks just like you, in miniature; and look at this golden hair. Yours was the same color when you were his age; just ask Mom. And see this mole on his little finger; now look at your own; there! It was your mom who let me know you had that mark too; and oh, Gerard, it was our child who found you for me; because of that little mark on your finger, I recognized you as his father when I was watching outside your window and saw you feeding the birds.” Then she grabbed the child's hand and kissed it eagerly, somehow getting half of it into her mouth, “Ah! Bless you, you found your poor daddy for her, and now you've made us friends again after our little fight; the first and the last. You were really cruel to me, but now, my poor Gerard, I forgive you; for loving your child.”
“Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!” sobbed Clement, choking. And lowered by fasts, and unnerved by solitude, the once strong man was hysterical, and nearly fainting.
“Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!” sobbed Clement, struggling to breathe. Weakened by hunger and rattled by loneliness, the once strong man was in hysterics and on the verge of fainting.
Margaret was alarmed, but having experience, her pity was greater than her fear. “Nay, take not on so,” she murmured soothingly, and put a gentle hand upon his brow. “Be brave! So, so. Dear heart, thou art not the first man that hath gone abroad and come back richer by a lovely little self than he went forth. Being a man of God, take courage, and say He sends thee this to comfort thee for what thou hast lost in me; and that is not so very much, my lamb; for sure the better part of love shall ne'er cool here to thee; though it may in thine, and ought, being a priest, and parson of Gouda.”
Margaret was worried, but having been through similar situations before, her compassion outweighed her fear. “Don't be so upset,” she said softly, placing a gentle hand on his forehead. “Be strong! There, there. My dear, you're not the first man to leave and come back with something precious to himself. As a man of God, have faith, and think of this as a way for Him to comfort you for what you've lost in me; and that really isn’t so much, my dear. The better part of love will never fade away for you here; though it might fade for you, and it should, since you are a priest and the parson of Gouda.”
“I? priest of Gouda? Never!” murmured Clement in a faint voice; “I am a friar of St. Dominic: yet speak on, sweet music, tell me all that has happened thee, before we are parted again.”
“I? A priest of Gouda? Never!” Clement murmured faintly. “I’m a friar of St. Dominic. But go on, sweet music, tell me everything that’s happened to you before we part ways again.”
Now some would on this have exclaimed against parting at all, and raised the true question in dispute. But such women as Margaret do not repeat their mistakes. It is very hard to defeat them twice, where their hearts are set on a thing.
Now, some would have protested against parting altogether and brought up the real issue at stake. But women like Margaret don’t make the same mistakes twice. It's very difficult to beat them twice when their hearts are set on something.
She assented, and turned her back on Gouda manse as a thing not to be recurred to; and she told him her tale, dwelling above all on the kindness to her of his parents; and while she related her troubles, his hand stole to hers, and often she felt him wince and tremble with ire, and often press her hand, sympathizing with her in every vein.
She agreed and turned her back on the Gouda house as something she didn’t want to think about; then she shared her story, focusing mostly on the kindness his parents showed her. As she talked about her troubles, his hand slid over to hers, and she often felt him flinch and shake with anger, and he would frequently squeeze her hand, showing he felt for her in every way.
“Oh, piteous tale of a true heart battling alone against such bitter odds,” said he.
“Oh, sad story of a genuine heart fighting alone against such tough challenges,” he said.
“It all seems small, when I see thee here again, and nursing my boy. We have had a warning, Gerard. True friends like you and me are rare, and they are mad to part, ere death divideth them.”
“It all feels insignificant when I see you here again, taking care of my boy. We've had a wake-up call, Gerard. True friends like you and me are hard to come by, and it's crazy to drift apart before death separates us.”
“And that is true,” said Clement, off his guard.
“And that’s true,” said Clement, caught off guard.
And then she would have him tell her what he had suffered for her, and he begged her to excuse him, and she consented; but by questions quietly revoked her consent and elicited it all; and many a sigh she heaved for him, and more than once she hid her face in her hands with terror at his perils, though past. And to console him for all he had gone through, she kneeled down and put her arms under the little boy, and lifted him gently up. “Kiss him softly,” she whispered. “Again, again kiss thy fill if thou canst; he is sound. 'Tis all I can do to comfort thee till thou art out of this foul den and in thy sweet manse yonder.”
And then she would ask him to tell her about everything he had gone through for her, and he begged her to let it go, and she agreed; but through her questions, she quietly took back her consent and got it all out of him. She sighed many times for him, and more than once, she buried her face in her hands, terrified by his past dangers. To comfort him for everything he had faced, she knelt down, wrapped her arms around the little boy, and lifted him gently. “Kiss him softly,” she whispered. “Kiss him again and again as much as you want; he's okay. This is all I can do to reassure you until you're out of this horrible place and in your lovely home over there.”
Clement shook his head.
Clement shook his head.
“Well,” said she, “let that pass. Know that I have been sore affronted for want of my lines.”
“Well,” she said, “let’s move on. Just know that I’ve been really upset because I haven’t received my letters.”
“Who hath dared affront thee?”
"Who has dared to challenge you?"
“No matter, those that will do it again if thou hast lost them, which the saints forbid.”
“No worries, those who will do it again if you’ve lost them, which the saints forbid.”
“I lose them? nay, there they lie, close to thy hand.”
“I lose them? No, there they are, right at your fingertips.”
“Where, where, oh, where?”
"Where, where, oh where?"
Clement hung his head. “Look in the Vulgate. Heaven forgive me: I thought thou wert dead, and a saint in heaven.”
Clement hung his head. “Check the Vulgate. God forgive me: I thought you were dead and a saint in heaven.”
She looked, and on the blank leaves of the poor soul's Vulgate she found her marriage lines.
She looked, and on the blank pages of the poor soul's Vulgate, she found her marriage lines.
“Thank God!” she cried, “thank God! Oh, bless thee, Gerard, bless thee! Why, what is here, Gerard?”
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed, “thank goodness! Oh, thank you, Gerard, thank you! What’s this, Gerard?”
On the other leaves were pinned every scrap of paper she had ever sent him, and their two names she had once written together in sport, and the lock of her hair she had given him, and half a silver coin she had broken with him, and a straw she had sucked her soup with the first day he ever saw her.
On the other leaves, she had pinned every scrap of paper she had ever sent him, their names that she had once written together playfully, a lock of hair she had given him, half of a silver coin she had split with him, and a straw she had used to sip her soup on the first day he ever saw her.
When Margaret saw these proofs of love and signs of a gentle heart bereaved, even her exultation at getting back her marriage lines was overpowered by gushing tenderness. She almost staggered, and her hand went to her bosom, and she leaned her brow against the stone cell and wept so silently that he did not see she was weeping; indeed she would not let him, for she felt that to befriend him now she must be the stronger; and emotion weakens.
When Margaret saw these signs of love and a gentle heart that was hurting, even her joy at getting back her marriage lines was overwhelmed by a rush of tenderness. She nearly stumbled, placed her hand on her chest, leaned her forehead against the stone wall, and cried so quietly that he didn’t notice she was crying; in fact, she wouldn’t let him see, because she felt that to support him now she had to be the stronger one; and emotions make you weak.
“Gerard,” said she, “I know you are wise and good. You must have a reason for what you are doing, let it seem ever so unreasonable. Talk we like old friends. Why are you buried alive?”
“Gerard,” she said, “I know you’re smart and kind. You must have a reason for what you’re doing, even if it seems completely crazy. Let’s talk like old friends. Why are you stuck in this situation?”
“Margaret, to escape temptation. My impious ire against those two had its root in the heart; that heart then I must deaden, and, Dei gratia, I shall. Shall I, a servant of Christ and of the Church, court temptation? Shall I pray daily to be led out on't, and walk into it with open eyes?”
“Margaret, to avoid temptation. My sinful anger towards those two came from deep within; I must numb that heart, and, with God’s grace, I will. Should I, a servant of Christ and the Church, seek out temptation? Should I pray every day to be kept away from it, then knowingly step right into it?”
“That is good sense anyway,” said Margaret, with a consummate affectation of candour.
"That makes sense, anyway," said Margaret, with a complete fake honesty.
“'Tis unanswerable,” said Clement, with a sigh.
“It's unanswerable,” said Clement, with a sigh.
“We shall see. Tell me, have you escaped temptation here? Why I ask is, when I am alone, my thoughts are far more wild and foolish than in company. Nay, speak sooth; come!”
“We'll see. Tell me, have you resisted temptation here? The reason I'm asking is, when I'm alone, my thoughts are much wilder and more foolish than when I'm with others. No, be honest; come on!”
“I must needs own I have been worse tempted here with evil imaginations than in the world.”
“I have to admit that I’ve been more tempted here by bad thoughts than I have out in the world.”
“There now.”
"There you go."
“Ay, but so were Anthony and Jerome, Macarius and Hilarion, Benedict, Bernard, and all the saints. 'Twill wear off.”
“Yeah, but so were Anthony and Jerome, Macarius and Hilarion, Benedict, Bernard, and all the saints. It’ll wear off.”
“How do you know?”
"How do you know that?"
“I feel sure it will.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Guessing against knowledge. Here 'tis men folk are sillier than us that be but women. Wise in their own conceits, they will not let themselves see; their stomachs are too high to be taught by their eyes. A woman, if she went into a hole in a bank to escape temptation, and there found it, would just lift her farthingale and out on't, and not e'en know how wise she was, till she watched a man in like plight.”
“Guessing instead of knowing. Here, men are sillier than us women. Full of their own opinions, they refuse to see the truth; their pride prevents them from learning with their eyes. A woman, if she went into a hole in a bank to escape temptation, and found it there, would just lift her dress and step out, not even realizing how clever she was until she saw a man in the same situation.”
“Nay, I grant humility and a teachable spirit are the roads to wisdom; but when all is said, here I wrestle but with imagination. At Gouda she I love as no priest or monk must love any but the angels, she will tempt a weak soul, unwilling, yet not loth to be tempted.”
“Nah, I admit that humility and being open to learning are the paths to wisdom; but, when it comes down to it, I’m really just struggling with my imagination. In Gouda, I love her in a way that no priest or monk should love anyone except the angels. She will entice a vulnerable soul, reluctant, yet not totally opposed to being seduced.”
“Ay, that is another matter; I should tempt thee then? to what, i' God's name?”
“Ay, that’s a different story; should I try to tempt you then? To what, for heaven’s sake?”
“Who knows? The flesh is weak.”
“Who knows? The flesh is weak.”
“Speak for yourself, my lad. Why, you are thinking of some other Margaret, not Margaret a Peter. Was ever my mind turned to folly and frailty? Stay, is it because you were my husband once, as these lines avouch? Think you the road to folly is beaten for you more than another? Oh! how shallow are the wise, and how little able are you to read me, who can read you so well from top to toe, Come, learn thine A B C. Were a stranger to proffer me unchaste love, I should shrink a bit, no doubt, and feel sore, but I should defend myself without making a coil; for men, I know, are so, the best of them sometimes. But if you, that have been my husband, and are my child's father, were to offer to humble me so in mine own eyes, and thine, and his, either I should spit in thy face, Gerard, or, as I am not a downright vulgar woman, I should snatch the first weapon at hand and strike thee dead.”
“Speak for yourself, my guy. You're thinking of some other Margaret, not Margaret a Peter. Has my mind ever been foolish or weak? Wait, is it because you were my husband once, as these lines say? Do you think the path to foolishness is easier for you than for anyone else? Oh! how foolish are the so-called wise, and how little you understand me, even though I can read you completely. Come, learn your A B C. If a stranger tried to offer me unfaithful love, I might be taken aback and feel hurt, but I'd defend myself without making a scene; because, you know, men are like that, even the best of them sometimes. But if you, who have been my husband and are the father of my child, tried to disgrace me in front of myself, you, and him, I'd either spit in your face, Gerard, or, since I'm not a completely crude woman, I'd grab the nearest weapon and kill you.”
And Margaret's eyes flashed fire, and her nostrils expanded, that it was glorious to see; and no one that did see her could doubt her sincerity.
And Margaret's eyes sparked with intensity, and her nostrils flared, which was amazing to witness; and anyone who saw her couldn't question her sincerity.
“I had not the sense to see that,” said Gerard quietly. And he pondered.
“I didn’t have the insight to see that,” Gerard said quietly. And he thought it over.
Margaret eyed him in silence, and soon recovered her composure.
Margaret looked at him silently and soon regained her composure.
“Let not you and I dispute,” said she gently; “speak we of other things. Ask me of thy folk.”
“Let’s not argue,” she said gently; “let’s talk about something else. Ask me about your family.”
“My father?”
"My dad?"
“Well, and warms to thee and me. Poor soul, a drew glaive on those twain that day, but Jorian Ketel and I we mastered him, and he drove them forth his house for ever.”
“Well, it warms to you and me. Poor soul, he drew his sword on those two that day, but Jorian Ketel and I managed to overpower him, and he drove them out of his house forever.”
“That may not be; he must take them back.”
“That might not be right; he has to take them back.”
“That he will never do for us. You know the man; he is dour as iron; yet would he do it for one word from one that will not speak it.”
“That he will never do for us. You know the guy; he’s as tough as nails; yet he would do it for just one word from someone who won’t say it.”
“Who?”
“Who’s that?”
“The vicar of Gouda, The old man will be at the manse to-morrow, I hear.”
“The vicar of Gouda, I heard the old man will be at the manse tomorrow.”
“How you come back to that.”
“How do you come back to that?”
“Forgive me: I am but a woman. It is us for nagging; shouldst keep me from it wi' questioning of me.”
“Forgive me: I am just a woman. It's our nature to nag; you should keep me from it by questioning me.”
“My sister Kate?”
“Is that my sister Kate?”
“Alas!”
“Unfortunately!”
“What, hath ill befallen e'en that sweet lily? Out and alas!”
“What, has something gone wrong with that sweet lily? Oh no!”
“Be calm, sweetheart, no harm hath her befallen. Oh, nay, nay, far fro' that.” Then Margaret forced herself to be composed, and in a low, sweet, gentle voice she murmured to him thus:
“Be calm, sweetheart, she hasn’t been harmed. Oh no, not at all.” Then Margaret made herself relax, and in a soft, sweet, gentle voice she said to him:
“My poor Gerard, Kate hath left her trouble behind her. For the manner on't, 'twas like the rest. Ah, such as she saw never thirty, nor ever shall while earth shall last. She smiled in pain too. A well, then, thus 'twas: she was took wi' a languor and a loss of all her pains.”
“My poor Gerard, Kate has left her troubles behind her. As for how it happened, it was like everything else. Ah, someone like her will never see thirty, nor will anyone while the earth lasts. She smiled through her pain too. Well, here’s how it was: she was taken with a weakness and lost all her suffering.”
“A loss of her pains? I understand you not.”
“A loss of her troubles? I don't understand you.”
“Ay, you are not experienced; indeed, e'en thy mother almost blinded herself and said, ''Tis maybe a change for the better.' But Joan Ketel, which is an understanding woman, she looked at her and said, 'Down sun, down wind!' And the gossips sided and said, 'Be brave, you that are her mother, for she is half way to the saints.' And thy mother wept sore, but Kate would not let her; and one very ancient woman, she said to thy mother, 'She will die as easy as she lived hard.' And she lay painless best part of three days, a sipping of heaven afore-hand, And, my dear, when she was just parting, she asked for 'Gerard's little boy,' and I brought him and set him on the bed, and the little thing behaved as peaceably as he does now. But by this time she was past speaking; but she pointed to a drawer, and her mother knew what to look for: it was two gold angels thou hadst given her years ago. Poor soul! she had kept then, till thou shouldst come home. And she nodded towards the little boy, and looked anxious; but we understood her, and put the pieces in his two hands, and when his little fingers closed on them, she smiled content. And so she gave her little earthly treasures to her favourite's child—for you were her favourite—and her immortal jewel to God, and passed so sweetly we none of us knew justly when she left us. Well-a-day, well-a-day!”
“Ay, you don’t have much experience; even your mother almost blinded herself and said, ‘Maybe this is a change for the better.’ But Joan Ketel, who is a wise woman, looked at her and said, ‘Down sun, down wind!’ And the gossips joined in and said, ‘Be brave, you who are her mother, for she is halfway to the saints.’ And your mother cried hard, but Kate wouldn’t let her; and one very old woman said to your mother, ‘She will die as easily as she lived hard.’ And she lay there painlessly for most of three days, sipping on heaven ahead of time. And, my dear, when she was just about to leave us, she asked for ‘Gerard’s little boy,’ and I brought him and placed him on the bed, and the little one behaved as peacefully as he does now. But by that time she couldn’t speak anymore; she pointed to a drawer, and her mother knew what to look for: it was the two gold angels you had given her years ago. Poor soul! She had kept them until you came home. And she nodded toward the little boy, looking anxious; but we understood her, and put the pieces in his small hands, and when his little fingers closed around them, she smiled with content. And so she gave her little earthly treasures to her favorite’s child—for you were her favorite—and her immortal soul to God, passing so sweetly that none of us knew exactly when she left us. Well-a-day, well-a-day!”
Gerard wept.
Gerard cried.
“She hath not left her like on earth,” he sobbed. “Oh, how the affections of earth curl softly round my heart! I cannot help it; God made them after all. Speak on, sweet Margaret at thy voice the past rolls its tides back upon me; the loves and the hopes of youth come fair and gliding into my dark cell, and darker bosom, on waves of memory and music.”
“She hasn’t left her equal on earth,” he cried. “Oh, how the feelings of this world wrap gently around my heart! I can’t help it; after all, God created them. Keep talking, sweet Margaret; at the sound of your voice, the past washes over me like the ocean’s tides; the loves and hopes of my youth come gracefully into my dark cell and even darker heart, carried by waves of memory and music.”
“Gerard, I am loth to grieve you, but Kate cried a little when she first took ill at you not being there to close her eyes.”
“Gerard, I hate to upset you, but Kate cried a bit when she first got sick because you weren’t there to close her eyes.”
Gerard sighed.
Gerard sighed.
“You were within a league, but hid your face from her.”
“You were just a mile away, but you turned your face away from her.”
He groaned.
He sighed.
“There, forgive me for nagging; I am but a woman; you would not have been so cruel to your own flesh and blood knowingly, would you?”
“Look, I’m sorry for being annoying; I’m just a woman; you wouldn’t have been so cruel to your own family on purpose, right?”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, then, know that thy brother Sybrandt lies in my charge with a broken back, fruit of thy curse.”
“Well, then, know that your brother Sybrandt is in my care with a broken back, a result of your curse.”
“Mea culpa! mea culpa!”
"My bad! My bad!"
“He is very penitent; be yourself and forgive him this night.”
“He feels really sorry; just be yourself and forgive him tonight.”
“I have forgiven him long ago.”
“I forgave him a long time ago.”
“Think you he can believe that from any mouth but yours? Come! he is but about two butts' length hence.”
“Do you really think he can believe that from anyone else but you? Come on! He's only about two butts' length away.”
“So near? Why, where?”
“So close? Why, where?”
“At Gouda manse. I took him there yestreen. For I know you, the curse was scarce cold on your lips when you repented it” (Gerard nodded assent), “and I said to myself, Gerard will thank me for taking Sybrandt to die under his roof; he will not beat his breast and cry mea culpa, yet grudge three footsteps to quiet a withered brother on his last bed. He may have a bee in his bonnet, but he is not a hypocrite, a thing all pious words and uncharitable deeds.”
“At the Gouda mansion. I took him there last night. Because I know you, the curse was hardly off your lips when you regretted it” (Gerard nodded in agreement), “and I thought to myself, Gerard will appreciate me bringing Sybrandt to die under his roof; he won’t beat his chest and cry mea culpa, yet begrudge three steps to comfort a dying brother on his final bed. He may have his quirks, but he’s not a hypocrite, someone who speaks piously yet acts uncharitably.”
Gerard literally staggered where he sat at this tremendous thrust.
Gerard was completely taken aback where he sat by this overwhelming force.
“Forgive me for nagging,” said she. “Thy mother too is waiting for thee. Is it well done to keep her on thorns so long She will not sleep this night, Bethink thee, Gerard, she is all to thee that I am to this sweet child. Ah, I think so much more of mothers since I had my little Gerard. She suffered for thee, and nursed thee, and tended thee from boy to man. Priest monk, hermit, call thyself what thou wilt, to her thou art but one thing; her child.”
“Sorry for being annoying,” she said. “Your mother is waiting for you too. Is it really fair to keep her waiting like this? She won’t sleep tonight. Think about it, Gerard, she means to you what I mean to this sweet child. I’ve come to appreciate mothers so much more since I had my little Gerard. She suffered for you, cared for you, and raised you from boy to man. Priest, monk, hermit—call yourself whatever you want, but to her, you are just one thing: her child.”
“Where is she?” murmured Gerard, in a quavering voice.
“Where is she?” murmured Gerard, in a trembling voice.
“At Gouda manse, wearing the night in prayer and care.”
“At Gouda manse, spending the night in prayer and thought.”
Then Margaret saw the time was come for that appeal to his reason she had purposely reserved till persuasion should have paved the way for conviction. So the smith first softens the iron by fire, and then brings down the sledge hammer.
Then Margaret realized it was time for the appeal to his reason that she had intentionally saved until persuasion had prepared the way for conviction. Just like the blacksmith first softens the iron with fire and then brings down the sledgehammer.
She showed him, but in her own good straightforward Dutch, that his present life was only a higher kind of selfishness, spiritual egotism; whereas a priest had no more right to care only for his own soul than only for his own body. That was not his path to heaven. “But,” said she, “whoever yet lost his soul by saving the souls of others! the Almighty loves him who thinks of others; and when He shall see thee caring for the souls of the folk the duke hath put into thine hand, He will care ten times more for thy soul than He does now.”
She told him, in her clear and straightforward Dutch, that his current life was just a more refined form of selfishness, spiritual egotism; and that a priest had no more right to only focus on his own soul than to only look after his own body. That wasn’t the way to reach heaven. “But,” she said, “who has ever lost their soul by saving the souls of others? The Almighty loves those who think of others; and when He sees you caring for the souls of the people the duke has entrusted to you, He will care ten times more for your soul than He does now.”
Gerard was struck by this remark. “Art shrewd in dispute,” said he.
Gerard was taken aback by this comment. “Artful in argument,” he said.
“Far from it,” was the reply, “only my eyes are not bandaged with conceit.(1) So long as Satan walks the whole earth, tempting men, and so long as the sons of Belial do never lock themselves in caves, but run like ants to and fro corrupting others, the good man that skulks apart plays the devil's game, or at least gives him the odds: thou a soldier of Christ? ask thy Comrade Denys, who is but a soldier of the duke, ask him if ever he skulked in a hole and shunned the battle because forsooth in battle is danger as well as glory and duty. For thy sole excuse is fear; thou makest no secret on't, Go to, no duke nor king hath such cowardly soldiers as Christ hath. What was that you said in the church at Rotterdam about the man in the parable that buried his talent in the earth, and so offended the giver? Thy wonderful gift for preaching, is it not a talent, and a gift from thy Creator?”
“Not at all,” was the response, “only my eyes aren’t covered by arrogance. As long as Satan roams the earth, tempting people, and as long as the wicked never hide away but scurry around like ants corrupting others, the good person who stays secluded is playing into the devil’s hands, or at least giving him an advantage: you a soldier of Christ? Ask your friend Denys, who is just a soldier for the duke, ask him if he has ever hidden in a hole and avoided battle just because there’s danger along with glory and responsibility in war. Your only excuse is fear; you don’t hide that. Come on, no duke or king has such cowardly soldiers as Christ does. What did you say in church in Rotterdam about the man in the parable who buried his talent in the ground and offended the giver? Your amazing gift for preaching— isn’t that a talent, a gift from your Creator?”
“Certes; such as it is.”
"Sure; it is what it is."
“And hast thou laid it out? or buried it? To whom hast thou preached these seven months? to bats and owls? Hast buried it in one hole with thyself and thy once good wits?
“And have you laid it out? Or buried it? Who have you preached to these seven months? To bats and owls? Have you buried it in the same hole with yourself and your once good mind?”
“The Dominicans are the friars preachers. 'Tis for preaching they were founded, so thou art false to Dominic as well as to his Master.
“The Dominicans are the friars who preach. They were founded for preaching, so you are being false to Dominic as well as to his Master."
“Do you remember, Gerard, when we were young together, which now are old before our time, as we walked handed in the fields, did you but see a sheep cast, ay, three fields off, you would leave your sweetheart (by her good will) and run and lift the sheep for charity? Well, then, at Gouda is not one sheep in evil plight, but a whole flock; some cast, some strayed, some sick, some tainted, some a being devoured, and all for the want of a shepherd. Where is their shepherd? lurking in a den like a wolf, a den in his own parish; out fie! out fie!
“Do you remember, Gerard, when we were young together, now growing old before our time, as we walked hand in hand in the fields? If you saw a sheep in trouble, even three fields away, you would leave your sweetheart (willingly) and run to help the sheep out of kindness. Well, now in Gouda, there isn’t just one sheep in danger, but a whole flock; some are down, some are lost, some are sick, some are infected, and some are being eaten alive, all because they lack a shepherd. Where is their shepherd? Hiding in a den like a wolf, a den in his own parish; what a shame!"
“I scented thee out, in part, by thy kindness to the little birds. Take note, you Gerard Eliassoen must love something, 'tis in your blood; you were born to't. Shunning man, you do but seek earthly affection a peg lower than man.”
“I found you, in part, by your kindness to the little birds. Remember, Gerard Eliassoen, you must love something; it's in your nature; you were meant for it. By avoiding mankind, you are just looking for love from something a step lower than humans.”
Gerard interrupted her. “The birds are God's creatures, His innocent creatures, and I do well to love them, being God's creatures.”
Gerard interrupted her. "The birds are God's creations, His innocent creations, and it's right for me to love them since they're God's creations."
“What, are they creatures of the same God that we are, that he is who lies upon thy knee?”
“What, are they creations of the same God we are, that he is the one who lies on your lap?”
“You know they are.”
“You know they are.”
“Then what pretence for shunning us and being kind to them? Sith man is one of the animals, why pick him out to shun? Is't because he is of animals the paragon? What, you court the young of birds, and abandon your own young? Birds need but bodily food, and having wings, deserve scant pity if they cannot fly and find it. But that sweet dove upon thy knee, he needeth not carnal only, but spiritual food. He is thine as well as mine; and I have done my share. He will soon be too much for me, and I look to Gouda's parson to teach him true piety and useful lore. Is he not of more value than many sparrows?”
“Then what’s the point of ignoring us and being nice to them? Since man is just one of the animals, why choose to ignore him? Is it because he’s the best among animals? What, do you lavish affection on young birds while neglecting your own? Birds only need physical food, and since they have wings, they deserve little sympathy if they can’t fly and find it. But that sweet dove on your knee needs more than just physical nourishment; he needs spiritual food too. He belongs to both of us; I’ve done my part. He’s going to be too much for me soon, and I’m counting on Gouda’s pastor to teach him true faith and useful knowledge. Isn’t he worth more than many sparrows?”
Gerard started and stammered an affirmation. For she waited for his reply.
Gerard started and hesitated before responding. She was waiting for his answer.
“You wonder,” continued she, “to hear me quote holy writ so glib. I have pored over it this four years, and why? Not because God wrote it, but because I saw it often in thy hands ere thou didst leave me. Heaven forgive me, I am but a woman. What thinkest thou of this sentence? 'Let your work so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven!' What is a saint in a sink better than 'a light under a bushel!'
"You’re surprised," she continued, "to hear me quote scripture so effortlessly. I’ve studied it for four years, and why? Not because God wrote it, but because I often saw it in your hands before you left me. God forgive me, I’m just a woman. What do you think of this sentence? 'Let your light shine before others, so they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven!' What good is a saint in a filthy place compared to 'a light under a bushel!'"
“Therefore, since the sheep committed to thy charge bleat for thee and cry, 'Oh desert us no longer, but come to Gouda manse;' since I, who know thee ten times better than thou knowest thyself, do pledge my soul it is for thy soul's weal to go to Gouda manse—since duty to thy child, too long abandoned, calls thee to Gouda manse—since thy sovereign, whom holy writ again bids thee honour, sends thee to Gouda manse—since the Pope, whom the Church teaches thee to revere hath absolved thee of thy monkish vows, and orders thee to Gouda manse—”
“Therefore, since the sheep under your care are bleating for you and crying, 'Please don’t abandon us, come to Gouda manse;' since I know you way better than you know yourself and promise with my soul it's for your own good to go to Gouda manse—since your duty to your child, who has been neglected for too long, is calling you to Gouda manse—since your sovereign, whom holy scripture asks you to honor, is sending you to Gouda manse—since the Pope, whom the Church teaches you to respect, has freed you from your monastic vows and instructed you to go to Gouda manse—”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“Since thy grey-haired mother watches for thee in dole and care, and turneth oft the hour-glass and sigheth sore that thou comest so slow to her at Gouda manse—since thy brother, withered by thy curse, awaits thy forgiveness and thy prayers for his soul, now lingering in his body, at Gouda manse—take thou in thine arms the sweet bird wi' crest of gold that nestles to thy bosom, and give me thy hand; thy sweetheart erst and wife, and now thy friend, the truest friend to thee this night that ere man had, and come with me to Gouda manse!”
“Since your grey-haired mother waits for you in sadness and worry, and often turns the hourglass and sighs heavily that you are coming so slowly to her at Gouda manse—since your brother, weakened by your curse, awaits your forgiveness and your prayers for his soul, now lingering in his body, at Gouda manse—take in your arms the sweet bird with the golden crest that cuddles up to you, and give me your hand; your former sweetheart and wife, now your friend, the truest friend to you tonight that any man has ever had, and come with me to Gouda manse!”
“IT IS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!” cried Clement loudly.
“IT'S THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!” shouted Clement.
“Then hearken it, and come forth to Gouda manse!”
“Then listen to it, and come forth to the Gouda house!”
The battle was won.
The battle is won.
Margaret lingered behind, cast her eye rapidly round the furniture, and selected the Vulgate and the psaltery. The rest she sighed at, and let it lie. The breastplate and the cilice of bristles she took and dashed with feeble ferocity on the floor.
Margaret hung back, quickly scanned the furniture, and picked the Vulgate and the psaltery. She sighed at the rest and left it there. She grabbed the breastplate and the bristly cilice and threw them on the floor with weak anger.
Then seeing Gerard watch her with surprise from the outside, she coloured and said, “I am but a woman: 'little' will still be 'spiteful.'”
Then, noticing Gerard staring at her in surprise from outside, she blushed and said, “I’m just a woman: ‘little’ will still be ‘spiteful.’”
“Why encumber thyself with those? They are safe.”
“Why burden yourself with those? They are safe.”
“Oh, she had a reason.”
“Oh, she had her reasons.”
And with this they took the road to Gouda parsonage, The moon and stars were so bright, it seemed almost as light as day.
And with that, they headed to the Gouda parsonage. The moon and stars were so bright that it felt almost as light as day.
Suddenly Gerard stopped. “My poor little birds!”
Suddenly, Gerard halted. “My poor little birds!”
“What of them?”
“What about them?”
“They will miss their food. I feed them every day.”
“They’re going to miss their food. I feed them every day.”
“The child hath a piece of bread in his cowl, Take that, and feed them now against the morn.”
“The child has a piece of bread in his hood, Take that, and feed them now for the morning.”
“I will. Nay, I will not, He is as innocent, and nearer to me and to thee.”
“I will. No, I won't. He is just as innocent and closer to both of us.”
Margaret drew a long breath, “'Tis well, Hadst taken it, I might have hated thee; I am but a woman.”
Margaret took a deep breath, “It's fine, if I had accepted it, I might have hated you; I'm just a woman.”
When they had gone about a quarter of a mile, Gerard sighed.
When they had walked about a quarter of a mile, Gerard sighed.
“Margaret,” said he, “I must e'en rest; he is too heavy for me.”
“Margaret,” he said, “I need to take a break; he’s too heavy for me.”
“Then give him me, and take thou these. Alas! alas! I mind when thou wouldst have run with the child on one shoulder, and the mother on t'other.”
“Then give him to me, and take these. Oh dear! I remember when you would have run with the child on one shoulder and the mother on the other.”
And Margaret carried the boy.
And Margaret carried the kid.
“I trow,” said Gerard, looking down, “overmuch fasting is not good for a man.”
“I think,” said Gerard, looking down, “too much fasting isn't good for a person.”
“A many die of it each year, winter time,” replied Margaret.
“A lot of people die from it each year, during winter,” replied Margaret.
Gerard pondered these simple words, and eyed her askant, carrying the child with perfect ease. When they had gone nearly a mile he said with considerable surprise, “You thought it was but two butts' length.”
Gerard thought about these simple words and looked at her sideways, carrying the child effortlessly. After they had walked almost a mile, he said with some surprise, “You thought it was just two butts' length.”
“Not I.”
"Not me."
“Why, you said so.”
"You said that."
“That is another matter.” She then turned on him the face of a Madonna. “I lied,” said she sweetly. “And to save your soul and body, I'd maybe tell a worse lie than that, at need. I am but a woman, Ah, well, it is but two butts' length from here at any rate.”
"That's a different story." She then gave him a look like a Madonna. "I lied," she said sweetly. "And to save your soul and body, I might even tell a bigger lie than that if necessary. I'm just a woman. Ah, well, it's only two butts' length from here anyway."
“Without a lie?”
"Seriously?"
“Humph! Three, without a lie.”
"Humph! Three, no lie."
And sure enough, in a few minutes they came up to the manse.
And sure enough, within a few minutes, they arrived at the manse.
A candle was burning in the vicar's parlour. “She is waking still,” whispered Margaret.
A candle was lit in the vicar's study. “She’s still waking up,” whispered Margaret.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” said Clement, and stopped to look at it.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” said Clement, pausing to admire it.
“What, in Heaven's name?”
“What on earth?”
“That little candle, seen through the window at night. Look an it be not like some fair star of size prodigious: it delighteth the eyes, and warmeth the heart of those outside.”
“That little candle, seen through the window at night. Look at it; isn’t it like a beautiful star of enormous size? It delights the eyes and warms the hearts of those outside.”
“Come, and I'll show thee something better,” said Margaret, and led him on tiptoe to the window.
“Come on, and I’ll show you something even better,” said Margaret, and she led him on tiptoe to the window.
They looked in, and there was Catherine kneeling on the hassock, with her “hours” before her.
They looked in, and there was Catherine kneeling on the cushion, with her “hours” in front of her.
“Folk can pray out of a cave,” whispered Margaret. “Ay and hit heaven with their prayers; for 'tis for a sight of thee she prayeth, and thou art here. Now, Gerard, be prepared; she is not the woman you knew her; her children's troubles have greatly broken the brisk, light-hearted soul. And I see she has been weeping e'en now; she will have given thee up, being so late.”
“People can pray from a cave,” whispered Margaret. “And they can reach heaven with their prayers; because she’s praying just to see you, and you are here. Now, Gerard, be ready; she’s not the woman you remember; her children's struggles have worn down her once lively and cheerful spirit. And I can see she’s been crying just now; she will have given up on you since it’s so late.”
“Let me get to her,” said Clement hastily, trembling all over.
“Let me get to her,” said Clement quickly, shaking all over.
“That door! I will bide here.”
“That door! I will wait here.”
When Gerard was gone to the door, Margaret, fearing the sudden surprise, gave one sharp tap at the window and cried, “Mother!” in a loud, expressive voice that Catherine read at once. She clasped her hands together and had half risen from her kneeling posture when the door burst open and Clement flung himself wildly on his knees at her knees, with his arms out to embrace her. She uttered a cry such as only a mother could, “Ah! my darling, my darling!” and clung sobbing round his neck. And true it was, she saw neither a hermit, a priest, nor a monk, but just her child, lost, and despaired of, and in her arms, And after a little while Margaret came in, with wet eyes and cheeks, and a holy calm of affection settled by degrees on these sore troubled ones. And they sat all three together, hand in hand, murmuring sweet and loving converse; and he who sat in the middle drank right and left their true affection and their humble but genuine wisdom, and was forced to eat a good nourishing meal, and at daybreak was packed off to a snowy bed, and by and by awoke, as from a hideous dream, friar and hermit no more, Clement no more, but Gerard Eliassoen, parson of Gouda.
When Gerard went to the door, Margaret, fearing the sudden surprise, gave a sharp tap on the window and shouted, “Mother!” in a loud, expressive voice that Catherine instantly understood. She clasped her hands together and had half risen from her kneeling position when the door swung open and Clement threw himself onto his knees at her feet, arms outstretched to embrace her. She let out a cry that only a mother could, “Ah! my darling, my darling!” and clung to him, sobbing around his neck. And it was true, she saw not a hermit, a priest, or a monk, but just her child, lost and hopeless, now in her arms. After a little while, Margaret came in, with wet eyes and flushed cheeks, and a holy calm of affection gradually settled on these troubled souls. They all sat together, hand in hand, murmuring sweet and loving conversation; and the one in the middle soaked up their genuine love and humble wisdom, and was compelled to eat a nourishing meal, then was sent off to a snowy bed at dawn, awakening, as if from a horrible dream, no longer a friar or hermit, but Gerard Eliassoen, pastor of Gouda.
(1) I think she means prejudice.
(1) I think she means bias.
CHAPTER XCVI
Margaret went back to Rotterdam long ere Gerard awoke, and actually left her boy behind her. She sent the faithful, sturdy Reicht off to Gouda directly with a vicar's grey frock and large felt hat, and with minute instructions how to govern her new master.
Margaret returned to Rotterdam long before Gerard woke up and even left her boy behind. She immediately sent the loyal, strong Reicht to Gouda with a vicar's gray robe and a large felt hat, along with detailed instructions on how to manage her new master.
Then she went to Jorian Ketel; for she said to herself, “he is the closest I ever met, so he is the man for me,” and in concert with him she did two mortal sly things; yet not, in my opinion, virulent, though she thought they were; but if I am asked what were these deeds without a name, the answer is, that as she, who was, 'but a woman,' kept them secret till her dying day, I, who am a man—“Verbum non amplius addam.”
Then she went to Jorian Ketel because she thought to herself, “he’s the closest I’ve ever met, so he’s the guy for me,” and together they did two pretty sneaky things; however, I don’t think they were really that bad, even though she believed they were. But if someone asks what those unnamed deeds were, I can only say that since she, being “just a woman,” kept them secret until she died, I, being a man—“I will not add anything more.”
She kept away from Gouda parsonage.
She stayed away from the Gouda parsonage.
Things that pass little noticed in the heat of argument sometimes rankle afterwards; and when she came to go over all that had passed, she was offended at Gerard thinking she could ever forget the priest in the some time lover, “For what did he take me?” said she. And this raised a great shyness which really she would not otherwise have felt, being downright innocent, And pride sided with modesty, and whispered, “Go no more to Gouda parsonage.”
Things that go unnoticed in the heat of an argument often bother us later; and when she reflected on everything that had happened, she was upset that Gerard thought she could ever forget the priest while being a lover at the same time. “What did he think of me?” she said. This brought about a deep embarrassment that she wouldn’t have felt otherwise, since she was truly innocent. Pride joined forces with modesty and suggested, “Don’t go back to the Gouda parsonage.”
She left little Gerard there to complete the conquest her maternal heart ascribed to him, not to her own eloquence and sagacity, and to anchor his father for ever to humanity.
She left little Gerard there to finish the accomplishment that her motherly heart assigned to him, not to her own charm and wisdom, and to tie his father permanently to humanity.
But this generous stroke of policy cost her heart dear. She had never yet been parted from her boy an hour, and she felt sadly strange as well as desolate without him. After the first day it became intolerable; and what does the poor soul do, but creep at dark up to Gouda parsonage, and lurk about the premises like a thief till she saw Reicht Heynes in the kitchen alone, Then she tapped softly at the window and said, “Reicht, for pity's sake bring him out to me unbeknown.” With Margaret the person who occupied her thoughts at the time ceased to have a name, and sank to a pronoun.
But this generous decision cost her heart dearly. She had never been apart from her boy for even an hour, and she felt both strange and lonely without him. After the first day, it became unbearable; and what does the poor woman do but sneak up to the Gouda parsonage at night and hang around the property like a thief until she saw Reicht Heynes alone in the kitchen? Then she softly tapped on the window and said, “Reicht, please bring him out to me without anyone knowing.” For Margaret, the person she was thinking about at that moment lost their name and was reduced to a pronoun.
Reicht soon found an excuse for taking little Gerard out, and there was a scene of mutual rapture, followed by mutual tears when mother and boy parted again.
Reicht soon found a reason to take little Gerard out, and they had a moment of shared joy, followed by tears from both mother and son when they said goodbye again.
And it was arranged that Reicht should take him half way to Rotterdam every day, at a set hour, and Margaret meet them. And at these meetings, after the raptures, and after mother and child had gambolled together like a young cat and her first kitten, the boy would sometimes amuse himself alone at their feet, and the two women generally seized this opportunity to talk very seriously about Luke Peterson, This began thus:
And it was agreed that Reicht would take him halfway to Rotterdam every day at a specific time, where Margaret would meet them. During these meet-ups, after the joyful moments and after mother and child had played together like a young cat with her first kitten, the boy would sometimes entertain himself alone at their feet, and the two women usually took this chance to have a serious conversation about Luke Peterson. This began like this:
“Reicht,” said Margaret, “I as good as promised him to marry Luke Peterson. 'Say you the word,' quoth I, 'and I'll wed him.'”
“It's true,” said Margaret, “I basically promised him that I would marry Luke Peterson. 'Just say the word,' I said, 'and I'll marry him.'”
“Poor Luke!”
"Poor Luke!"
“Prithee, why poor Luke?”
"Please, why poor Luke?"
“To be bandied about so, atwixt yea and nay.”
"To be tossed around like that, back and forth."
“Why, Reicht, you have not ever been so simple as to cast an eye of affection on the boy, that you take his part?”
“Why, Reicht, you can't be serious about having any feelings for that boy to be taking his side?”
“Me?” said Reicht, with a toss of the head.
“Me?” said Reicht, shaking his head.
“Oh, I ask your pardon. Well, then, you can do me a good turn.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, then, you can do me a favor.”
“Whisht! whisper! that little darling is listening to every word, and eyes like saucers.”
“Shh! Whisper! That little sweetheart is listening to every word, with eyes wide open.”
On this both their heads would have gone under one cap.
On this, both of their heads would have gone under one cap.
Two women plotting against one boy? Oh, you great cowardly serpents!
Two women scheming against one guy? Oh, you pathetic cowards!
But when these stolen meetings had gone on for about five days Margaret began to feel the injustice of it, and to be irritated as well as unhappy.
But after about five days of these secret meetings, Margaret started to feel the unfairness of it all, and she became both annoyed and unhappy.
And she was crying about it when a cart came to her door, and in it, clean as a new penny, his beard close shaved, his hands white as snow, and a little colour in his pale face, sat the Vicar of Gouda in the grey frock and large felt hat she had sent him.
And she was crying about it when a cart showed up at her door, and inside it, looking as clean as a new penny, his beard neatly shaved, his hands as white as snow, and a bit of color in his pale face, sat the Vicar of Gouda in the gray frock and large felt hat she had sent him.
She ran upstairs directly, and washed away all traces of her tears, and put on a cap, which being just taken out of the drawer was cleaner, theoretically, than the one she had on, and came down to him.
She ran upstairs right away, wiped away all traces of her tears, put on a cap that was just taken out of the drawer and was theoretically cleaner than the one she had on, and came down to him.
He seized both her hands and kissed them, and a tear fell upon them. She turned her head away at that to hide her own which started.
He took both her hands and kissed them, and a tear fell on them. She turned her head away to hide her own tear that started.
“My sweet Margaret,” he cried, “why is this? Why hold you aloof from your own good deed? we have been waiting for you every day, and no Margaret.”
“My sweet Margaret,” he exclaimed, “why is this? Why are you keeping your distance from your own good deed? We've been waiting for you every day, and there's still no sign of Margaret.”
“You said things.”
"You said stuff."
“What! when I was a hermit, and a donkey.”
“What! When I was a hermit and a donkey?”
“Ay! no matter, you said things. And you had no reason.”
“Ay! It doesn’t matter, you said things. And you had no reason.”
“Forget all I said there. Who hearkens the ravings of a maniac? for I see now that in a few months more I should have been a gibbering idiot; yet no mortal could have persuaded me away but you. Oh what an outlay of wit and goodness was yours! But it is not here I can thank and bless you as I ought. No, it is in the home you have given me, among the sheep whose shepherd you have made me; already I love them dearly; there it is I must thank 'the truest friend ever man had.' So now I say to you as erst you said to me, come to Gouda manse.”
“Forget everything I said back there. Who pays attention to the ramblings of a madman? Because I realize now that in just a few months, I would have become a babbling idiot; no one could have convinced me to change my mind except you. Oh, what a display of intelligence and kindness you showed! But I can't express my gratitude and appreciation here as I should. No, it’s in the home you’ve given me, among the sheep whose shepherd you’ve made me; I already love them dearly. That’s where I must thank ‘the truest friend a man ever had.’ So now I say to you, just as you once said to me, come to Gouda manse.”
“Humph! we will see about that.”
"Humph! We'll see about that."
“Why, Margaret, think you I had ever kept the dear child so long, but that I made sure you would be back to him from day to day? Oh he curls round my very heartstrings, but what is my title to him compared to thine? Confess now, thou hast had hard thoughts of me for this.”
“Why, Margaret, do you think I would have kept the dear child for so long if I wasn’t sure you’d come back to him day after day? Oh, he’s wrapped around my heart, but what right do I have to him compared to yours? Admit it now, you’ve had some harsh thoughts about me for this.”
“Nay, nay, not I. Ah! thou art thyself again; wast ever thoughtful of others. I have half a mind to go to Gouda manse, for your saying that.”
“Nah, nah, not me. Ah! You’re back to your old self; always thinking of others. I’m tempted to go to the Gouda house because of what you just said.”
“Come then, with half thy mind, 'tis worth the whole of other folk's.”
“Come on, with even half your mind, it’s worth more than the full minds of other people.”
“Well, I dare say I will; but there is no such mighty hurry,” said she coolly (she was literally burning to go). “Tell me first how you agree with your folk.”
“Well, I suppose I will; but there’s no rush,” she said casually (she was actually eager to leave). “First, tell me how you get along with your family.”
“Why, already my poor have taken root in my heart.”
“Why, my poor have already taken root in my heart.”
“I thought as much.”
"I figured as much."
“And there are such good creatures among them; simple and rough, and superstitious, but wonderfully good.”
“And there are really good people among them; straightforward and tough, and a bit superstitious, but truly kind.”
“Oh I leave you alone for seeing a grain of good among a bushel of ill.”
“Oh, I leave you alone to find a little good among a whole lot of bad.”
“Whisht! whisht! And Margaret, two of them have been ill friends for four years, and came to the manse each to get on my blind side. But give the glory to God I got on their bright side, and made them friends, and laugh at themselves for their folly.”
“Shh! Shh! And Margaret, two of them have been bad friends for four years, and came to the manse each to get on my blind side. But thank God I managed to see their good side, and helped them become friends, laughing at themselves for their foolishness.”
“But are you in very deed their vicar? answer me that.”
“But are you really their vicar? Answer me that.”
“Certes; have I not been to the bishop and taken the oath, and rung the church bell, and touched the altar, the missal, and the holy cup before the church-wardens? And they have handed me the parish seal; see, here it is. Nay, 'tis a real vicar inviting a true friend to Gouda manse.”
“Of course; haven't I been to the bishop and taken the oath, rung the church bell, and touched the altar, the missal, and the holy cup in front of the church wardens? And they’ve given me the parish seal; look, here it is. No, this is a real vicar inviting a true friend to the Gouda manse.”
“Then my mind is at ease. Tell me oceans more.”
“Then I feel at peace. Tell me so much more.”
“Well, sweet one, nearest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple that my guardian angel and his (her name thou knowest even by this turning of thy head away) hath placed beneath my roof. Sybrandt and I are that we never were till now, brothers. 'Twould gladden thee, yet sadden thee to hear how we kissed and forgave one another. He is full of thy praises, and wholly in a pious mind; he says he is happier since his trouble than e'er he was in the days of his strength. Oh! out of my house he ne'er shall go to any place but heaven.”
“Well, my dear, closest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple that my guardian angel and his (you know her name just by the way you turned your head away) has brought under my roof. Sybrandt and I are like brothers now, something we never were until now. It would make you happy but also sad to hear how we kissed and forgave each other. He speaks highly of you and is totally in a pious state of mind; he says he feels happier since his troubles than he ever did during his strong days. Oh! He will never leave my house for anywhere but heaven.”
“Tell me somewhat that happened thyself, poor soul! All this is good, but yet no tidings to me. Do I not know thee of old?”
“Tell me something that happened to you, poor soul! This is all nice, but it's still no news to me. Don’t I know you well enough?”
“Well, let me see. At first I was much dazzled by the sun-light, and could not go abroad (owl!), but that is passed; and good Reicht Heynes—humph!”
“Well, let me think. At first, I was really dazzled by the sunlight and couldn't go outside (like an owl!), but that’s over now; and good Reicht Heynes—hmm!”
“What of her?”
“What about her?”
“This to thine ear only, for she is a diamond. Her voice goes through me like a knife, and all voices seem loud but thine, which is so mellow sweet. Stay, now I'll fit ye with tidings; I spake yesterday with an old man that conceits he is ill-tempered, and sweats to pass for such with others, but oh! so threadbare, and the best good heart beneath.”
“This is just for you, because she’s a gem. Her voice cuts through me like a knife, and all other voices sound loud except yours, which is so wonderfully sweet. Wait, I have some news for you; I spoke yesterday with an old man who thinks he’s grumpy and tries hard to make others believe it, but oh! he’s so worn out, and he has the kindest heart underneath.”
“Why, 'tis a parish of angels,” said Margaret ironically.
“Why, it’s a neighborhood full of angels,” said Margaret sarcastically.
“Then why dost thou keep out on't?” retorted Gerard. “Well, he was telling me there was no parish in Holland where the devil hath such power as at Gouda; and among his instances, says he, 'We had a hermit, the holiest in Holland; but being Gouda, the devil came for him this week, and took him, bag and baggage; not a ha'porth of him left but a goodish piece of his skin, just for all the world like a hedgehog's, and a piece o' old iron furbished up.'”
“Then why do you keep avoiding it?” Gerard shot back. “Well, he was telling me there’s no parish in Holland where the devil has as much power as in Gouda; and among his examples, he said, ‘We had a hermit, the holiest in Holland; but being from Gouda, the devil came for him this week and took him, all his belongings; not a bit of him left but a good chunk of his skin, just like a hedgehog’s, and a piece of old iron polished up.’”
Margaret smiled.
Margaret grinned.
“Ay, but,” continued Gerard, “the strange thing is, the cave has verily fallen in; and had I been so perverse as resist thee, it had assuredly buried me dead there where I had buried myself alive. Therefore in this I see the finger of Providence, condemning my late, approving my present, way of life. What sayest thou?”
“Ay, but,” continued Gerard, “the strange thing is, the cave has really caved in; and if I had been stubborn enough to resist you, it would have definitely buried me dead right where I had buried myself alive. So in this, I see the hand of Providence, condemning my past and approving my present way of life. What do you say?”
“Nay, can I pierce the like mysteries? I am but a woman.”
“Nah, can I understand such mysteries? I'm just a woman.”
“Somewhat more, methinks. This very tale proves thee my guardian angel, and all else avouches it, so come to Gouda manse.”
“Actually, I think it’s more than that. This very story shows you’re my guardian angel, and everything else confirms it, so let’s go to the Gouda house.”
“Well, go you on, I'll follow.”
“Well, you go ahead, I’ll follow.”
“Nay, in the cart with me.”
“Nah, get in the cart with me.”
“Not so.”
"Not really."
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Can I tell why and wherefore, being a woman? All I know is I seem—to feel—to wish—to come alone.”
“Can I explain why and for what reason, being a woman? All I know is I feel like I want to be alone.”
“So be it then. I leave thee the cart, being, as thou sayest, a woman, and I'll go a-foot, being a man again, with the joyful tidings of thy coming.”
“So be it then. I’ll leave you the cart, since, as you say, I’m a woman, and I’ll go on foot, being a man again, with the joyful news of your arrival.”
When Margaret reached the manse the first thing she saw was the two Gerards together, the son performing his capriccios on the plot, and the father slouching on a chair, in his great hat, with pencil and paper, trying very patiently to sketch him.
When Margaret arrived at the manse, the first thing she noticed was the two Gerards together: the son was showing off his tricks in the yard, while the father was slouched in a chair, wearing his big hat, with pencil and paper, trying patiently to sketch him.
After a warm welcome he showed her his attempts. “But in vain I strive to fix him,” said he, “for he is incarnate quick silver, Yet do but note his changes, infinite, but none ungracious; all is supple and easy; and how he melteth from one posture to another,” He added presently, “Woe to illuminators I looking on thee, sir baby, I see what awkward, lopsided, ungainly toads I and my fellows painted missals with, and called them cherubs and seraphs,” Finally he threw the paper away in despair, and Margaret conveyed it secretly into her bosom.
After a warm welcome, he showed her his efforts. “But I’m trying in vain to fix him,” he said, “because he’s like quicksilver. Just look at his changes—endless, but none of them ungraceful; everything is flexible and smooth; and watch how he shifts from one pose to another.” He added soon after, “Woe to the illustrators! Looking at you, little one, I see what awkward, lopsided, clumsy frogs my friends and I painted in the missals, and called them cherubs and seraphs.” Finally, he tossed the paper aside in frustration, and Margaret secretly tucked it into her bosom.
At night when they sat round the peat fire he bade them observe how beautiful the brass candlesticks and other glittering metals were in the glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this observation, “And oh the sheets I lie in here,” said he, “often my conscience pricketh me, and saith, 'Who art thou to lie in lint like web of snow?' Dives was ne'er so flaxed as I. And to think that there are folk in the world that have all the beautiful things which I have here yet not content. Let them pass six months in a hermit's cell, seeing no face of man, then will they find how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is, and eke that men and women are God's fairest creatures. Margaret was always fair, but never to my eye so bright as now.” Margaret shook her head incredulously, Gerard continued, “My mother was ever good and kind, but I noted not her exceeding comeliness till now.”
At night, when they gathered around the peat fire, he told them to notice how beautiful the brass candlesticks and other shiny metals looked in the glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this comment. “And oh, the sheets I lie on here,” he said, “often my conscience pricks me and says, 'Who are you to lie on linen as soft as snow?' Dives was never so fine as I. And to think that there are people in the world who have all the beautiful things I have here and yet are not satisfied. Let them spend six months in a hermit's cell, seeing no human face, then they will realize how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is, and that men and women are God's best creations. Margaret was always beautiful, but never to my eyes as bright as now.” Margaret shook her head in disbelief, and Gerard continued, “My mother was always good and kind, but I didn't notice her incredible beauty until now.”
“Nor I neither,” said Catherine; “a score years ago I might pass in a crowd, but not now.”
“Me neither,” said Catherine; “twenty years ago I could blend in with a crowd, but not anymore.”
Gerard declared to her that each age had its beauty. “See this mild grey eye,” said he, “that hath looked motherly love upon so many of us, all that love hath left its shadow, and that shadow is a beauty which defieth Time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See this well-shaped brow, where comliness Just passeth into reverence. Art beautiful in my eyes, mother dear.”
Gerard told her that every age has its own beauty. “Look at this gentle grey eye,” he said, “that has shown a motherly love to so many of us. All that love has left its mark, and that mark is a beauty that challenges Time. Look at these delicate lips, these pure white teeth. Look at this well-shaped brow, where attractiveness just turns into respect. You are beautiful in my eyes, dear mother.”
“And that is enough for me, my darling, 'Tis time you were in bed, child. Ye have to preach the morn.”
“And that’s enough for me, my dear. It’s time for you to go to bed, kid. You have to preach in the morning.”
And Reicht Heynes and Catherine interchanged a look which said, “We two have an amiable maniac to superintend; calls everything beautiful.”
And Reicht Heynes and Catherine shared a look that said, “We have an affectionate lunatic to manage; thinks everything is beautiful.”
The next day was Sunday, and they heard him preach in his own church. It was crammed with persons, who came curious, but remained devout. Never was his wonderful gift displayed more powerfully; he was himself deeply moved by the first sight of all his people, and his bowels yearned over this flock he had so long neglected. In a single sermon, which lasted two hours and seemed to last but twenty minutes, he declared the whole scripture: he terrified the impenitent and thoughtless, confirmed the wavering, consoled the bereaved and the afflicted, uplifted the heart of the poor, and when he ended, left the multitude standing rapt, and unwilling to believe the divine music of his voice and soul had ceased.
The next day was Sunday, and they listened to him preach in his own church. It was packed with people, who came out of curiosity but left feeling devoted. His incredible talent was never more evident; he was deeply moved by the first sight of his congregation, and he felt a deep affection for this flock he had ignored for so long. In a single sermon that lasted two hours yet felt like just twenty minutes, he covered the entire scripture: he scared the unrepentant and careless, reassured the uncertain, Comforted the grieving and the troubled, and lifted the spirits of the poor. When he finished, the crowd was left standing, entranced, reluctant to believe that the divine melody of his voice and spirit had come to an end.
Need I say that two poor women in a corner sat entranced, with streaming eyes.
Need I mention that two poor women in a corner sat captivated, with tears streaming down their faces?
“Wherever gat he it all?” whispered Catherine, with her apron to her eyes. “By our Lady not from me.”
“Where did he get it all?” whispered Catherine, wiping her eyes with her apron. “I swear, it’s not from me.”
As soon as they were by themselves Margaret threw her arms round Catherine's neck and kissed her.
As soon as they were alone, Margaret wrapped her arms around Catherine's neck and kissed her.
“Mother, mother, I am not quite a happy woman, but oh I am a proud one.”
“Mom, Mom, I’m not really a happy woman, but oh, I’m a proud one.”
And she vowed on her knees never by word or deed to let her love come between this young saint and Heaven.
And she promised on her knees never to let her love interfere with this young saint and Heaven, either through her words or actions.
Reader, did you ever stand by the seashore after a storm, when the wind happens to have gone down suddenly? The waves cannot cease with their cause; indeed, they seem at first to the ear to lash the sounding shore more fiercely than while the wind blew. Still we are conscious that inevitable calm has begun, and is now but rocking them to sleep. So it was with those true and tempest-tossed lovers from that eventful night when they went hand in hand beneath the stars from Gouda hermitage to Gouda manse.
Reader, have you ever stood by the shore after a storm when the wind suddenly dies down? The waves can't stop because of their momentum; in fact, at first, they sound like they're crashing against the shore even harder than when the wind was blowing. Yet, we sense that the calm is inevitable and is now just gently calming them down. It was the same for those genuine, love-struck individuals after that memorable night when they walked hand in hand under the stars from the Gouda hermitage to the Gouda manse.
At times a loud wave would every now and then come roaring, but it was only memory's echo of the tempest that had swept their lives; the storm itself was over, and the boiling waters began from that moment to go down, down, down, gently, but inevitably.
At times, a loud wave would crash in, but it was just the echo of the storm that had changed their lives; the storm itself was over, and the turbulent waters began to recede, slowly but surely.
This image is to supply the place of interminable details that would be tedious and tame. What best merits attention at present is the general situation, and the strange complication of feeling that arose from it. History itself, though a far more daring story-teller than romance, presents few things so strange(1) as the footing on which Gerard and Margaret now lived for many years. United by present affection, past familiarity, and a marriage irregular but legal; separated by Holy Church and by their own consciences, which sided unreservedly with Holy Church; separated by the Church, but united by a living pledge of affection, lawful in every sense at its date.
This image is meant to replace endless details that would be boring and dull. What deserves attention right now is the overall situation and the complicated feelings that came from it. History itself, while a much bolder storyteller than romance, offers few things as strange as the foundation on which Gerard and Margaret lived for many years. They were connected by their current love, past familiarity, and a marriage that was irregular but legal; divided by the Holy Church and by their own consciences, which fully aligned with the Church; separated by the Church, but bonded by a living promise of love, valid in every sense at the time.
And living but a few miles from one another, and she calling his mother “mother,” For some years she always took her boy to Gouda on Sunday, returning home at dark, Go when she would, it was always fete at Gouda manse, and she was received like a little queen. Catherine in these days was nearly always with her, and Eli very often, Tergou had so little to tempt them compared with Rotterdam; and at last they left it altogether, and set up in the capital.
And living just a few miles apart, and her calling his mom “mother,” for some years she took her son to Gouda every Sunday, coming back home after dark. No matter when she went, it was always a celebration at the Gouda manse, and she was welcomed like a little queen. Catherine was almost always with her during that time, and Eli often joined them. Tergou had way less to offer compared to Rotterdam; eventually, they left it completely and moved to the capital.
And thus the years glided; so barren now of striking incidents, so void of great hopes, and free from great fears, and so like one another, that without the help of dates I could scarcely indicate the progress of time.
And so the years passed by; now so empty of exciting events, so lacking in big hopes, and clear of major fears, and so similar to each other, that without the help of dates I could barely mark the passage of time.
However, early next year, 1471, the Duchess of Burgundy, with the open dissent, but secret connivance of the Duke, raised forces to enable her dethroned brother, Edward the Fourth of England, to invade that kingdom; our old friend Denys thus enlisted, and passing through Rotterdam to the ships, heard on his way that Gerard was a priest, and Margaret alone. On this he told Margaret that marriage was not a habit of his, but that as his comrade had put it out of his own power to keep troth, he felt bound to offer to keep it for him; “for a comrade's honour is dear to us as our own,” said he.
However, early next year, 1471, the Duchess of Burgundy, with the open disagreement but secret support of the Duke, gathered forces to help her dethroned brother, Edward the Fourth of England, invade that kingdom; our old friend Denys was recruited, and while passing through Rotterdam to the ships, he learned on his way that Gerard was a priest and Margaret was alone. Because of this, he told Margaret that marriage wasn't something he usually did, but since his buddy had made it impossible for himself to keep his vow, he felt obligated to step in and honor it for him; “because a comrade’s honor is as important to us as our own,” he said.
She stared, then smiled, “I choose rather to be still thy she-comrade,” said she; “closer acquainted, we might not agree so well,” And in her character of she-comrade she equipped him with a new sword of Antwerp make, and a double handful of silver. “I give thee no gold,” said she, “for 'tis thrown away as quick as silver, and harder to win back. Heaven send thee safe out of all thy perils; there be famous fair women yonder to beguile thee, with their faces, as well as men to hash thee with their axes.”
She stared, then smiled, “I’d rather just be your female companion,” she said; “if we got to know each other better, we might not get along as well.” And in her role as his female companion, she equipped him with a new sword made in Antwerp and a double handful of silver. “I won’t give you any gold,” she said, “because it’s spent just as quickly as silver, and it’s harder to get back. May heaven keep you safe from all your dangers; there are beautiful women over there to charm you with their looks, as well as men ready to attack you with their axes.”
He was hurried on board at La Vere, and never saw Gerard at that time.
He was rushed on board at La Vere and never saw Gerard during that time.
In 1473 Sybrandt began to fail. His pitiable existence had been sweetened by his brother's inventive tenderness and his own contented spirit, which, his antecedents considered, was truly remarkable, As for Gerard, the day never passed that he did not devote two hours to him; reading or singing to him, praying with him, and drawing him about in a soft carriage Margaret and he had made between them. When the poor soul found his end near, he begged Margaret might be sent for. She came at once, and almost with his last breath he sought once more that forgiveness she had long ago accorded. She remained by him till the last; and he died, blessing and blessed, in the arms of the two true lovers he had parted for life. Tantum religio scit suadere boni.
In 1473, Sybrandt started to decline. His miserable life had been brightened by his brother's creative kindness and his own happy spirit, which, considering his background, was truly impressive. As for Gerard, not a day went by without him spending two hours with Sybrandt; reading or singing to him, praying with him, and taking him for rides in a gentle carriage that Margaret and he had made together. When the poor soul sensed his end was near, he asked for Margaret to be called. She came right away, and almost with his last breath, he sought again the forgiveness she had granted long ago. She stayed by his side until the end, and he died, blessing and blessed, in the embrace of the two true lovers he had left behind in life. Tantum religio scit suadere boni.
1474 there was a wedding in Margaret's house, Luke Peterson and Reicht Heynes.
1474, there was a wedding at Margaret's house, Luke Peterson and Reicht Heynes.
This may seem less strange if I give the purport of the dialogue interrupted some time back.
This might seem less odd if I explain the purpose of the dialogue we interrupted earlier.
Margaret went on to say, “Then in that case you can easily make him fancy you, and for my sake you must, for my conscience it pricketh me, and I must needs fit him with a wife, the best I know.” Margaret then instructed Reicht to be always kind and good-humoured to Luke; and she would be a model of peevishness to him, “But be not thou so simple as run me down,” said she, “Leave that to me. Make thou excuses for me; I will make myself black enow.”
Margaret continued, “In that case, you can easily make him like you, and for my sake, you have to, because my conscience is bothering me, and I have to find him a wife, the best one I know.” Margaret then told Reicht to always be kind and cheerful with Luke; she would take on the role of being grumpy with him, “But don’t be foolish enough to criticize me,” she said, “Leave that to me. You make excuses for me; I’ll make myself look bad enough.”
Reicht received these instructions like an order to sweep a room, and obeyed them punctually.
Reicht took these instructions as if they were a command to clean a room and followed them without delay.
When they had subjected poor Luke to this double artillery for a couple of years, he got to look upon Margaret as his fog and wind, and Reicht as his sunshine; and his affections transferred themselves, he scarce knew how or when.
When they had put poor Luke through this double trouble for a couple of years, he began to see Margaret as his fog and wind, and Reicht as his sunshine; his feelings shifted, and he hardly knew how or when it happened.
On the wedding day Reicht embraced Margaret, and thanked her almost with tears. “He was always my fancy,” said she, “from the first hour I clapped eyes on him.”
On the wedding day, Reicht hugged Margaret and thanked her nearly in tears. “He’s always been my dream,” she said, “since the first moment I laid eyes on him.”
“Heyday, you never told me that. What, Reicht, are you as sly as the rest?”
“Wow, you never told me that. What about you, Reicht, are you as sneaky as the others?”
“Nay, nay,” said Reicht eagerly; “but I never thought you would really part with him to me. In my country the mistress looks to be served before the maid.”
“Nah, nah,” Reicht said eagerly; “but I never thought you would actually give him to me. In my country, the mistress expects to be served before the maid.”
Margaret settled them in her shop, and gave them half the profits.
Margaret set them up in her shop and gave them half of the profits.
1476 and 7 were years of great trouble to Gerard, whose conscience compelled him to oppose the Pope. His Holiness, siding with the Grey Friars in their determination to swamp every palpable distinction between the Virgin Mary and her Son, bribed the Christian world into his crotchet by proffering pardon of all sins to such as would add to the Ave Mary this clause: “and blessed be thy Mother Anna, from whom, without blot of sin, proceeded thy virgin flesh.”
1476 and 1477 were years of great trouble for Gerard, whose conscience forced him to stand against the Pope. His Holiness, supporting the Grey Friars in their effort to erase any clear distinctions between the Virgin Mary and her Son, persuaded the Christian world to adopt his view by offering forgiveness for all sins to anyone who would add to the Hail Mary this clause: “and blessed be your Mother Anna, from whom, without any sin, came your virgin flesh.”
Gerard, in common with many of the northern clergy, held this sentence to be flat heresy. He not only refused to utter it in his church, but warned his parishioners against using it in private; and he refused to celebrate the new feast the Pope invented at the same time, viz., “the feast of the miraculous conception of the Virgin.”
Gerard, like many of the northern clergy, believed this statement was outright heresy. He not only refused to say it in his church but also warned his parishioners not to use it in private. Additionally, he refused to celebrate the new feast that the Pope created at the same time, namely “the feast of the miraculous conception of the Virgin.”
But this drew upon him the bitter enmity of the Franciscans, and they were strong enough to put him into more than one serious difficulty, and inflict many a little mortification on him. In emergencies he consulted Margaret, and she always did one of two things, either she said, “I do not see my way,” and refused to guess; or else she gave him advice that proved wonderfully sagacious. He had genius, but she had marvellous tact.
But this earned him the intense hatred of the Franciscans, and they were powerful enough to put him in several tough situations and cause him many small humiliations. In emergencies, he turned to Margaret, and she always did one of two things: either she said, “I can’t see a solution,” and declined to make a guess; or she offered him advice that turned out to be incredibly wise. He had talent, but she had amazing insight.
And where affection came in and annihilated the woman's judgment, he stepped in his turn to her aid. Thus though she knew she was spoiling little Gerard, and Catherine was ruining him for life, she would not part with him, but kept him at home, and his abilities uncultivated. And there was a shrewd boy of nine years, instead of learning to work and obey, playing about and learning selfishness from their infinite unselfishness, and tyrannizing with a rod of iron over two women, both of them sagacious and spirited, but reduced by their fondness for him to the exact level of idiots.
And when love got in the way and clouded the woman's judgment, he stepped in to help her. Even though she realized she was spoiling little Gerard, and Catherine was setting him up for failure in life, she refused to let him go and kept him at home, leaving his talents undeveloped. So instead of learning to work and follow rules, the clever nine-year-old spent his time playing around and learning selfishness from their endless selflessness, while he bossed around two wise and strong women, both of whom were brought down to the level of fools by their affection for him.
Gerard saw this with pain, and interfered with mild but firm remonstrance; and after a considerable struggle prevailed, and got little Gerard sent to the best school in Europe, kept by one Haaghe at Deventer: this was in 1477. Many tears were shed, but the great progress the boy made at that famous school reconciled Margaret in some degree, and the fidelity of Reicht Heynes, now her partner in business, enabled her to spend weeks at a time hovering over her boy at Deventer.
Gerard saw this with sadness and stepped in with gentle but firm objections; after a significant struggle, he succeeded in sending little Gerard to the best school in Europe, run by Haaghe in Deventer: this was in 1477. Many tears were shed, but the impressive progress the boy made at that renowned school somewhat reassured Margaret, and the loyalty of Reicht Heynes, now her business partner, allowed her to spend weeks at a time watching over her son in Deventer.
And so the years glided; and these two persons, subjected to as strong and constant a temptation as can well be conceived, were each other's guardian angels, and not each other's tempters.
And so the years passed by; and these two people, faced with a temptation as strong and constant as one can imagine, were each other's protectors, not each other's seducers.
To be sure the well-greased morality of the next century, which taught that solemn vows to God are sacred in proportion as they are reasonable, had at that time entered no single mind; and the alternative to these two minds was self-denial or sacrilege.
To be sure, the polished morality of the next century, which taught that serious commitments to God are sacred to the extent that they are reasonable, had not yet entered a single mind at that time; and the choice between these two perspectives was self-denial or sacrilege.
It was a strange thing to hear them talk with unrestrained tenderness to one another of their boy, and an icy barrier between themselves all the time.
It was odd to hear them speak to each other with such open affection about their son, while there was a cold distance between them the whole time.
Eight years had now passed thus, and Gerard, fairly compared with men in general, was happy.
Eight years had gone by, and Gerard, compared to most men, was happy.
But Margaret was not.
But Margaret wasn't.
The habitual expression of her face was a sweet pensiveness, but sometimes she was irritable and a little petulant. She even snapped Gerard now and then. And when she went to see him, if a monk was with him she would turn her back and go home. She hated the monks for having parted Gerard and her, and she inoculated her boy with a contempt for them which lasted him till his dying day.
The usual look on her face was a gentle thoughtfulness, but at times she could be irritable and a bit whiny. She even snapped at Gerard every now and then. And when she visited him, if a monk was there, she would turn around and head home. She despised the monks for separating her from Gerard, and she raised her son to hold a lasting disdain for them that remained with him until his last day.
Gerard bore with her like an angel. He knew her heart of gold, and hoped this ill gust would blow over.
Gerard put up with her like a saint. He knew she had a good heart and hoped this rough patch would pass soon.
He himself being now the right man in the right place this many years, loving his parishioners, and beloved by them, and occupied from morn till night in good works, recovered the natural cheerfulness of his disposition. To tell the truth, a part of his jocoseness was a blind; he was the greatest peace-maker, except Mr. Harmony in the play, that ever was born. He reconciled more enemies in ten years than his predecessors had done in three hundred; and one of his manoeuvres in the peacemaking art was to make the quarrellers laugh at the cause of quarrel. So did he undermine the demon of discord. But independently of that, he really loved a harmless joke. He was a wonderful tamer of animals, squirrels, bares, fawns, etc. So half in jest a parishioner who had a mule supposed to be possessed with a devil gave it him and said, “Tame this vagabone, parson, if ye can.” Well, in about six months, Heaven knows how, he not only tamed Jack, but won his affections to such a degree, that Jack would come running to his whistle like a dog.
He had become the right person in the right place for many years, caring for his parishioners, and being loved by them in return, busy from morning until night doing good deeds, which restored his natural cheerfulness. To be honest, part of his humor was a facade; he was the greatest peacekeeper, aside from Mr. Harmony in the play, to ever exist. He reconciled more enemies in ten years than his predecessors did in three hundred, and one of his strategies in making peace was getting the feuding parties to laugh at what they were fighting about. That’s how he undermined the spirit of discord. But aside from that, he genuinely enjoyed a good, harmless joke. He was amazing at taming animals—squirrels, bears, fawns, and so on. So, half in jest, a parishioner who had a mule that was thought to be devil-possessed gave it to him and said, “Tame this rascal, parson, if you can.” Surprisingly, in about six months, Heaven knows how, he not only tamed Jack but also won his affection so much that Jack would come running to his whistle like a dog.
One day, having taken shelter from a shower on the stone settle outside a certain public-house, he heard a toper inside, a stranger, boasting he could take more at a draught than any man in Gouda. He instantly marched in and said, “What, lads, do none of ye take him up for the honour of Gouda? Shall it be said that there came hither one from another parish a greater sot than any of us? Nay, then, I your parson do take him up. Go to, I'll find thee a parishioner shall drink more at a draught than thou.”
One day, while seeking refuge from the rain on a stone bench outside a pub, he overheard a drunkard inside, a stranger, bragging that he could drink more in one go than anyone in Gouda. He immediately walked in and said, “What’s going on, guys? Is no one going to challenge him for the honor of Gouda? Can we really say that someone from another area is a bigger drinker than us? No way, I, your rector, will take him on. Just wait, I'll find one of my parishioners who can drink more in a single gulp than you can.”
A bet was made; Gerard whistled; in clattered Jack—for he was taught to come into a room with the utmost composure—and put his nose into his backer's hand.
A bet was placed; Gerard whistled; in walked Jack—he had been taught to enter a room with complete composure—and nudged his nose into his backer's hand.
“A pair of buckets!” shouted Gerard, “and let us see which of these two sons of asses can drink most at a draught.”
“A couple of buckets!” shouted Gerard, “and let’s see which of these two dumb guys can drink the most in one go.”
On another occasion two farmers had a dispute whose hay was the best. Failing to convince each other, they said, “We'll ask parson;” for by this time he was their referee in every mortal thing.
On another occasion, two farmers argued over whose hay was the best. Not able to convince each other, they said, “Let’s ask the pastor,” because by this time he was their go-to person for everything.
“How lucky you thought of me!” said Gerard, “Why, I have got one staying with me who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a double handful apiece.”
“How lucky you were to think of me!” said Gerard, “I have someone staying with me who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a double handful each.”
So when they came, he had them into the parlour, and put each bundle on a chair. Then he whistled, and in walked Jack.
So when they arrived, he led them into the living room and placed each bundle on a chair. Then he whistled, and in walked Jack.
“Lord a mercy!” said one of the farmers.
“Goodness gracious!” said one of the farmers.
“Jack,” said the parson, in the tone of conversation, “just tell us which is the best hay of these two.”
“Jack,” said the parson, in a conversational tone, “just tell us which of these two is the best hay.”
Jack sniffed them both, and made his choice directly, proving his sincerity by eating every morsel. The farmers slapped their thighs, and scratched their heads. “To think of we not thinking o' that,” And they each sent Jack a truss.
Jack sniffed them both and made his choice right away, showing his sincerity by eating every last bite. The farmers slapped their thighs and scratched their heads. “Can you believe we didn’t think of that?” And each of them sent Jack a bundle.
So Gerard got to be called the merry parson of Gouda. But Margaret, who like most loving women had no more sense of humour than a turtle-dove, took this very ill. “What!” said she to herself, “is there nothing sore at the bottom of his heart that he can go about playing the zany?” She could understand pious resignation and content, but not mirth, in true lovers parted. And whilst her woman's nature was perturbed by this gust (and women seem more subject to gusts than men) came that terrible animal, a busybody, to work upon her. Catherine saw she was not happy, and said to her, “Your boy is gone from you. I would not live alone all my days if I were you.”
So Gerard became known as the cheerful priest of Gouda. But Margaret, who like most loving women had no more sense of humor than a turtle dove, took this very poorly. “What!” she thought to herself, “is there nothing painful in his heart that he can go around acting like a fool?” She could accept pious resignation and contentment, but not joy, in true lovers who were apart. And while her emotions were stirred by this shift (and women seem more prone to emotional ups and downs than men), that annoying creature, a gossip, started to influence her. Catherine noticed she was unhappy and said to her, “Your guy is gone. I wouldn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life if I were you.”
“He is more alone than I,” sighed Margaret.
“He feels lonelier than I do,” sighed Margaret.
“Oh, a man is a man, but a woman is a woman. You must not think all of him and none of yourself. Near is your kirtle, but nearer is your smock. Besides, he is a priest, and can do no better. But you are not a priest. He has got his parish, and his heart is in that. Bethink thee! Time flies; overstay not thy market. Wouldst not like to have three or four more little darlings about thy knee now they have robbed thee of poor little Gerard, and sent him to yon nasty school?” And so she worked upon a mind already irritated.
“Oh, a man is a man, but a woman is a woman. You shouldn’t think all about him and nothing about yourself. Your dress is close, but your undergarments are even closer. Besides, he’s a priest, and he can’t do any better. But you’re not a priest. He has his parish, and his heart is in that. Think about it! Time is flying; don’t linger too long. Wouldn’t you like to have three or four more little ones around you now that they’ve taken poor little Gerard and sent him off to that awful school?” And so she played on a mind already frustrated.
Margaret had many suitors ready to marry her at a word or even a look, and among them two merchants of the better class, Van Schelt and Oostwagen. “Take one of those two,” said Catherine.
Margaret had plenty of suitors willing to marry her with just a word or even a glance, and among them were two respectable merchants, Van Schelt and Oostwagen. “Choose one of those two,” said Catherine.
“Well, I will ask Gerard if I may,” said Margaret one day, with a flood of tears; “for I cannot go on the way I am.”
“Well, I’ll ask Gerard if I can,” said Margaret one day, with tears streaming down her face; “because I can’t keep going like this.”
“Why, you would never be so simple as ask him?”
“Why would you be so naive as to ask him?”
“Think you I would be so wicked as marry without his leave?”
“Do you really think I would be so wrong as to marry without his permission?”
Accordingly she actually went to Gouda, and after hanging her head, and blushing, and crying, and saying she was miserable, told him his mother wished her to marry one of those two; and if he approved of her marrying at all, would he use his wisdom, and tell her which he thought would be the kindest to the little Gerard of those two; for herself, she did not care what became of her.
Accordingly, she went to Gouda, and after hanging her head, blushing, crying, and saying she was miserable, she told him his mother wanted her to marry one of those two. If he thought she should marry at all, could he please use his judgment and tell her which of the two would be kinder to little Gerard? As for herself, she didn't care what happened to her.
Gerard felt as if she had put a soft hand into his body and torn his heart out with it. But the priest with a mighty effort mastered the man. In a voice scarcely audible he declined this responsibility. “I am not a saint or a prophet,” said he; “I might advise thee ill. I shall read the marriage service for thee,” faltered he; “it is my right. No other would pray for thee as I should. But thou must choose for thyself; and oh! let me see thee happy. This four months past thou hast not been happy.”
Gerard felt like she had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. But the priest, with a huge effort, took control of the situation. In a voice barely above a whisper, he refused the responsibility. “I’m not a saint or a prophet,” he said; “I might give you bad advice. I’ll perform the marriage ceremony for you,” he stammered; “it’s my duty. No one else would pray for you like I would. But you need to make your own choice; and please, let me see you happy. You haven't been happy for the past four months.”
“A discontented mind is never happy,” said Margaret.
“A dissatisfied mind is never happy,” said Margaret.
She left him, and he fell on his knees, and prayed for help from above.
She left him, and he dropped to his knees, praying for help from above.
Margaret went home pale and agitated. “Mother,” said she, “never mention it to me again, or we shall quarrel.”
Margaret went home looking pale and upset. “Mom,” she said, “never bring it up again, or we’ll end up fighting.”
“He forbade you? Well, more shame for him, that is all.”
“He forbade you? Well, that just makes him look worse, that’s all.”
“He forbid me? He did not condescend so far. He was as noble as I was paltry. He would not choose for me for fear of choosing me an ill husband. But he would read the service for my groom and me; that was his right. Oh, mother, what a heartless creature I was!”
“He forbade me? He didn't stoop that low. He was as noble as I was petty. He wouldn't choose for me because he was afraid of picking a bad husband. But he would officiate the ceremony for my groom and me; that was his right. Oh, mother, what a heartless person I was!”
“Well, I thought not he had that much sense.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think he had that much sense.”
“Ah, you go by the poor soul's words, but I rate words as air when the face speaketh to mine eye. I saw the priest and the true lover a-fighting in his dear face, and his cheek pale with the strife, and oh! his poor lip trembled as he said the stout-hearted words—Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!” And Margaret burst into a violent passion of tears.
“Ah, you believe the words of the unfortunate one, but I consider words as insignificant as air when the face speaks to me. I saw the priest and the true lover struggling within his dear face, his cheek pale from the conflict, and oh! his poor lip quivered as he uttered those brave words—Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!” And Margaret broke down into a fit of tears.
Catherine groaned. “There, give it up without more ado,” said she. “You two are chained together for life; and if God is merciful, that won't be for long; for what are you neither maid, wife, nor widow.”
Catherine groaned. “Alright, stop it already,” she said. “You two are stuck together for life; and if God is merciful, it won't be for long; because what are you if you’re neither a girl, a wife, nor a widow?”
“Give it up?” said Margaret; “that was done long ago. All I think of now is comforting him; for now I have been and made him unhappy too, wretch and monster that I am.”
“Give it up?” said Margaret; “that was done long ago. All I think about now is comforting him; because now I’ve been the one to make him unhappy too, wretch and monster that I am.”
So the next day they both went to Gouda. And Gerard, who had been praying for resignation all this time, received her with peculiar tenderness as a treasure he was to lose; but she was agitated and eager to let him see without words that she would never marry, and she fawned on him like a little dog to be forgiven. And as she was going away she murmured, “Forgive! and forget! I am but a woman.”
So the next day they both went to Gouda. Gerard, who had been praying for acceptance all this time, greeted her with a special tenderness, like a treasure he was about to lose; but she was restless and eager to show him without saying a word that she would never marry him, and she clung to him like a little dog seeking forgiveness. As she was leaving, she whispered, “Forgive! and forget! I’m just a woman.”
He misunderstood her, and said, “All I bargain for is, let me see thee content; for pity's sake, let me not see thee unhappy as I have this while.”
He misunderstood her and said, “All I want is to see you happy; for the love of everything, don't let me see you unhappy like I have for a while.”
“My darling, you never shall again,” said Margaret, with streaming eyes, and kissed his hand.
“My darling, you will never again,” said Margaret, tears streaming down her face, and kissed his hand.
He misunderstood this too at first; but when month after month passed, and he heard no more of her marriage, and she came to Gouda comparatively cheerful, and was even civil to Father Ambrose, a mild benevolent monk from the Dominican convent hard by—then he understood her; and one day he invited her to walk alone with him in the sacred paddock; and before I relate what passed between them, I must give its history.
He didn't get it at first either; but as the months went by without any news of her getting married, and she came to Gouda looking pretty cheerful, even being polite to Father Ambrose, a kind monk from the nearby Dominican convent—then he figured her out. One day, he asked her to take a walk alone with him in the sacred paddock; but before I share what happened between them, I need to tell you the backstory.
When Gerard had been four or five days at the manse, looking out of window he uttered an exclamation of joy. “Mother, Margaret, here is one of my birds: another, another: four, six, nine. A miracle! a miracle!”
When Gerard had been at the manse for four or five days, looking out the window, he exclaimed with joy, “Mom, Margaret, look! Here’s one of my birds: another, another: four, six, nine. A miracle! A miracle!”
“Why, how can you tell your birds from their fellows?” said Catherine.
“Why, how can you tell your birds apart from the others?” said Catherine.
“I know every feather in their wings. And see; there is the little darling whose claw I gilt, bless it!”
“I know every feather in their wings. And look; there is the little darling whose claw I gilded, bless it!”
And presently his rapture took a serious turn, and he saw Heaven's approbation in this conduct of the birds as he did in the fall of the cave. This wonderfully kept alive his friendship for animals; and he enclosed a paddock, and drove all the sons of Cain from it with threats of excommunication, “On this little spot of earth we'll have no murder,” said he. He tamed leverets and partridges, and little birds, and hares, and roe-deer. He found a squirrel with a broken leg; he set it with infinite difficulty and patience; and during the cure showed it repositories of acorns, nuts, chestnuts, etc. And this squirrel got well and went off, but visited him in hard weather, and brought a mate, and next year little squirrels were found to have imbibed their parents' sentiments, and of all these animals each generation was tamer than the last. This set the good parson thinking, and gave him the true clue to the great successes of mediaeval hermits in taming wild animals.
And soon his excitement took a serious turn, and he recognized Heaven's approval in the behavior of the birds just as he did in the collapse of the cave. This greatly strengthened his bond with animals; he fenced off a paddock and drove away all the sons of Cain with threats of excommunication. “In this little piece of land, there will be no murder,” he declared. He tamed leverets, partridges, small birds, hares, and roe-deer. He found a squirrel with a broken leg; with immense effort and patience, he healed it and during its recovery showed it where to find acorns, nuts, chestnuts, and more. The squirrel got better and left but would come back in bad weather, bringing a mate with it. The following year, little squirrels were found that had picked up their parents' habits, and each generation of these animals became tamer than the last. This made the good parson think deeply and gave him insight into the remarkable achievements of medieval hermits in taming wild animals.
He kept the key of this paddock, and never let any man but himself enter it; nor would he even let little Gerard go there without him or Margaret. “Children are all little Cains,” said he. In this oasis, then, he spoke to Margaret, and said, “Dear Margaret, I have thought more than ever of thee of late, and have asked myself why I am content, and thou unhappy.”
He held onto the key to this pasture and never allowed anyone but himself to go in; he wouldn't even let little Gerard go there without him or Margaret. “Kids can be little Cains,” he said. In this peaceful spot, he turned to Margaret and said, “Dear Margaret, I’ve been thinking about you more than ever lately and wondered why I feel content while you feel unhappy.”
“Because thou art better, wiser, holier than I; that is all,” said Margaret promptly.
“Because you are better, smarter, and more righteous than I; that’s all,” said Margaret promptly.
“Our lives tell another tale,” said Gerard thoughtfully. “I know thy goodness and thy wisdom too well to reason thus perversely. Also I know that I love thee as dear as thou, I think, lovest me. Yet am I happier than thou. Why is this so?”
“Our lives tell a different story,” Gerard said thoughtfully. “I know your goodness and your wisdom too well to think otherwise. I also know that I love you as much as you, I believe, love me. Yet I am happier than you. Why is that?”
“Dear Gerard, I am as happy as a woman can hope to be this side of the grave.”
“Dear Gerard, I’m as happy as a woman can be before she dies.”
“Not so happy as I. Now for the reason. First, then, I am a priest, and this, the one great trial and disappointment God giveth me along with so many joys, why, I share it with a multitude. For alas! I am not the only priest by thousands that must never hope for entire earthly happiness. Here, then, thy lot is harder than mine.”
“Not as happy as I am. Now, here’s why. First of all, I’m a priest, and this is the one big challenge and disappointment that God gives me along with so many joys. I share it with many others. Unfortunately, I’m not the only priest among thousands who can never hope for complete earthly happiness. So, your situation is tougher than mine.”
“But Gerard, I have my child to love. Thou canst not fill thy heart with him as his mother can, So you may set this against you.”
“But Gerard, I have my child to love. You can't fill your heart with him like his mother can, so you may consider this as a point against you.”
“And I have ta'en him from thee; it was cruel; but he would have broken thy heart one day if I had not. Well then, sweet one, I come to where the shoe pincheth, methinks. I have my parish, and it keeps my heart in a glow from morn till night. There is scarce an emotion that my folk stir not up in me many times a day. Often their sorrows make me weep, sometimes their perversity kindles a little wrath, and their absurdity makes me laugh, and sometimes their flashes of unexpected goodness do set me all of a glow, and I could hug 'em. Meantime thou, poor soul, sittest with heart—
“And I’ve taken him away from you; it was harsh, but he would have broken your heart one day if I hadn’t. Well then, my sweet, I feel like I’m getting to the heart of the matter. I have my parish, and it keeps my heart warm from morning till night. There’s hardly an emotion that my people don’t evoke in me many times throughout the day. Often their sorrows make me cry, sometimes their stubbornness sparks a bit of anger in me, and their silliness makes me laugh. There are times when their unexpected kindness fills me with joy, and I just want to hug them. Meanwhile, you, poor soul, sit there with a heavy heart—
“Of lead, Gerard; of very lead.”
“It's lead, Gerard; definitely lead.”
“See now how unkind thy lot compared with mine, Now how if thou couldst be persuaded to warm thyself at the fire that warmeth me.”
“See how unkind your situation is compared to mine. What if you could be convinced to warm yourself by the fire that warms me?”
“Ah, if I could?”
“Ah, if only I could?”
“Hast but to will it. Come among my folk. Take in thine hand the alms I set aside, and give it with kind words; hear their sorrows: they shall show you life is full of troubles, and as thou sayest truly, no man or woman without their thorn this side the grave. Indoors I have a map of Gouda parish. Not to o'erburden thee at first, I will put twenty housen under thee with their folk. What sayest thou? but for thy wisdom I had died a dirty maniac,' and ne'er seen Gouda manse, nor pious peace. Wilt profit in turn by what little wisdom I have to soften her lot to whom I do owe all?”
“Just make the choice. Come among my people. Take the donations I set aside and give them along with kind words; listen to their struggles: they will show you that life is full of challenges, and as you rightly say, no one escapes their hardships before they die. Inside, I have a map of Gouda parish. To not overwhelm you at first, I will focus on twenty homes with their families. What do you think? Without your wisdom, I would have died a miserable maniac and never seen the Gouda manor or found any peace. Will you benefit from the little wisdom I have to help ease the burden of the one to whom I owe everything?”
Margaret assented warmly, and a happy thing it was for the little district assigned to her; it was as if an angel had descended on them. Her fingers were never tired of knitting or cutting for them, her heart of sympathizing with them. And that heart expanded and waved its drooping wings; and the glow of good and gentle deed began to spread over it; and she was rewarded in another way by being brought into more contact with Gerard, and also with his spirit. All this time malicious tongues had not been idle. “If there is nought between them more than meets the eye, why doth she not marry?” etc. And I am sorry to say our old friend Joan Ketel was one of these coarse sceptics. And now one winter evening she got on a hot scent. She saw Margaret and Gerard talking earnestly together on the Boulevard. She whipped behind a tree. “Now I'll hear something,” said she; and so she did. It was winter; there had been one of those tremendous floods followed by a sharp frost, and Gerard in despair as to where he should lodge forty or fifty houseless folk out of the piercing cold. And now it was, “Oh, dear, dear Margaret, what shall I do? The manse is full of them, and a sharp frost coming on this night.”
Margaret agreed enthusiastically, and it was a wonderful thing for the little community she served; it felt like an angel had come to them. She never grew tired of knitting or making things for them, and her heart was always open to their needs. That heart grew larger and spread its weary wings, and the warmth of kindness and good deeds began to shine from it. She was also rewarded in another way by spending more time with Gerard, as well as connecting with his spirit. Meanwhile, gossiping tongues were not silent. “If there’s nothing more between them than meets the eye, why doesn’t she just marry?” etc. I regret to say that our old friend Joan Ketel was one of these rough skeptics. One winter evening, she caught wind of something interesting. She saw Margaret and Gerard deep in conversation on the Boulevard. She slipped behind a tree. “Now I’ll hear something,” she said; and she did. It was winter; there had been a terrible flood followed by a hard frost, and Gerard was at a loss for where to house forty or fifty homeless people from the biting cold. And now he exclaimed, “Oh, dear, dear Margaret, what am I going to do? The manse is full of them, and a sharp frost is coming tonight.”
Margaret reflected, and Joan listened.
Margaret thought, and Joan listened.
“You must lodge them in the church,” said Margaret quietly.
“You need to place them in the church,” Margaret said quietly.
“In the church? Profanation.”
“Inside the church? Disrespect.”
“No; charity profanes nothing, not even a church; soils nought, not even a church. To-day is but Tuesday. Go save their lives, for a bitter night is coming. Take thy stove into the church, and there house them. We will dispose of them here and there ere the lord's day.”
“No; charity doesn’t dishonor anything, not even a church; it doesn’t stain anything, not even a church. Today is just Tuesday. Go save their lives, because a harsh night is coming. Bring your stove into the church, and let them stay there. We'll find them places here and there before Sunday.”
“And I could not think of that; bless thee, sweet Margaret, thy mind is stronger than mine, and readier.”
“And I couldn't think of that; bless you, sweet Margaret, your mind is stronger than mine and quicker.”
“Nay, nay, a woman looks but a little way, therefore she sees clear. I'll come over myself to-morrow.”
“Nah, nah, a woman looks just a little way, so she sees clearly. I'll come over myself tomorrow.”
And on this they parted with mutual blessings.
And with that, they said goodbye, exchanging good wishes.
Joan glided home remorseful.
Joan walked home feeling guilty.
And after that she used to check all surmises to their discredit. “Beware,” she would say, “lest some angel should blister thy tongue. Gerard and Margaret paramours? I tell ye they are two saints which meet in secret to plot charity to the poor.”
And after that, she used to dismiss all suspicions about them. “Be careful,” she would say, “or some angel might burn your tongue. Gerard and Margaret are lovers? I tell you, they’re two saints who secretly come together to plan ways to help the poor.”
In the summer of 1481 Gerard determined to provide against similar disasters recurring to his poor. Accordingly he made a great hole in his income, and bled his friends (zealous parsons always do that) to build a large Xenodochium to receive the victims of flood or fire. Giles and all his friends were kind, but all was not enough; when lo! the Dominican monks of Gouda to whom his parlour and heart had been open for years, came out nobly, and put down a handsome sum to aid the charitable vicar.
In the summer of 1481, Gerard decided to prevent similar disasters from happening to his community. He took a significant hit to his income and leaned on his friends (zealous clergy always do that) to build a large shelter for the victims of floods or fires. Giles and all his friends were supportive, but it still wasn't enough; then, the Dominican monks of Gouda, to whom he had opened his home and heart for years, stepped up generously and contributed a substantial amount to help the charitable vicar.
“The dear good souls,” said Margaret; “who would have thought it?”
“The dear good people,” said Margaret; “who would have guessed it?”
“Any one who knows them,” said Gerard, “Who more charitable than monks?”
“Anyone who knows them,” said Gerard, “Who’s more generous than monks?”
“Go to! They do but give the laity back a pig of their own sow.”
“Come on! They're just giving the regular folks back a pig that belongs to them.”
“And what more do I? What more doth the duke?”
“And what else do I want? What else does the duke?”
Then the ambitious vicar must build almshouses for decayed true men in their old age close to the manse, that he might keep and feed them, as well as lodge them. And his money being gone, he asked Margaret for a few thousand bricks and just took off his coat and turned builder; and as he had a good head, and the strength of a Hercules, with the zeal of an artist, up rose a couple of almshouses parson built.
Then the ambitious vicar had to build homes for elderly, down-on-their-luck men near the manse so he could care for and house them. When he ran out of money, he asked Margaret for a few thousand bricks and got to work. Since he was smart and strong like Hercules, with the passion of an artist, he managed to construct a couple of almshouses himself.
And at this work Margaret would sometimes bring him his dinner, and add a good bottle of Rhenish. And once seeing him run up a plank with a wheelbarrow full of bricks which really most bricklayers would have gone staggering under, she said, “Times are changed since I had to carry little Gerard for thee.”
And while he was working, Margaret would sometimes bring him his lunch, along with a nice bottle of Rhine wine. Once, when she saw him rush up a ramp with a wheelbarrow full of bricks that most bricklayers would struggle to carry, she said, “Things have changed since I had to carry little Gerard for you.”
“Ay, dear one, thanks to thee.”
“Thanks, my dear.”
When the first home was finished, the question was who they should put into it; and being fastidious over it like a new toy, there was much hesitation. But an old friend arrived in time to settle this question.
When the first house was done, the question was who they should put in it; and being picky about it like a new toy, there was a lot of hesitation. But an old friend showed up just in time to resolve this issue.
As Gerard was passing a public-house in Rotterdam one day, he heard a well-known voice, He looked up, and there was Denys of Burgundy, but sadly changed; his beard stained with grey, and his clothes worn and ragged; he had a cuirass still, and gauntlets, but a staff instead of an arbalest, To the company he appeared to be bragging and boasting, but in reality he was giving a true relation of Edward the Fourth's invasion of an armed kingdom with 2000 men, and his march through the country with armies capable of swallowing him looking on, his battles at Tewkesbury and Barnet, and reoccupation of his capital and kingdom in three months after landing at the Humber with a mixed handful of Dutch, English, and Burgundians.
As Gerard was walking past a bar in Rotterdam one day, he heard a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Denys of Burgundy, but he looked different; his beard was streaked with gray, and his clothes were worn and torn. He still had a breastplate and gauntlets, but he was holding a staff instead of a crossbow. To the people around him, he seemed to be bragging, but he was actually recounting the true story of Edward the Fourth's invasion of an armed kingdom with 2,000 men, and his march through the region with armies capable of overpowering him as he watched. He talked about his battles at Tewkesbury and Barnet, and how he took back his capital and kingdom just three months after landing at the Humber with a mixed group of Dutch, English, and Burgundians.
In this, the greatest feat of arms the century had seen, Denys had shone; and whilst sneering at the warlike pretensions of Charles the Bold, a duke with an itch but no talent for fighting, and proclaiming the English king the first captain of the age, did not forget to exalt himself.
In this, the greatest military achievement of the century, Denys had stood out; and while mocking the warlike ambitions of Charles the Bold, a duke who craved battle but lacked skill, and declaring the English king the top commander of the time, did not fail to praise himself.
Gerard listened with eyes glittering affection and fun. “And now,” said Denys, “after all these feats, patted on the back by the gallant young Prince of Gloucester, and smiled on by the great captain himself, here I am lamed for life; by what? by the kick of a horse, and this night I know not where I shall lay my tired bones. I had a comrade once in these parts that would not have let me lie far from him; but he turned priest and deserted his sweetheart, so 'tis not likely he would remember his comrade. And ten years play sad havoc with our hearts, and limbs, and all.” Poor Denys sighed, and Gerard's bowels yearned over him.
Gerard listened with sparkling eyes full of affection and fun. “And now,” said Denys, “after all these accomplishments, praised by the brave young Prince of Gloucester, and smiled at by the great captain himself, here I am, crippled for life; and for what? For the kick of a horse, and tonight I don’t even know where I’ll rest my tired body. I used to have a buddy around here who wouldn’t have let me stay far from him; but he became a priest and ditched his sweetheart, so it’s unlikely he’d remember his old friend. And ten years really mess with our hearts, limbs, and everything.” Poor Denys sighed, and Gerard felt a deep compassion for him.
“What words are these?” he said, with a great gulp in his throat. “Who grudges a brave soldier supper and bed? Come home with me!”
“What are these words?” he asked, swallowing hard. “Who denies a brave soldier dinner and a place to sleep? Come home with me!”
“Much obliged, but I am no lover of priests.”
"Thanks, but I'm not a fan of priests."
“Nor I of soldiers; but what is supper and bed between two true men?”
“Nor I of soldiers; but what are dinner and sleep between two genuine friends?”
“Not much to you, but something to me. I will come.”
“Not much to you, but something to me. I’ll be there.”
“In one hour,” said Gerard, and went in high spirits to Margaret, and told her the treat in store, and she must come and share it. She must drive his mother in his little carriage up to the manse with all speed, and make ready an excellent supper. Then he himself borrowed a cart, and drove Denys up rather slowly, to give the women time.
“In one hour,” said Gerard, and happily went to Margaret, telling her about the surprise waiting for them and that she had to come and be a part of it. She needed to quickly drive his mother in his little carriage up to the manse and prepare an amazing supper. Then he borrowed a cart and drove Denys up slowly, giving the women time to get ready.
On the road Denys found out this priest was a kind soul, so told him his trouble, and confessed his heart was pretty near broken. “The great use our stout hearts, and arms, and lives till we are worn out, and then fling us away like broken tools.” He sighed deeply, and it cost Gerard a great struggle not to hug him then and there, and tell him. But he wanted to do it all like a story book. Who has not had this fancy once in his life? Why Joseph had it; all the better for us.
On the road, Denys realized that this priest was a kind person, so he shared his troubles and admitted that his heart was nearly broken. “We use our strong hearts, arms, and lives until we're worn out, and then we're tossed aside like useless tools.” He sighed deeply, and it took a lot for Gerard not to embrace him right then and there and express his feelings. But he wanted to handle it like a storybook. Who hasn’t imagined this at least once in their life? Even Joseph had that thought; it’s all the better for us.
They landed at the little house. It was as clean as a penny, the hearth blazing, and supper set.
They arrived at the small house. It was spotless, the fireplace glowing, and dinner was ready.
Denys brightened up. “Is this your house, reverend sir?”
Denys smiled. “Is this your house, sir?”
“Well, 'tis my work, and with these hands, but 'tis your house.”
"Well, it's my job, and with these hands, but it's your house."
“Ah, no such luck,” said Denys, with a sigh.
“Ah, no such luck,” Denys said with a sigh.
“But I say ay,” shouted Gerard. “And what is more I—” (gulp) “say—” (gulp) “COURAGE, CAMARADE, LE DIABLE EST MORT!”
“But I say yes,” shouted Gerard. “And what's more I—” (gulp) “say—” (gulp) “COURAGE, COMRADE, THE DEVIL IS DEAD!”
Denys started, and almost staggered. “Why, what?” he stammered, “w-wh-who art thou, that bringest me back the merry words and merry days of my youth?” and he was greatly agitated.
Denys jumped and nearly stumbled. “Why, what?” he stuttered, “w-who are you, that brings me back the joyful words and happy days of my youth?” and he was very upset.
“My poor Denys, I am one whose face is changed, but nought else; to my heart, dear, trusty comrade, to my heart,” And he opened his arms, with the tears in his eyes. But Denys came close to him, and peered in his face, and devoured every feature; and when he was sure it was really Gerard, he uttered a cry so vehement it brought the women running from the house, and fell upon Gerard's neck, and kissed him again and again, and sank on his knees, and laughed and sobbed with joy so terribly, that Gerard mourned his folly in doing dramas. But the women with their gentle soothing ways soon composed the brave fellow, and he sat smiling, and holding Margaret's hand and Gerard's, And they all supped together, and went to their beds with hearts warm as a toast; and the broken soldier was at peace, and in his own house, and under his comrade's wing.
“My poor Denys, I’m someone whose face has changed, but nothing else; to my heart, dear, trusted friend, to my heart,” And he opened his arms, tears in his eyes. But Denys stepped closer, studied his face, and took in every detail; and when he was sure it was really Gerard, he let out a cry so intense that it brought the women rushing from the house. He threw himself on Gerard’s neck, kissed him over and over, sank to his knees, and laughed and sobbed with joy so fiercely that Gerard regretted his foolishness in doing dramas. But the women, with their gentle, calming ways, soon settled the brave man, and he sat there smiling, holding Margaret’s hand and Gerard’s. They all enjoyed supper together and went to bed with hearts warm as toast; and the wounded soldier was at peace, in his own home, and under his friend’s protection.
His natural gaiety returned, and he resumed his consigne after eight years' disuse, and hobbled about the place enlivening it; but offended the parish mortally by calling the adored vicar comrade, and nothing but comrade.
His natural cheerfulness came back, and he picked up his duties again after eight years of not doing them, and he shuffled around the place bringing it to life; however, he deeply offended the parish by referring to the beloved vicar as nothing more than 'comrade.'
When they made a fuss about this to Gerard, he just looked in their faces and said, “What does it matter? Break him of swearing, and you shall have my thanks.”
When they caused a stir about this to Gerard, he just looked them in the eye and said, “What does it matter? Get him to stop swearing, and you'll have my gratitude.”
This year Margaret went to a lawyer to make her will, for without this, she was told, her boy might have trouble some day to get his own, not being born in lawful wedlock. The lawyer, however, in conversation, expressed a different opinion.
This year, Margaret went to a lawyer to create her will, because she was told that without it, her son might have trouble getting what’s rightfully his someday since he wasn’t born in lawful wedlock. However, during their conversation, the lawyer shared a different perspective.
“This is the babble of churchmen,” said he, “Yours is a perfect marriage, though an irregular one.”
“This is the chatter of clergymen,” he said, “Yours is a great marriage, even if it’s not conventional.”
He then informed her that throughout Europe, excepting only the southern part of Britain, there were three irregular marriages, the highest of which was hers, viz., a betrothal before witnesses, “This,” said he, “if not followed by matrimonial intercourse, is a marriage complete in form, but incomplete in substance. A person so betrothed can forbid any other banns to all eternity. It has, however, been set aside where a party so betrothed contrived to get married regularly, and children were born thereafter. But such a decision was for the sake of the offspring, and of doubtful justice. However, in your case the birth of your child closes that door, and your marriage is complete both in form and substance. Your course, therefore, is to sue for your conjugal rights; it will be the prettiest case of the century. The law is all on our side, the Church all on theirs. If you come to that, the old Batavian law, which compelled the clergy to marry, hath fallen into disuse, but was never formally repealed.”
He then told her that throughout Europe, except for the southern part of Britain, there were three types of irregular marriages, with hers being the highest, namely, a betrothal in front of witnesses. “This,” he said, “if not followed by actual marriage, is complete in form but incomplete in substance. A person who is betrothed like this can block any other marriage proposals forever. However, it has been dismissed in cases where one of the betrothed managed to get married properly, after which children were born. But such a ruling was made for the sake of the children and is somewhat questionable in terms of fairness. In your situation, the birth of your child closes that option, and your marriage is complete in both form and substance. Therefore, your best course of action is to pursue your marital rights; it could be the most interesting case of the century. The law supports us, while the Church is on their side. Speaking of which, the old Batavian law, which required clergy to perform marriages, has fallen out of use but was never officially repealed.”
Margaret was quite puzzled. “What are you driving at, sir? Who am I to go to law with?”
Margaret was really confused. “What are you getting at, sir? Who am I supposed to take to court?”
“Who is the defendant? Why, the vicar of Gouda.”
“Who is the defendant? Oh, it's the vicar of Gouda.”
“Alas, poor soul! And for what shall I law him?”
“Alas, poor soul! And for what shall I condemn him?”
“Why, to make him take you into his house, and share bed and board with you, to be sure.”
“Why, to get him to take you into his home and share meals and a bed with you, of course.”
Margaret turned red as fire, “Gramercy for your rede,” said she, “What, is yon a woman's part? Constrain a man to be hers by force? That is men's way of wooing, not ours. Say I were so ill a woman as ye think me, I should set myself to beguile him, not to law him;” and she departed, crimson with shame and indignation.
Margaret turned as red as fire, “Thank you for your advice,” she said, “What, is that a woman's role? To force a man to be hers? That’s how men court, not us. Even if I were as terrible a woman as you think I am, I would try to charm him, not to entrap him;” and she left, flushed with shame and anger.
“There is an impracticable fool for you,” said the man of art.
“There's an impossible idiot for you,” said the artist.
Margaret had her will drawn elsewhere, and made her boy safe from poverty, marriage or no marriage.
Margaret had her will made at another place, ensuring her son was protected from poverty, whether he got married or not.
These are the principal incidents that in ten whole years befell two peaceful lives, which in a much shorter period had been so thronged with adventures and emotions.
These are the main events that happened over ten years to two peaceful lives, which had experienced so many adventures and emotions in a much shorter time.
Their general tenor was now peace, piety, the mild content that lasts, not the fierce bliss ever on tiptoe to depart, and above all, Christian charity.
Their overall mood was now peaceful, devout, a lasting sense of contentment, not the intense happiness always on the verge of leaving, and above all, Christian kindness.
On this sacred ground these two true lovers met with an uniformity and a kindness of sentiment which went far to soothe the wound in their own hearts, To pity the same bereaved; to hunt in couples all the ills in Gouda, and contrive and scheme together to remedy all that were remediable; to use the rare insight into troubled hearts which their own troubles had given them, and use it to make others happier than themselves—this was their daily practice. And in this blessed cause their passions for one another cooled a little, but their affection increased.
On this sacred ground, these two true lovers met with a shared understanding and kindness that eased the pain in their own hearts. They empathized with the same loss, tackled the problems in Gouda as a team, and brainstormed ways to fix what could be fixed. They used the special insight into troubled hearts that their own experiences had given them to make others happier than themselves—this was their everyday routine. In this noble cause, their passions for each other cooled a bit, but their affection grew stronger.
From this time Margaret entered heart and soul into Gerard's pious charities, that affection purged itself of all mortal dross. And as it had now long out-lived scandal and misapprehension, one would have thought that so bright an example of pure self-denying affection was to remain long before the world, to show men how nearly religious faith, even when not quite reasonable, and religious charity, which is always reasonable, could raise two true lovers' hearts to the loving hearts of the angels of heaven. But the great Disposer of events ordered otherwise.
From that moment on, Margaret fully embraced Gerard's charitable endeavors, and her love became completely pure. Since their relationship had long survived any gossip or misunderstandings, it seemed that such a shining example of genuine, selfless love would endure and demonstrate how closely faith—though sometimes not entirely rational—and always reasonable charity could elevate two true lovers’ hearts to the loving spirits of heaven. But fate had other plans.
Little Gerard rejoiced both his parents' hearts by the extraordinary progress he made at Alexander Haaghe's famous school at Deventer.
Little Gerard made his parents incredibly proud with the amazing progress he achieved at Alexander Haaghe's renowned school in Deventer.
The last time Margaret returned from visiting him, she came to Gerard flushed with pride. “Oh, Gerard, he will be a great man one day, thanks to thy wisdom in taking him from us silly women. A great scholar, one Zinthius, came to see the school and judge the scholars, and didn't our Gerard stand up, and not a line in Horace or Terence could Zinthius cite but the boy would follow him with the rest. 'Why, 'tis a prodigy,' says that great scholar; and there was his poor mother stood by and heard it. And he took our Gerard in his arms, and kissed him; and what think you he said?”
The last time Margaret came back from visiting him, she was bursting with pride. “Oh, Gerard, he’s going to be a great man one day, thanks to your wisdom in taking him from us silly women. A great scholar, one Zinthius, came to check out the school and evaluate the students, and didn’t our Gerard stand up? Not a line from Horace or Terence could Zinthius mention that the boy didn’t follow along with the rest. 'Wow, what a prodigy,' said that esteemed scholar; and there was his poor mother standing by and hearing it. He took our Gerard in his arms and kissed him; what do you think he said?”
“Nay, I know not.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“'Holland will hear of thee one day; and not Holland only, but all the world,' Why what a sad brow!”
“'Holland will know about you one day; and not just Holland, but the whole world,' Why do you look so sad?”
“Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child is wise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heaven doth often break our idols.”
“Sweet one, I am just as happy as you, but I can’t help feeling uneasy that the child is wise beyond his years. I love him dearly; however, he is your idol, and Heaven often breaks our idols.”
“Make thy mind easy,” said Margaret. “Heaven will never rob me of my child. What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if any ill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week. The Lord He knows this, and He will leave me my boy.”
“Don’t worry,” said Margaret. “God will never take my child away from me. I’ve already gone through so much in this world. If anything were to happen to my child or you, I couldn’t go on living for more than a week. The Lord knows this, and He will keep my boy safe.”
A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing in his ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he was told quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was at Deventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh.
A month had passed since then; but Margaret's words were still echoing in his ears when, while making his usual visits to his poor, he was told casually, almost as gossip, that the plague had hit Deventer, brought there by two sailors from Hamburg.
His heart turned cold within him. News did not gallop in those days. The fatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings would reach Gouda. He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her that he was gone to fetch little Gerard to stay at the manse a little while, and would she see a bed prepared, for he should be back next day. And so he hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happily over. He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reached Deventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went at once to the school. The boy had been taken away.
His heart went cold. News didn't travel fast back then. The deadly illness must have been around for a while before it reached Gouda. He sent a note with a messenger to Margaret, telling her he had gone to get little Gerard to stay at the manse for a bit, and could she get a bed ready, since he would be back the next day. He hoped she wouldn't hear anything about the danger until it was all over and done with. He borrowed a good horse and barely slowed down until he got to Deventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went straight to the school. The boy had been taken away.
As he left the school he caught sight of Margaret's face at the window of a neighbouring house she always lodged at when she came to Deventer.
As he left the school, he saw Margaret's face at the window of a nearby house where she always stayed when she visited Deventer.
He ran hastily to scold her and pack both her and the boy out of the place.
He hurried over to tell her off and get both her and the boy out of there.
To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margaret had been there, but was gone.
To his surprise, the servant hesitantly told him that Margaret had been there, but she had left.
“Gone, woman?” said Gerard indignantly, “art not ashamed to say so? Why, I saw her but now at the window.”
“Gone, woman?” Gerard said indignantly. “Aren't you ashamed to say that? I just saw her at the window.”
“Oh, if you saw her—”
“Oh, if you saw her—”
A sweet voice above said, “Stay him not, let him enter.” It was Margaret.
A soft voice above said, “Don’t stop him, let him in.” It was Margaret.
Gerard ran up the stairs to her, and went to take her hand, She drew back hastily.
Gerard ran up the stairs to her and reached out for her hand. She quickly pulled away.
He looked astounded.
He looked amazed.
“I am displeased,” she said coldly. “What makes you here? Know you not the plague is in the town?”
“I’m not happy,” she said coldly. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know there’s a plague in the town?”
“Ay, dear Margaret; and came straightway to take our boy away.”
“Ay, dear Margaret; and came right away to take our boy.”
“What, had he no mother?”
"What, didn't he have a mother?"
“How you speak to me! I hoped you knew not.”
“How you talk to me! I hoped you didn’t know.”
“What, think you I leave my boy unwatched? I pay a trusty woman that notes every change in his cheek when I am not here, and lets me know, I am his mother.”
“What, do you think I leave my boy unattended? I pay a reliable woman who notices every change in his face when I'm not around, and she lets me know. I am his mother.”
“Where is he?”
"Where's he?"
“In Rotterdam, I hope, ere this.”
“In Rotterdam, I hope, before this.”
“Thank Heaven! And why are you not there?”
"Thank goodness! And why aren't you there?"
“I am not fit for the journey; never heed me; go you home on the instant; I'll follow. For shame of you to come here risking your precious life.”
“I’m not fit for this journey; don’t pay attention to me; you should go home right now; I’ll catch up. It’s shameful for you to come here and risk your life.”
“It is not so precious as thine,” said Gerard. “But let that pass; we will go home together, and on the instant.”
“It’s not as valuable as yours,” Gerard said. “But forget that; we’ll go home together right now.”
“Nay, I have some matters to do in the town. Go thou at once, and I will follow forthwith.”
“Nah, I have some things to take care of in town. You go ahead, and I’ll catch up soon.”
“Leave thee alone in a plague-stricken town? To whom speak you, dear Margaret?”
“Leave you alone in a plague-ridden town? Who are you talking to, dear Margaret?”
“Nay, then, we shall quarrel, Gerard.”
"Not happening, we'll fight, Gerard."
“Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard quarrelling! Why, it takes two to quarrel, and we are but one.”
“Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard arguing! Well, it takes two to argue, and we are just one.”
With this Gerard smiled on her sweetly. But there was no kind responsive glance. She looked cold, gloomy, and troubled.
With this, Gerard smiled sweetly at her. But there was no warm response. She seemed distant, sad, and worried.
He sighed, and sat patiently down opposite her with his face all puzzled and saddened. He said nothing, for he felt sure she would explain her capricious conduct, or it would explain itself.
He sighed and sat down quietly across from her, looking all confused and sad. He didn't say anything because he was sure she would explain her unpredictable behavior or it would make sense on its own.
Presently she rose hastily, and tried to reach her bedroom, but on the way she staggered and put out her hand. He ran to her with a cry of alarm. She swooned in his arms. He laid her gently on the ground, and beat her cold hands, and ran to her bedroom, and fetched water, and sprinkled her pale face. His own was scarce less pale, for in a basin he had seen water stained with blood; it alarmed him, he knew not why. She was a long time ere she revived, and when she did she found Gerard holding her hand, and bending over her with a look of infinite concern and tenderness. She seemed at first as if she responded to it, but the next moment her eyes dilated, and she cried—“Ah, wretch, leave my hand; how dare you touch me?”
She quickly got up and tried to make it to her bedroom, but as she walked, she staggered and reached out for support. He rushed to her with a shout of worry. She fainted in his arms. He gently laid her down on the ground, rubbed her cold hands, then ran to her bedroom, got some water, and splashed it on her pale face. His own face was hardly any less pale, as he had seen water in a basin stained with blood; it frightened him for reasons he didn't understand. It took her a while to come around, and when she did, she found Gerard holding her hand and leaning over her with a look of deep concern and tenderness. At first, she seemed to respond to him, but in the next moment, her eyes widened, and she shouted, “Ah, you wretch, let go of my hand; how dare you touch me?”
“Heaven help her!” said Gerard. “She is not herself.”
“God help her!” said Gerard. “She’s not herself.”
“You will not leave me, then, Gerard?” said she faintly. “Alas! why do I ask? Would I leave thee if thou wert—At least touch me not, and then I will let thee bide, and see the last of poor Margaret. She ne'er spoke harsh to thee before, sweetheart, and she never will again.”
“You're not leaving me, are you, Gerard?” she asked weakly. “Oh, why do I even ask? Would I ever leave you if you were—Just don’t touch me, and I’ll let you stay and see the last of poor Margaret. She never spoke harshly to you before, love, and she never will again.”
“Alas! what mean these dark words, these wild and troubled looks?” said Gerard, clasping his hands.
“Wow! What do these dark words and these wild, troubled expressions mean?” said Gerard, clasping his hands.
“My poor Gerard,” said Margaret, “forgive me that I spoke so to thee. I am but a woman, and would have spared thee a sight will make thee weep.” She burst into tears. “Ah, me!” she cried, weeping, “that I cannot keep grief from thee; there is a great sorrow before my darling, and this time I shall not be able to come and dry his eyes.”
“My poor Gerard,” said Margaret, “forgive me for speaking to you like that. I’m just a woman, and I wanted to protect you from something that will make you cry.” She started to cry. “Oh, why!” she exclaimed, weeping, “that I can’t shield you from this pain; there’s a huge sadness ahead for my darling, and this time I won’t be able to come and wipe your tears.”
“Let it come, Margaret, so it touch not thee,” said Gerard, trembling.
“Let it come, Margaret, as long as it doesn't hurt you,” said Gerard, shaking.
“Dearest,” said Margaret solemnly, “call now religion to thine aid and mine. I must have died before thee one day, or else outlived thee and so died of grief.”
“Dearest,” said Margaret earnestly, “call on religion to help both of us now. I would have had to die before you one day, or I would have outlived you and died from sorrow.”
“Died? thou die? I will never let thee die. Where is thy pain? What is thy trouble?”
“Died? You’re dying? I’ll never let you die. Where does it hurt? What’s bothering you?”
“The plague,” she said calmly. Gerard uttered a cry of horror, and started to his feet; she read his thought. “Useless,” said she quietly. “My nose hath bled; none ever yet survived to whom that came along with the plague. Bring no fools hither to babble over the body they cannot save. I am but a woman; I love not to be stared at; let none see me die but thee.”
“The plague,” she said calmly. Gerard let out a cry of horror and jumped to his feet; she understood his thoughts. “It’s pointless,” she said softly. “I’ve bled from my nose; no one who has that and the plague has ever survived. Don’t bring anyone foolish here to waste time over a body they can’t save. I’m just a woman; I don’t want to be looked at; let no one but you watch me die.”
And even with this a convulsion seized her, and she remained sensible but speechless a long time.
And even with this, a convulsion took hold of her, and she stayed aware but unable to speak for a long time.
And now for the first time Gerard began to realize the frightful truth, and he ran wildly to and fro, and cried to Heaven for help, as drowning men cry to their fellow-creatures. She raised herself on her arm, and set herself to quiet him.
And for the first time, Gerard started to grasp the terrifying reality, and he ran around frantically, shouting to Heaven for help, like drowning people call out to others. She propped herself up on her arm and tried to calm him down.
She told him she had known the torture of hopes and fears, and was resolved to spare him that agony. “I let my mind dwell too much on the danger,” said she, “and so opened my brain to it, through which door when this subtle venom enters it makes short work. I shall not be spotted or loathsome, my poor darling; God is good, and spares thee that; but in twelve hours I shall be a dead woman. Ah, look not so, but be a man; be a priest! Waste not one precious minute over my body! it is doomed; but comfort my parting soul.”
She told him she had experienced the pain of hope and fear and was determined to save him from that suffering. “I think too much about the danger,” she said, “and that’s how I let it in; once this sneaky poison starts to seep in, it doesn’t take long to do its damage. I won’t be seen as a wreck or a horror, my poor darling; God is kind and spares you from that; but in twelve hours, I will be dead. Oh, don’t look like that, but be strong; be a priest! Don’t waste a single precious minute over my body! It’s doomed; just comfort my departing soul.”
Gerard, sick and cold at heart, kneeled down, and prayed for help from Heaven to do his duty.
Gerard, feeling sick and heavy-hearted, knelt down and prayed for help from Heaven to fulfill his duty.
When he rose from his knees his face was pale and old, but deadly calm and patient. He went softly and brought her bed into the room, and laid her gently down and supported her head with pillows. Then he prayed by her side the prayers for the dying, and she said Amen to each prayer. Then for some hours she wandered, but when the fell disease had quite made sure of its prey, her mind cleared, and she begged Gerard to shrive her. “For oh, my conscience it is laden,” she said sadly.
When he got up from his knees, his face was pale and aged, but completely calm and patient. He quietly brought her bed into the room, gently laid her down, and propped up her head with pillows. Then he prayed by her side the prayers for the dying, and she said Amen to each one. For a few hours, she drifted in and out, but when the relentless disease had fully taken hold, her mind cleared, and she asked Gerard to hear her confession. “Because oh, my conscience is burdened,” she said sadly.
“Confess thy sins to me, my daughter: let there be no reserve.”
“Confess your sins to me, my daughter: don’t hold anything back.”
“My father,” said she sadly, “I have one great sin on my breast this many years. E'en now that death is at my heart I can scarce own it. But the Lord is debonair; if thou wilt pray to Him, perchance He may forgive me.”
“My father,” she said sadly, “I have carried this one big sin for many years. Even now, with death so close, I can hardly admit it. But the Lord is gracious; if you pray to Him, maybe He will forgive me.”
“Confess it first, my daughter.”
"Admit it first, my daughter."
“I—alas!”
“Ah, no!”
“Confess it!”
"Admit it!"
“I deceived thee. This many years I have deceived thee.”
“I've been lying to you. For so many years, I've been lying to you.”
Here tears interrupted her speech.
Here, tears interrupted her speech.
“Courage, my daughter, courage,” said Gerard kindly, overpowering the lover in the priest.
“Stay strong, my daughter, stay strong,” said Gerard gently, suppressing the affection of the priest.
She hid her face in her hands, and with many sighs told him it was she who had broken down the hermit's cave with the help of Jorian Ketel, “I, shallow, did it but to hinder thy return thither; but when thou sawest therein the finger of God, I played the traitress, and said, 'While he thinks so, he will ne'er leave Gouda manse;' and I held my tongue. Oh, false heart.”
She buried her face in her hands and, with many sighs, confessed to him that it was she who had destroyed the hermit's cave with Jorian Ketel’s help. “I, foolishly, did it just to block your return there; but when you saw the hand of God in it, I betrayed you, thinking, 'As long as he believes that, he'll never leave Gouda.' And I stayed silent. Oh, deceitful heart.”
“Courage, my daughter; thou dost exaggerate a trivial fault.”
“Courage, my daughter; you’re exaggerating a minor mistake.”
“Ah, but 'tis not all, The birds.”
“Ah, but it’s not just the birds.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“They followed thee not to Gouda by miracle, but by my treason. I said, he will ne'er be quite happy without his birds that visited him in his cell; and I was jealous of them, and cried, and said, these foul little things, they are my child's rivals. And I bought loaves of bread, and Jorian and me we put crumbs at the cave door, and thence went sprinkling them all the way to the manse, and there a heap. And my wiles succeeded, and they came, and thou wast glad, and I was pleased to see thee glad; and when thou sawest in my guile the finger of Heaven, wicked, deceitful, I did hold my tongue. But die deceiving thee? ah, no, I could not. Forgive me if thou canst; I was but a woman; I knew no better at the time. 'Twas writ in my bosom with a very sunbeam. ''Tis good for him to bide at Gouda manse.'”
“They didn’t follow you to Gouda through any miracle, but because of my betrayal. I thought he would never be truly happy without his little birds that visited him in his cell; I was jealous of them and cried, saying these nasty little things were rivals to my child. I bought loaves of bread, and Jorian and I scattered crumbs at the cave door, and we sprinkled them all the way to the manse, leaving a pile there. My tricks worked, and they came, and you were happy, and I was glad to see you happy; and when you saw in my deceit the hand of Heaven, wicked and deceitful, I kept quiet. But to keep deceiving you? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. Forgive me if you can; I was just a woman; I didn’t know any better at the time. It was written in my heart with a ray of sunshine. ‘It’s good for him to stay at the Gouda manse.’”
“Forgive thee, sweet innocent?” sobbed Gerard; “what have I to forgive? Thou hadst a foolish froward child to guide to his own weal, and didst all this for the best, I thank thee and bless thee. But as thy confessor, all deceit is ill in Heaven's pure eyes. Therefore thou hast done well to confess and report it; and even on thy confession and penitence the Church through me absolves thee. Pass to thy graver faults.”
“Forgive you, sweet innocent?” sobbed Gerard; “what do I have to forgive? You had a foolish, rebellious child to guide toward his own good, and did all this for the best; I thank you and bless you. But as your confessor, all deceit is wrong in Heaven's pure eyes. So you did well to confess and report it; and even based on your confession and remorse, the Church through me absolves you. Move on to your more serious faults.”
“My graver faults? Alas! alas! Why, what have I done to compare? I am not an ill woman, not a very ill one. If He can forgive me deceiving thee, He can well forgive me all the rest ever I did.”
“My serious faults? Oh dear! What have I done that could compare? I'm not a bad woman, not really. If He can forgive me for deceiving you, then He can certainly forgive me for everything else I’ve done.”
Being gently pressed, she said she was to blame not to have done more good in the world. “I have just begun to do a little,” she said, “and now I must go. But I repine not, since 'tis Heaven's will, only I am so afeard thou wilt miss me.” And at this she could not restrain her tears, though she tried hard.
Being gently encouraged, she admitted she should have done more good in the world. “I have just started to do a little,” she said, “and now I must leave. But I don’t regret it, since it’s Heaven’s will; I’m just so afraid you’ll miss me.” At this, she couldn’t hold back her tears, even though she tried really hard.
Gerard struggled with his as well as he could; and knowing her life of piety, purity, and charity, and seeing that she could not in her present state realise any sin but her having deceived him, gave her full absolution, Then he put the crucifix in her hand, and while he consecrated the oil, bade her fix her mind neither on her merits nor her demerits, but on Him who died for her on the tree.
Gerard did his best to handle the situation; understanding her life of faith, innocence, and kindness, and seeing that in her current state she could only perceive her sin as having deceived him, he forgave her completely. Then he placed the crucifix in her hand, and while he blessed the oil, he urged her to focus not on her good or bad actions, but on Him who died for her on the cross.
She obeyed him with a look of confiding love and submission.
She looked at him with trusting love and willingness to follow.
And he touched her eyes with the consecrated oil, and prayed aloud beside her.
And he touched her eyes with the holy oil and prayed out loud next to her.
Soon after she dosed.
Soon after she took her dose.
He watched beside her, more dead than alive himself.
He watched next to her, feeling more dead than alive himself.
When the day broke she awoke, and seemed to acquire some energy. She begged him to look in her box for her marriage lines and for a picture, and bring them both to her. He did so. She then entreated him by all they had suffered for each other, to ease her mind by making a solemn vow to execute her dying requests.
When the day began, she woke up and appeared to gain some energy. She asked him to check her box for her marriage lines and a picture, and to bring them both to her. He did that. She then pleaded with him, recalling all they had been through together, to ease her mind by making a serious promise to fulfill her last wishes.
He vowed to obey them to the letter.
He promised to follow them exactly.
“Then, Gerard, let no creature come here to lay me out. I could not bear to be stared at; my very corpse would blush. Also I would not be made a monster of for the worms to sneer at as well as feed on. Also my very clothes are tainted, and shall to earth with me. I am a physician's daughter; and ill becomes me kill folk, being dead, which did so little good to men in the days of health; wherefore lap me in lead, the way I am, and bury me deep! yet not so deep but what one day thou mayst find the way, and lay thy bones by mine.
“Then, Gerard, don’t let anyone come here to prepare my body. I couldn’t stand being stared at; even my corpse would turn red. I also don’t want to be made into a spectacle for the worms to mock while they feed on me. Plus, my clothes are stained, and they’ll go into the ground with me. I’m a physician’s daughter, and it doesn’t suit me to kill people, even in death, since I did so little good for them when they were alive; so wrap me in lead, just as I am, and bury me deep! But not so deep that one day you can’t find a way to come and rest your bones next to mine.
“Whiles I lived I went to Gouda but once or twice a week. It cost me not to go each day. Let me gain this by dying, to be always at dear Gouda, in the green kirkyard.
“While I was alive, I visited Gouda only once or twice a week. It didn't cost me to go there every day. If I can gain this by dying, let me always be in dear Gouda, in the green cemetery.”
“Also they do say the spirit hovers where the body lies; I would have my spirit hover near thee, and the kirkyard is not far from the manse. I am so afeard some ill will happen thee, Margaret being gone.
“Also, they say the spirit hovers where the body lies; I would have my spirit hover near you, and the graveyard isn’t far from the manse. I’m so afraid something bad will happen to you now that Margaret is gone."
“And see, with mine own hands I place my marriage lines in my bosom. Let no living hand move them, on pain of thy curse and mine. Then when the angel comes for me at the last day, he shall say, this is an honest woman, she hath her marriage lines (for you know I am your lawful wife, though Holy Church hath come between us), and he will set me where the honest women be. I will not sit among ill women, no, not in heaven for their mind is not my mind, nor their soul my soul. I have stood, unbeknown, at my window, and heard their talk.”
“And look, with my own hands I place my marriage vows close to my heart. Let no living person touch them, or they will face your curse and mine. When the angel comes for me on the last day, he will say, this is an honest woman, she has her marriage vows (because you know I am your lawful wife, even though Holy Church has come between us), and he will place me where the honest women are. I will not sit among dishonest women, not even in heaven, because their thoughts are not my thoughts, nor their souls my soul. I have stood, unnoticed, at my window, and listened to their conversations.”
For some time she was unable to say any more, but made signs to him that she had not done.
For a while, she couldn't say anything else, but she signaled to him that she wasn't finished.
At last she recovered her breath, and bade him look at the picture.
At last, she caught her breath and told him to look at the picture.
It was the portrait he had made of her when they were young together, and little thought to part so soon. He held it in his hands and looked at it, but could scarce see it. He had left it in fragments, but now it was whole.
It was the portrait he had created of her when they were young together, and they never thought they would be separated so soon. He held it in his hands and looked at it, but could barely see it. He had left it in pieces, but now it was complete.
“They cut it to pieces, Gerard; but see, Love mocked at their knives.
“They chopped it up, Gerard; but look, Love laughed at their knives.
“I implore thee with my dying breath, let this picture hang ever in thine eye.
“I urge you with my last breath, let this picture always remain in your sight.
“I have heard that such as die of the plague, unspotted, yet after death spots have been known to come out; and oh, I could not bear thy last memory of me to be so. Therefore, as soon as the breath is out of my body, cover my face with this handkerchief, and look at me no more till we meet again, 'twill not be so very long. O promise.”
“I’ve heard that people who die from the plague can look unblemished, but spots can appear after death; and oh, I couldn’t stand for your last memory of me to be like that. So, as soon as I take my last breath, cover my face with this handkerchief, and don’t look at me again until we meet once more—it won’t be long. O promise.”
“I promise,” said Gerard, sobbing.
"I promise," Gerard said, crying.
“But look on this picture instead. Forgive me; I am but a woman. I could not bear my face to lie a foul thing in thy memory. Nay, I must have thee still think me as fair as I was true. Hast called me an angel once or twice; but be just! did I not still tell thee I was no angel, but only a poor simple woman, that whiles saw clearer than thou because she looked but a little way, and that loves thee dearly, and never loved but thee, and now with her dying breath prays thee indulge her in this, thou that art a man.”
“But look at this picture instead. Forgive me; I’m just a woman. I couldn’t let my face be remembered as something ugly in your mind. No, I need you to still think of me as beautiful as I was faithful. You’ve called me an angel once or twice, but be fair! Didn’t I always tell you I was no angel, just a simple woman who sometimes saw things more clearly than you because I looked at just what was in front of me? I love you dearly and have only ever loved you, and now, with my dying breath, I ask you to indulge me in this, you who are a man.”
“I will, I will. Each word, each wish, is sacred.”
“I will, I will. Every word, every wish, is sacred.”
“Bless thee! Bless thee! So then the eyes that now can scarce see thee, they are so troubled by the pest, and the lips that shall not touch thee to taint thee, will still be before thee as they were when we were young and thou didst love me.”
“Bless you! Bless you! So, the eyes that can barely see you now, troubled by the plague, and the lips that won't touch you to harm you, will still be before you as they were when we were young and you loved me.”
“When I did love thee, Margaret! Oh, never loved I thee as now.”
“When I loved you, Margaret! Oh, I’ve never loved you as much as I do right now.”
“Hast not told me so of late.”
“Haven't you told me that recently?”
“Alas! hath love no voice but words? I was a priest; I had charge of thy soul; the sweet offices of a pure love were lawful; words of love imprudent at the least. But now the good fight is won, ah me! Oh my love, if thou hast lived doubting of thy Gerard's heart, die not so; for never was woman loved so tenderly as thou this ten years past.”
“Alas! Does love have no voice but words? I was a priest; I was responsible for your soul; the sweet acts of a pure love were allowed; but words of love were at least unwise. But now that the good fight is won, oh my love, if you have lived doubting your Gerard's heart, don’t die with that doubt; for never has a woman been loved as tenderly as you have been these past ten years.”
“Calm thyself, dear one,” said the dying woman, with a heavenly smile. “I know it; only being but a woman, I could not die happy till I had heard thee say so. Ah! I have pined ten years for those sweet words. Hast said them, and this is the happiest hour of my life. I had to die to get them; well, I grudge not the price.”
“Calm down, my dear,” said the dying woman, with a beautiful smile. “I know it; as a woman, I couldn't die happy until I heard you say it. Ah! I've longed for those sweet words for ten years. You've said them, and this is the happiest moment of my life. I had to die to hear them; well, I don’t regret the cost.”
From this moment a gentle complacency rested on her fading features. But she did not speak.
From this moment, a soft satisfaction settled on her waning features. But she didn’t say anything.
Then Gerard, who had loved her soul so many years, feared lest she should expire with a mind too fixed on earthly affection.
Then Gerard, who had loved her soul for so many years, worried that she might die with her mind too focused on earthly love.
“Oh my daughter,” he cried, “my dear daughter, if indeed thou lovest me as I love thee, give me not the pain of seeing thee die with thy pious soul fixed on mortal things.
“Oh my daughter,” he cried, “my dear daughter, if you truly love me as I love you, please don’t put me through the pain of watching you die with your devout soul focused on earthly matters.”
“Dearest lamb of all my fold, for whose soul I must answer, oh think not now of mortal love, but of His who died for thee on the tree. Oh, let thy last look be heavenwards, thy last word a word of prayer.”
“Dear lamb of my flock, for whose soul I must answer, please don’t think of earthly love right now, but of Him who died for you on the cross. Let your last gaze be towards heaven, your last word a prayer.”
She turned a look of gratitude and obedience on him. “What saint?” she murmured: meaning doubtless, “what saint should she invoke as an intercessor.”
She gave him a grateful and obedient look. “What saint?” she murmured, clearly meaning “which saint should she call upon for help?”
“He to whom the saints themselves do pray.”
“He to whom the saints themselves pray.”
She turned on him one more sweet look of love and submission, and put her pretty hands together in a prayer like a child.
She gave him one last loving and submissive look, and brought her pretty hands together in a prayer like a child.
“Jesu!”
“Jesus!”
This blessed word was her last. She lay with her eyes heavenwards, and her hands put together.
This sacred word was her final one. She lay with her eyes turned towards the sky, her hands clasped together.
Gerard prayed fervently for her passing spirit. And when he had prayed a long time with his head averted, not to see her last breath, all seemed unnaturally still. He turned his head fearfully. It was so.
Gerard prayed earnestly for her spirit to move on. And after he had prayed for a long time with his head turned away, not wanting to see her take her last breath, everything felt unnaturally quiet. He turned his head in fear. It was true.
She was gone.
She is gone.
Nothing left him now but the earthly shell of as constant, pure, and loving a spirit as eve' adorned the earth.
Nothing was left of him now except the earthly shell of a spirit that was as constant, pure, and loving as ever graced the earth.
(1) Let me not be understood to apply this to the bare
outline of the relation. Many bishops and priests, and not a
few popes, had wives and children as laymen; and entering
orders were parted from the wives and not from the children.
But in the case before the reader are the additional
features of a strong surviving attachment on both sides, and
of neighbourhood, besides that here the man had been led
into holy orders by a false statement of the woman's death.
On a summary of all the essential features, the situation
was, to the best of my belief, unique.
(1) I don't want to suggest that I'm just talking about the basic outline of the relationship. Many bishops and priests, and even some popes, had wives and children like regular people; they entered the clergy, leaving their wives behind while still being connected to their children. However, in this case, there are also strong feelings on both sides, a close neighborhood connection, and importantly, the man was misled into becoming a priest by a false report of the woman's death. Considering all the key details, I believe this situation was truly one-of-a-kind.
CHAPTER XCVII
A priest is never more thoroughly a priest than in the chamber of death, Gerard did the last offices of the Church for the departed, just as he should have done them for his smallest parishioner. He did this mechanically, then sat down stupefied by the sudden and tremendous blow, and not yet realizing the pangs of bereavement. Then in a transport of religious enthusiasm he kneeled and thanked Heaven for her Christian end.
A priest is never more truly a priest than in the moment of death. Gerard performed the final rites of the Church for the deceased, just as he would have for any of his smallest parishioners. He did this automatically, then sat down, stunned by the sudden and huge loss, not fully grasping the pain of grief. Then, in a surge of religious fervor, he knelt and thanked Heaven for her Christian passing.
And then all his thought was to take her away from strangers, and lay her in his own churchyard. That very evening a covered cart with one horse started for Gouda, and in it was a coffin, and a broken-hearted man lying with his arms and chin resting on it.
And then all he could think about was taking her away from strangers and laying her to rest in his own churchyard. That very evening, a covered cart with one horse set off for Gouda, and inside it was a coffin, with a heartbroken man lying on it, his arms and chin resting against it.
The mourner's short-lived energy had exhausted itself in the necessary preparations, and now he lay crushed, clinging to the cold lead that held her.
The mourner's brief surge of energy had worn off during the necessary preparations, and now he lay crushed, holding on to the cold lead that contained her.
The man of whom the cart was hired walked by the horse's head and did not speak to him, and when he baited the horse spoke but in a whisper respecting that mute agony. But when he stopped for the night, he and the landlord made a well-meaning attempt to get the mourner away to take some rest and food. But Gerard repulsed them, and when they persisted, almost snarled at them, like a faithful dog, and clung to the cold lead all night. So then they drew a cloak over him, and left him in peace.
The man who had rented the cart walked past the horse's head without saying a word to him, and when he fed the horse, he spoke only in a hush about that silent pain. But when he stopped for the night, he and the landlord tried sincerely to get the grieving man to rest and eat something. However, Gerard pushed them away, and when they kept insisting, he almost snapped at them, like a loyal dog, and stayed close to the cold lead all night. So they put a blanket over him and left him in peace.
And at noon the sorrowful cart came up to the manse, and there were full a score of parishioners collected with one little paltry trouble or another. They had missed the parson already. And when they saw what it was, and saw their healer so stricken down, they raised a loud wail of grief, and it roused him from his lethargy of woe, and he saw where he was, and their faces, and tried to speak to them, “Oh, my children! my children!” he cried; but choked with anguish, could say no more.
And at noon, the sorrowful cart arrived at the church, and there were about twenty parishioners gathered with various minor troubles. They had already missed the pastor. When they saw what had happened and realized their healer was so deeply affected, they began to wail in grief, which brought him out of his state of despair. He looked around, saw their faces, and tried to speak to them, “Oh, my children! my children!” he cried; but he was so choked with anguish that he couldn’t say anything more.
Yet the next day, spite of all remonstrances, he buried her himself, and read the service with a voice that only trembled now and then, Many tears fell upon her grave. And when the service ended he stayed there standing like a statue, and the people left the churchyard out of respect.
Yet the next day, despite all the protests, he buried her himself and read the ceremony with a voice that only shook occasionally. Many tears fell on her grave. When the service was over, he stood there like a statue, and the people left the churchyard out of respect.
He stood like one in a dream till the sexton, who was, as most men are, a fool, began to fill in the grave without giving him due warning.
He stood there as if in a dream until the sexton, who, like most people, was a fool, started to fill in the grave without giving him any proper warning.
But at the sound of earth falling on her Gerard uttered a piercing scream.
But at the sound of dirt landing on her, Gerard let out a blood-curdling scream.
The sexton forbore.
The sexton hesitated.
Gerard staggered and put his hand to his breast. The sexton supported him, and called for help.
Gerard stumbled and placed his hand on his chest. The sexton helped him and called for assistance.
Jorian Ketel, who lingered near mourning his benefactress, ran into the churchyard, and the two supported Gerard into the manse.
Jorian Ketel, who was grieving for his benefactor, rushed into the churchyard, and the two helped Gerard into the manse.
“Ah, Jorian! good Jorian!” said he, “something snapped within me; I felt it, and I heard it; here, Jorian, here;” and he put his hand to his breast.
“Ah, Jorian! good Jorian!” he said, “something broke inside me; I felt it, and I heard it; here, Jorian, here;” and he placed his hand on his chest.
CHAPTER XCVIII
A fortnight after this a pale bowed figure entered the Dominican convent in the suburbs of Gouda, and sought speech with Brother Ambrose, who governed the convent as deputy, the prior having lately died, and his successor, though appointed, not having arrived.
A couple of weeks later, a pale, hunched figure entered the Dominican convent in the outskirts of Gouda and asked to speak with Brother Ambrose, who was in charge of the convent as the deputy, since the prior had recently passed away and his appointed successor had not yet arrived.
The sick man was Gerard, come to end life as he began it.
The sick man was Gerard, come to end his life just as he began it.
He entered as a novice, on probation; but the truth was, he was a failing man, and knew it, and came there to die in peace, near kind and gentle Ambrose, his friend, and the other monks to whom his house and heart had always been open.
He came in as a beginner, on probation; but the truth was, he was a struggling man, and he knew it, and he came there to die peacefully, close to kind and gentle Ambrose, his friend, and the other monks who had always been welcome in his home and heart.
His manse was more than he could bear; it was too full of reminiscences of her.
His mansion was more than he could handle; it was overflowing with memories of her.
Ambrose, who knew his value, and his sorrow, was not without a kindly hope of curing him, and restoring him to his parish. With this view he put him in a comfortable cell over the gateway, and forbade him to fast or practice any austerities.
Ambrose, aware of his worth and his sadness, held a hopeful wish to heal him and bring him back to his parish. With that in mind, he placed him in a cozy room above the entrance and instructed him not to fast or engage in any strict routines.
But in a few days the new prior arrived, and proved a very Tartar. At first he was absorbed in curing abuses, and tightening the general discipline; but one day hearing the vicar of Gouda had entered the convent as a novice, he said, “'Tis well; let him first give up his vicarage then, or go; I'll no fat parsons in my house.” The prior then sent for Gerard, and he went to him; and the moment they saw one another they both started.
But a few days later, the new prior arrived and turned out to be quite a tough character. At first, he focused on fixing problems and enforcing stricter discipline; but one day, upon hearing that the vicar of Gouda had joined the convent as a novice, he said, “That's fine; let him give up his vicarage first, or leave. I won't have any lazy priests in my house.” The prior then called for Gerard, and when they saw each other, they both jumped back in surprise.
“Clement!”
“Clem!”
“Jerome!”
“Jerome!”
CHAPTER XCIX
Jerome was as morose as ever in his general character, but he had somewhat softened towards Gerard. All the time he was in England he had missed him more then he thought possible, and since then had often wondered what had become of him. What he heard in Gouda raised his feeble brother in his good opinion; above all, that he had withstood the Pope and the Minorites on “the infernal heresy of the immaculate conception,” as he called it. But when one of his young monks told him with tears in his eyes the Cause of Gerard's illness, all his contempt revived. “Dying for a woman?”
Jerome was as gloomy as ever, but he had softened a bit towards Gerard. During his time in England, he missed him more than he thought he could, and since then, he had often wondered what had happened to him. What he learned in Gouda raised his weak brother in his estimation; especially the fact that he had stood up against the Pope and the Minorites regarding “the terrible heresy of the immaculate conception,” as he put it. But when one of his young monks tearfully told him the reason for Gerard's illness, all his disdain came flooding back. “Dying for a woman?”
He determined to avert this scandal; he visited Clement twice a day in his cell, and tried all his old influence and all his eloquence to induce him to shake off this unspiritual despondency, and not rob the church of his piety and his eloquence at so critical a period.
He decided to prevent this scandal; he visited Clement twice a day in his cell and used all his old charm and persuasive ability to encourage him to overcome this heavy sadness and not deprive the church of his faith and speaking skills during such a crucial time.
Gerard heard him, approved his reasoning, admired his strength, confessed his own weakness, and continued visibly to wear away to the land of the leal. One day Jerome told him he had heard his story, and heard it with pride. “But now,” said he, “you spoil it all, Clement; for this is the triumph of earthly passion. Better have yielded to it and repented, than resist it while she lived, and succumb under it now, body and soul.”
Gerard listened to him, agreed with his reasoning, admired his strength, admitted his own weakness, and continued to fade away to the land of the faithful. One day, Jerome told him he had heard his story and felt proud of it. “But now,” he said, “you ruin it all, Clement; because this is the victory of earthly desire. It would have been better to give in and repent than to fight against it while she was alive and then give in completely now, both body and soul.”
“Dear Jerome,” said Clement, so sweetly as to rob his remonstrance of the tone of remonstrance, “here, I think, you do me some injustice. Passion there is none; but a deep affection, for which I will not blush here, since I shall not blush for it in heaven. Bethink thee, Jerome, the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave, is he guilty of passion? Neither am I. Passion had saved my life, and lost my soul, She was my good angel; she sustained me in my duty and charity; her face encouraged me in the pulpit; her lips soothed me under ingratitude. She intertwined herself with all that was good in my life; and after leaning on her so long, I could not go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe me I am no rebel against Heaven. It is God's will to release me. When they threw the earth upon her poor coffin, something snapped within my bosom here that mended may not be. I heard it, and I felt it. And from that time, Jerome, no food that I put in my mouth had any savour. With my eyes bandaged now I could not tell thee which was bread, and which was flesh, by eating of it.”
“Dear Jerome,” said Clement, so sweetly that it took the edge off his complaint, “I think you’re being unfair to me here. There’s no passion involved; just a deep affection that I won’t be ashamed of here or in heaven. Think about it, Jerome, the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave—does that mean he’s guilty of passion? Neither am I. Passion might have saved my life but would have lost my soul. She was my guardian angel; she supported me in my responsibilities and kindness; her face inspired me in the pulpit; her lips comforted me through ingratitude. She was woven into everything good in my life, and after relying on her for so long, I can’t go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe me, I am not rebelling against Heaven. It is God's will to free me. When they covered her poor coffin with dirt, something inside me broke that may never heal. I heard it, and I felt it. Since then, Jerome, nothing I eat has any flavor. Even if I were blindfolded now, I couldn't tell you which was bread and which was meat just by tasting it.”
“Holy saints!”
“Holy moly!”
“And again, from that same hour my deep dejection left me, and I smiled again. I often smile—why? I read it thus: He in whose hands are the issues of life and death gave me that minute the great summons; 'twas some cord of life snapped in me. He is very pitiful. I should have lived unhappy; but He said, 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poor feeble, loving servant, thy shortcomings are forgiven, thy sorrows touch thine end; come thou to thy rest!' I come, Lord, I come!”
“And once more, from that same moment, my deep sadness left me, and I smiled again. I often smile—why? I interpret it this way: The one who holds the fate of life and death gave me, in that instant, the great call; something in me was set free. He is very compassionate. I would have lived unhappily, but He said, 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poor weak, loving servant, your shortcomings are forgiven, your sorrows come to an end; come to your rest!' I'm coming, Lord, I'm coming!”
Jerome groaned. “The Church had ever her holy but feeble servants,” he said. “Now would I give ten years of my life to save thine. But I see it may not be. Die in peace.”
Jerome groaned. “The Church has always had its holy but weak servants,” he said. “Right now, I would give ten years of my life to save yours. But I can see it’s not meant to be. Die in peace.”
And so it was that in a few days more Gerard lay a-dying in a frame of mind so holy and happy, that more than one aged saint was there to garner his dying words. In the evening he had seen Giles, and begged him not to let poor Jack starve; and to see that little Gerard's trustees did their duty, and to kiss his parents for him, and to send Denys to his friends in Burgundy: “Poor thing, he will feel so strange here without his comrade.” And after that he had an interview with Jerome alone. What passed between them was never distinctly known; but it must have been something remarkable, for Jerome went from the door with his hands crossed on his breast, his high head lowered, and sighing as he went.
And so it was that a few days later, Gerard lay dying in a state of mind so holy and happy that more than one elderly saint had come to hear his last words. In the evening, he spoke with Giles and asked him not to let poor Jack go hungry; to ensure that little Gerard's trustees fulfilled their responsibilities; to kiss his parents for him; and to send Denys to his friends in Burgundy: "Poor thing, he’ll feel so out of place here without his buddy." After that, he had a private meeting with Jerome. What was discussed between them was never fully revealed, but it must have been significant, as Jerome left the room with his arms crossed over his chest, his head held high but lowered, sighing as he departed.
The two monks that watched with him till matins related that all through the night he broke out from time to time in pious ejaculations, and praises, and thanksgivings; only once they said he wandered, and thought he saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits clad in white, and beckoning him; and they all smiled and beckoned him. And both these monks said (but it might have been fancy) that just before dawn there came three light taps against the wall, one after another, very slow; and the dying man heard them, and said.
The two monks who kept watch with him until morning said that throughout the night he occasionally broke out in prayers, praises, and thanksgivings. They mentioned that he once seemed to stray and thought he saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits dressed in white, all smiling and beckoning to him. Both monks claimed (though it might have just been a figment of their imagination) that just before dawn, there were three gentle taps against the wall, one after the other, very slowly. The dying man heard them and responded.
“I come, love, I come.”
"I’m coming, love, I’m coming."
This much is certain, that Gerard did utter these words, and prepare for his departure, having uttered them. He sent for all the monks who at that hour were keeping vigil. They came, and hovered like gentle spirits round him with holy words. Some prayed in silence for him with their faces touching the ground, others tenderly supported his head. But when one of them said something about his life of self-denial and charity, he stopped him, and addressing them all said, “My dear brethren, take note that he who here dies so happy holds not these new-fangled doctrines of man's merit. Oh, what a miserable hour were this to me an if I did! Nay, but I hold, with the Apostles, and their pupils in the Church, the ancient fathers, that we are justified not by our own wisdom, or piety, or the works we have done in holiness of heart, but by faith.'”(1)
This much is certain: Gerard said these words and got ready to leave after he spoke them. He called all the monks who were keeping vigil at that hour. They gathered around him like gentle spirits, sharing holy words. Some prayed silently with their faces on the ground, while others gently supported his head. But when one of them mentioned his life of self-denial and charity, he interrupted him and addressed them all, saying, “My dear brothers, remember that the one who dies here so happily does not embrace these modern ideas of human merit. Oh, what a terrible hour this would be for me if I did! No, I believe, with the Apostles and their followers in the Church, and the ancient fathers, that we are justified not by our own wisdom, piety, or the good works we have done with a pure heart, but by faith.”
Then there was silence, and the monks looked at one another significantly.
Then there was silence, and the monks exchanged meaningful glances.
“Please you sweep the floor,” said the dying Christian, in a voice to which all its clearance and force seemed supernaturally restored.
“Please sweep the floor,” said the dying Christian, in a voice that seemed to have regained all its clarity and strength in a supernatural way.
They instantly obeyed, not without a sentiment of awe and curiosity.
They immediately followed the instructions, feeling a mix of awe and curiosity.
“Make me a great cross with wood ashes.”
“Make me a big cross with wood ashes.”
They strewed the ashes in form of a great Cross upon the floor.
They spread the ashes in the shape of a large Cross on the floor.
“Now lay me down on it, for so will I die.”
“Now lay me down on it, because this is how I will die.”
And they took him gently from his bed, and laid him on the cross of wood ashes.
And they carefully lifted him from his bed and laid him on the wooden cross of ashes.
“Shall we spread out thine arms, dear brother?”
“Should we open our arms, dear brother?”
“Now God forbid! Am I worthy of that?”
“God forbid! Am I really deserving of that?”
He lay silent, but with his eyes raised in ecstasy.
He lay quiet, but with his eyes lifted in bliss.
Presently he spoke half to them, half to himself, “Oh,” he said, with a subdued but concentrated rapture, “I feel it buoyant. It lifts me floating in the sky whence my merits had sunk me like lead.”
Right now he spoke half to them, half to himself, “Oh,” he said, with a quiet but intense joy, “I can feel it lifting me up. It makes me float in the sky where my own shortcomings had weighed me down like a rock.”
Day broke; and displayed his face cast upward in silent rapture, and his hands together; like Margaret's.
Day broke, revealing his face turned up in silent joy and his hands together, just like Margaret's.
And just about the hour she died he spoke his last word in this world.
And just around the time she passed away, he said his final word in this world.
“Jesu!”
“Jesus!”
And even with that word—he fell asleep.
And even with that word—he drifted off to sleep.
They laid him out for his last resting-place.
They prepared him for his final resting place.
Under his linen they found a horse-hair shirt.
Under his linen, they found a horsehair shirt.
“Ah!” cried the young monks, “behold a saint!”
“Ah!” shouted the young monks, “look, it's a saint!”
Under the hair cloth they found a long thick tress of auburn hair.
Under the hair cloth, they found a long, thick strand of auburn hair.
They started, and were horrified; and a babel of voices arose, some condemning, some excusing.
They began and were shocked; a jumble of voices erupted, some condemning, some justifying.
In the midst of which Jerome came in, and hearing the dispute, turned to an ardent young monk called Basil, who was crying scandal the loudest, “Basil,” said he, “is she alive or dead that owned this hair?”
In the middle of this, Jerome walked in, and hearing the argument, turned to an eager young monk named Basil, who was shouting the loudest, “Basil,” he asked, “is the person who owned this hair alive or dead?”
“How may I know, father?”
"How can I know, dad?"
“Then for aught you know it may be the relic of a saint?”
“Then for all you know, it could be the remains of a saint?”
“Certes it may be,” said Basil sceptically.
“Sure, it could be,” said Basil skeptically.
“You have then broken our rule, which saith, 'Put ill construction on no act done by a brother which can be construed innocently.' Who are you to judge such a man as this was? go to your cell, and stir not out for a week by way of penance.”
“You have broken our rule, which says, 'Don’t judge any action by a brother that can be seen in an innocent light.' Who are you to judge someone like this? Go to your room and don’t come out for a week as punishment.”
He then carried off the lock of hair.
He then took the lock of hair.
And when the coffin was to be closed, he cleared the cell: and put the tress upon the dead man's bosom. “There, Clement,” said he to the dead face. And set himself a penance for doing it; and nailed the coffin up himself.
And when it was time to close the coffin, he cleared the room and placed the hair on the dead man's chest. “There, Clement,” he said to the lifeless face. Then he set himself a penance for it and nailed the coffin shut himself.
The next day Gerard was buried in Gouda churchyard. The monks followed him in procession from the convent. Jerome, who was evidently carrying out the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was a deep one, and at the bottom of it was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light as a feather (so wasted was he), was lowered, and placed by the side of it.
The next day, Gerard was buried in the churchyard of Gouda. The monks followed him in a procession from the convent. Jerome, who was clearly fulfilling the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was deep, and at the bottom was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light as a feather (he had wasted away so much), was lowered and placed beside it.
After the service Jerome said a few words to the crowd of parishioners that had come to take the last look at their best friend. When he spoke of the virtues of the departed loud wailing and weeping burst forth, and tears fell upon the coffin like rain.
After the service, Jerome addressed the crowd of parishioners who had come to say their final goodbyes to their dear friend. When he talked about the departed's virtues, loud wailing and sobbing erupted, and tears fell on the coffin like rain.
The monks went home. Jerome collected them in the refectory and spoke to them thus: “We have this day laid a saint in the earth. The convent will keep his trentals, but will feast, not fast; for our good brother is freed from the burden of the flesh; his labours are over, and he has entered into his joyful rest. I alone shall fast, and do penance; for to my shame I say it, I was unjust to him, and knew not his worth till it was too late. And you, young monks, be not curious to inquire whether a lock he bore on his bosom was a token of pure affection or the relic of a saint; but remember the heart he wore beneath: most of all, fix your eyes upon his life and conversation, and follow them an ye may: for he was a holy man.”
The monks went home. Jerome gathered them in the dining hall and said: “Today, we’ve laid a saint to rest. The convent will observe his remembrance rituals, but we will feast, not fast; for our good brother is free from the burdens of the body; his work is done, and he has entered into his joyful rest. I alone will fast and do penance; for, to my shame, I admit I was wrong about him and didn't recognize his worth until it was too late. And you, young monks, don’t be curious about whether the lock he carried on his chest was a sign of true affection or a saint's relic; instead, remember the heart he had underneath: above all, pay attention to his life and behavior, and follow them if you can; for he was a holy man.”
Thus after life's fitful fever these true lovers were at peace.
Thus, after life's ups and downs, these true lovers found peace.
The grave, kinder to them than the Church, united them for ever; and now a man of another age and nation, touched with their fate, has laboured to build their tombstone, and rescue them from long and unmerited oblivion.
The grave, more merciful to them than the Church, brought them together forever; and now a person from a different era and country, moved by their story, has worked to create their tombstone and save them from being forgotten for too long and without reason.
He asks for them your sympathy, but not your pity.
He asks for your sympathy, but not your pity.
No, put this story to a wholesome use.
No, let's use this story for something good.
Fiction must often give false views of life and death. Here as it happens, curbed by history, she gives you true ones. Let the barrier that kept these true lovers apart prepare you for this, that here on earth there will nearly always be some obstacle or other to your perfect happiness; to their early death apply your Reason and your Faith, by way of exercise and preparation. For if you cannot bear to be told that these died young, who had they lived a hundred years would still be dead, how shall you bear to see the gentle, the loving, and the true glide from your own bosom to the grave, and fly from your house to heaven?
Fiction often portrays distorted views of life and death. However, in this case, constrained by history, it presents you with the truth. Let the barrier that kept these true lovers apart prepare you for the reality that, here on earth, there will almost always be some obstacle to your perfect happiness. As for their early death, use your Reason and your Faith as a way to exercise and prepare yourself. For if you can't handle the idea that they died young, knowing that had they lived a hundred years they would still eventually die, how will you cope with seeing the gentle, the loving, and the true leave your side and pass from your home to the grave and ascend to heaven?
Yet this is in store for you. In every age the Master of life and death, who is kinder as well as wiser than we are, has transplanted to heaven, young, earth's sweetest flowers.
Yet this is what awaits you. In every era, the Master of life and death, who is both kinder and wiser than we are, has taken the young, sweetest flowers of the earth to heaven.
I ask your sympathy, then, for their rare constancy and pure affection, and their cruel separation by a vile heresy(2) in the bosom of the Church; but not your pity for their early but happy end.
I ask for your understanding, then, for their rare loyalty and genuine love, and their painful separation caused by a terrible heresy within the Church; but not your sympathy for their early yet happy conclusion.
'Beati sunt qui in Domino moriuntur.
'Blessed are those who die in the Lord.'
(1) He was citing from Clement of Rome—
{ou di eautwn dikaioumetha oude dia tys ymeteras
sophias, y eusebeias y ergwn wn kateirgasametha en
osioteeti karthias, alla dia tys pistews}.
—Epist.ad Corinth, i. 32.
(1) He was quoting from Clement of Rome—
{for we are justified not by our own wisdom, piety, or works that we have done in holiness and purity, but by our faith}.
—Epist.ad Corinth, i. 32.(2) Celibacy of the clergy, an invention truly fiendish.
(2) The celibacy of the clergy is a truly evil invention.
CHAPTER C
In compliance with a Custom I despise, but have not the spirit to resist, I linger on the stage to pick up the smaller fragments of humanity I have scattered about; i.e. some of them, for the wayside characters have no claim on me; they have served their turn if they have persuaded the reader that Gerard travelled from Holland to Rome through human beings, and not through a population of dolls.
In line with a tradition I hate, but lack the courage to fight against, I stay on stage to gather the little bits of humanity I've spread around; that is, some of them, since the minor characters don't really matter to me. They've done their job if they convinced the reader that Gerard journeyed from Holland to Rome through real people, not a crowd of dolls.
Eli and Catherine lived to a great age: lived so long, that both Gerard and Margaret grew to be dim memories. Giles also was longaevous; he went to the court of Bavaria, and was alive there at ninety, but had somehow turned into bones and leather, trumpet toned.
Eli and Catherine lived to a very old age: they lived so long that both Gerard and Margaret became faint memories. Giles also lived a long life; he went to the court of Bavaria and was still alive there at ninety, but had somehow turned into bones and leather, with a voice like a trumpet.
Cornelis, free from all rivals, and forgiven long ago by his mother, who clung to him more and more now all her brood was scattered, waited and waited and waited for his parents' decease. But Catherine's shrewd word came true; ere she and her mate wore out, this worthy rusted away. At sixty-five he lay dying of old age in his mother's arms, a hale woman of eighty-six. He had lain unconscious a while, but came to himself in articulo mortis, and seeing her near him, told her how he would transform the shop and premises as soon as they should be his. “Yes, my darling,” said the poor old woman soothingly, and in another minute he was clay, and that clay was followed to the grave by all the feet whose shoes he had waited for.
Cornelis, free from any rivals and long forgiven by his mother, who held on to him more as her other children drifted away, waited and waited for his parents to pass away. But Catherine's clever words came true; before she and her partner grew old, this good man faded away. At sixty-five, he lay dying of old age in his mother's arms, a vibrant woman of eighty-six. He had been unconscious for a while but came to just as he was dying, and seeing her beside him, he told her how he would revamp the shop and the property as soon as they were his. “Yes, my dear,” said the old woman soothingly, and in another moment, he was gone, and that body was laid to rest, followed to the grave by all those who had waited for him.
Denys, broken-hearted at his comrade's death, was glad to return to Burgundy, and there a small pension the court allowed him kept him until unexpectedly he inherited a considerable sum from a relation. He was known in his native place for many years as a crusty old soldier, who could tell good stories of war when he chose, and a bitter railer against women.
Denys, heartbroken over his friend's death, was relieved to return to Burgundy, where a small pension from the court supported him until he unexpectedly inherited a significant amount from a relative. For many years, he was known in his hometown as a grumpy old soldier who could share great war stories when he wanted, and as someone who had harsh opinions about women.
Jerome, disgusted with northern laxity, retired to Italy, and having high connections became at seventy a mitred abbot. He put on the screw of discipline; his monks revered and hated him. He ruled with iron rod ten years. And one night he died, alone; for he had not found the way to a single heart. The Vulgate was on his pillow, and the crucifix in his hand, and on his lips something more like a smile than was ever seen there while he lived; so that, methinks, at that awful hour he was not quite alone. Requiescat in pace. The Master he served has many servants, and they have many minds, and now and then a faithful one will be a surly one, as it is in these our mortal mansions.
Jerome, frustrated with the laxity of the north, moved to Italy and, thanks to his high connections, became a mitred abbot at seventy. He enforced strict discipline; his monks both respected and resented him. He ruled with an iron fist for ten years. One night, he died alone; he had never truly connected with anyone. The Vulgate lay on his pillow, and he held a crucifix in his hand, with a hint of a smile on his lips—something never seen while he was alive; it seems, in that terrifying moment, he was not entirely alone. Rest in peace. The Master he served has many servants, each with their own thoughts, and occasionally a loyal one will be a grumpy one, as happens in our mortal lives.
The yellow-haired laddie, Gerard Gerardson, belongs not to Fiction but to History. She has recorded his birth in other terms than mine. Over the tailor's house in the Brede Kirk Straet she has inscribed:
The blonde kid, Gerard Gerardson, isn't part of Fiction but of History. She has documented his birth in different words than I have. Above the tailor's house on Brede Kirk Straet, she has written:
“HAEC EST PARVA DOMUS NATUS QUA MAGNUS ERASMUS,”
“THIS IS THE SMALL HOUSE WHERE THE GREAT ERASMUS WAS BORN,”
and she has written half-a-dozen lives of him. But there is something left for her yet to do. She has no more comprehended magnum Erasmum, than any other pigmy comprehends a giant, or partisan a judge.
and she has written six biographies of him. But there's still something left for her to do. She hasn’t understood the great Erasmus any more than any other small person understands a giant, or a supporter understands a judge.
First scholar and divine of his epoch, he was also the heaven-born dramatist of his century. Some of the best scenes in this new book are from his mediaeval pen, and illumine the pages where they come; for the words of a genius so high as his are not born to die: their immediate work upon mankind fulfilled, they may seem to lie torpid; but at each fresh shower of intelligence Time pours upon their students, they prove their immortal race: they revive, they spring from the dust of great libraries; they bud, they flower, they fruit, they seed, from generation to generation, and from age to age.
First scholar and divine of his time, he was also the naturally gifted dramatist of his era. Some of the best scenes in this new book come from his medieval writings, lighting up the pages where they appear; for the words of a genius like his are not meant to fade away: once their immediate impact on humanity is fulfilled, they may seem dormant; but with each new wave of insight that Time brings to their readers, they demonstrate their timeless nature: they come back to life, rising from the depths of great libraries; they bud, they bloom, they bear fruit, and they seed, passing from generation to generation and from era to era.
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