The Burgomaster's Wife — Complete. Georg EbersЧитать онлайн книгу.
started and blushing deeply, said,
“Please give me your hand; I should like to get down. I have finished. The dust was a disgrace.” When she again stood on the floor, the widow said, “What red cheeks you have! Listen, my dear sister-in-law, listen to me, child—!”
Barbara was interrupted in the midst of her admonition, for the knocker fell heavily on the door, and Maria hurried to the window.
The widow followed, and after a hasty glance into the street, exclaimed:
“That’s Wilhelm Cornieliussohn, the musician. He has been to Delft. I heard it from his mother. Perhaps he brings news of Peter. I’ll send him up to you, but he must first tell me below what his tidings are. If you want me, you’ll find me with Bessie. She is feverish and her eyes ache; she will have some eruption or a fever.”
Barbara left the room. Maria pressed her hands upon her burning cheeks, and paced slowly to and fro till the musician knocked and entered.
After the first greeting, the young wife asked eagerly:
“Did you see my husband in Delft?”
“Yes indeed,” replied Wilhelm, “the evening of the day before yesterday.”
“Then tell me—”
“At once, at once. I bring you a whole pouch full of messages. First from your mother.”
“Is she well?”
“Well and bright. Worthy Doctor Groot too is hale and hearty.”
“And my husband?”
“I found him with the doctor. Herr Groot sends the kindest remembrances to you. We had musical entertainments at his home yesterday and the day be fore. He always has the latest novelties from Italy, and when we try this motet here—”
“Afterwards, Herr Wilhelm! You must first tell me what my husband—”
“The burgomaster came to the doctor on a message from the Prince. He was in haste, and could not wait for the singing. It went off admirably. If you, with your magnificent voice, will only—”
“Pray, Meister Wilhelm?”
“No, dear lady, you ought not to refuse. Doctor Groot says, that when a girl in Delft, no one could support the tenor like you, and if you, Frau von Nordwyk, and Herr Van Aken’s oldest daughter—”
“But, my dear Meister!” exclaimed the burgomaster’s wife with increasing impatience, “I’m not asking about your motets and tabulatures, but my husband.”
Wilhelm gazed at the young wife’s face with a half-startled, half-astonished look. Then, smiling at his own awkwardness, he shook his head, saying in a tone of good-natured repentance:
“Pray forgive me, little things seem unduly important to us when they completely fill our own souls. One word about your absent husband must surely sound sweeter to your ears, than all my music. I ought to have thought of that sooner. So—the burgomaster is well and has transacted a great deal of business with the Prince. Before he went to Dortrecht yesterday morning, he gave me this letter and charged me to place it in your hands with the most loving greetings.”
With these words the musician gave Maria a letter. She hastily took it from his hand, saying:
“No offence, Herr Wilhelm, but we’ll discuss your motet to-morrow, or whenever you choose; to-day—”
“To-day your time belongs to this letter,” interrupted Wilhelm. “That is only natural. The messenger has performed his commission, and the music-master will try his fortune with you another time.”
As soon as the young man had gone, Maria went to her room, sat down at the window, hurriedly opened her husband’s letter and read:
“MY DEAR AND FAITHFUL WIFE!
“Meister Wilhelm Corneliussohn, of Leyden, will bring you this
letter. I am well, but it was hard for me to leave you on the
anniversary of our wedding-clay. The weather is very bad. I found
the Prince in sore affliction, but we don’t give up hope, and if God
helps us and every man does his duty, all may yet be well. I am
obliged to ride to Dortrecht to-day. I have an important object to
accomplish there. Have patience, for several days must pass before
my return.
“If the messenger from the council inquires, give him the papers
lying on the right-hand side of the writing-table under the smaller
leaden weight. Remember me to Barbara and the children. If money
is needed, ask Van Hout in my name for the rest of the sum due me;
he knows about it. If you feel lonely, visit his wife or Frail von
Nordwyk; they would be glad to see you. Buy as much meal, butter,
cheese, and smoked meat, as is possible. We don’t know what may
happen. Take Barbara’s advice! Relying upon your obedience,
“Your faithful husband,
“PETER ADRIANSSOHN VAN DER WERFF.”
Maria read this letter at first hastily, then slowly, sentence by sentence, to the end. Disappointed, troubled, wounded, she folded it, drew the wall-flowers from the bosom of her dress—she knew not why—and flung them into the peat-box by the chimney-piece. Then she opened her chest, took out a prettily-carved box, placed it on the table, and laid her husband’s letter inside.
Long after it had found a place with other papers, Maria still stood before the casket, gazing thoughtfully at its contents.
At last she laid her hand on the lid to close it; but hesitated and took up a packet of letters that had lain amid several gold and silver coins, given by godmothers and godfathers, modest trinkets, and a withered rose.
Drawing a chair up to the table, the young wife seated herself and began to read. She knew these letters well enough. A noble, promising youth had addressed them to her sister, his betrothed bride. They were dated from Jena, whither he had gone to complete his studies in jurisprudence. Every word expressed the lover’s ardent longing, every line was pervaded by the passion that had filled the writer’s heart. Often the prose of the young scholar, who as a pupil of Doctor Groot had won his bride in Delft, rose to a lofty flight.
While reading, Maria saw in imagination Jacoba’s pretty face, and the handsome, enthusiastic countenance of her bridegroom. She remembered their gay wedding, her brother-in-law’s impetuous friend, so lavishly endowed with every gift of nature, who had accompanied him to Holland to be his groomsman, and at parting had given her the rose which lay before her in the little casket. No voice had ever suited hers so well; she had never heard language so poetical from any other lips, never had eyes that sparkled like the young Thuringian noble’s looked into hers.
After the wedding Georg von Dornberg returned home and the young couple went to Haarlem. She had heard nothing from the young foreigner, and her sister and her husband were soon silenced forever. Like most of the inhabitants of Haarlem, they were put to death by the Spanish destroyers at the capture of the noble, hapless city. Nothing was left of her beloved sister except a faithful memory of her, and her betrothed bridegroom’s letters, which she now held in her hand.
They expressed love, the true, lofty love, that can speak with the tongues of angels and move mountains. There lay her husband’s letter. Miserable scrawl! She shrank from opening it again, as she laid the beloved mementoes back into the box, yet her breast heaved as she thought of Peter. She knew too that she loved him, and that his faithful heart belonged to her. But she was not satisfied, she was not happy, for he showed her only tender affection or paternal kindness, and she wished to be loved differently. The pupil, nay the friend of