Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch

by H. Rider Haggard

  On this same morning Adrian rose late. The talk at the supper table onthe previous night, especially Foy's coarse, uneducated sarcasm, hadruffled his temper, and when Adrian's temper was ruffled he generallyfound it necessary to sleep himself into good humour. As the bookkeeperof the establishment, for his stepfather had never been able to inducehim to take an active part in its work, which in his heart he consideredbeneath him, Adrian should have been in the office by nine o'clock. Nothaving risen before ten, however, nor eaten his breakfast until aftereleven, this was clearly impossible. Then he remembered that here was agood chance of finishing a sonnet, of which the last lines were runningin his head. It chanced that Adrian was a bit of a poet, and, like mostpoets, he found quiet essential to the art of composition. Somehow, whenFoy was in the house, singing and talking, and that great Frisian brute,Martin, was tramping to and fro, there was never any quiet, for evenwhen he could not hear them, the sense of their presence exasperatedhis nerves. So now was his opportunity, especially as his mother wasout--marketing, she said--but in all probability engaged upon somewretched and risky business connected with the people whom she calledmartyrs. Adrian determined to avail himself of it and finish his sonnet.

  This took some time. First, as all true artists know, the Muse must besummoned, and she will rarely arrive under an hour's appropriate andgloomy contemplation of things in general. Then, especially in the caseof sonnets, rhymes, which are stubborn and remorseless things, must befound and arranged. The pivot and object of this particular poem was acertain notable Spanish beauty, Isabella d'Ovanda by name. She was thewife of a decrepit but exceedingly noble Spaniard, who might almosthave been her grandfather, and who had been sent as one of a commissionappointed by King Philip II. to inquire into certain financial mattersconnected with the Netherlands.

  This grandee, who, as it happened, was a very industrious andconscientious person, among other cities, had visited Leyden in order toassess the value of the Imperial dues and taxes. The task did not takehim long, because the burghers rudely and vehemently declared that undertheir ancient charter they were free from any Imperial dues or taxeswhatsoever, nor could the noble marquis's arguments move them to a morerational view. Still, he argued for a week, and during that time hiswife, the lovely Isabella, dazzled the women of the town with hercostumes and the men with her exceedingly attractive person.

  Especially did she dazzle the romantic Adrian; hence the poetry. On thewhole the rhymes went pretty well, though there were difficulties, butwith industry he got round them. Finally the sonnet, a high-flown andvery absurd composition, was completed.

  By now it was time to eat; indeed, there are few things that make a manhungrier than long-continued poetical exercise, so Adrian ate. In themidst of the meal his mother returned, pale and anxious-faced, for thepoor woman had been engaged in making arrangements for the safety of thebeggared widow of the martyred Jansen, a pathetic and even a dangeroustask. In his own way Adrian was fond of his mother, but being a selfishpuppy he took but little note of her cares or moods. Therefore, seizingthe opportunity of an audience he insisted upon reading to her hissonnet, not once but several times.

  "Very pretty, my son, very pretty," murmured Lysbeth, through whosebewildered brain the stilted and meaningless words buzzed like bees inan empty hive, "though I am sure I cannot guess how you find the heartin such times as these to write poetry to fine ladies whom you do notknow."

  "Poetry, mother," said Adrian sententiously, "is a great consoler; itlifts the mind from the contemplation of petty and sordid cares."

  "Petty and sordid cares!" repeated Lysbeth wonderingly, then she addedwith a kind of cry: "Oh! Adrian, have you no heart that you can watcha saint burn and come home to philosophise about his agonies? Will younever understand? If you could have seen that poor woman this morningwho only three months ago was a happy bride." Then bursting into tearsLysbeth turned and fled from the room, for she remembered that what wasthe fate of the Vrouw Jansen to-day to-morrow might be her own.

  This show of emotion quite upset Adrian whose nerves were delicate,and who being honestly attached to his mother did not like to see herweeping.

  "Pest on the whole thing," he thought to himself, "why can't we go awayand live in some pleasant place where they haven't got any religion,unless it is the worship of Venus? Yes, a place of orange groves, andrunning streams, and pretty women with guitars, who like having sonnetsread to them, and----"

  At this moment the door opened and Martin's huge and flaming pollappeared.

  "The master wants to know if you are coming to the works, Heer Adrian,and if not will you be so good as to give me the key of the strong-boxas he needs the cash book."

  With a groan Adrian rose to go, then changed his mind. No, after thatperfumed vision of green groves and lovely ladies it was impossible forhim to face the malodorous and prosaic foundry.

  "Tell them I can't come," he said, drawing the key from his pocket.

  "Very good, Heer Adrian, why not?"

  "Because I am writing."

  "Writing what?" queried Martin.

  "A sonnet."

  "What's a sonnet?" asked Martin blankly.

  "Ill-educated clown," murmured Adrian, then--with a sudden inspiration,"I'll show you what a sonnet is; I will read it to you. Come in andshut the door." Martin obeyed, and was duly rewarded with the sonnet, ofwhich he understood nothing at all except the name of the lady, Isabellad'Ovanda. But Martin was not without the guile of the serpent.

  "Beautiful," he said, "beautiful! Read it again, master."

  Adrian did so with much delight, remembering the tale of how the musicof Orpheus had charmed the very beasts.

  "Ah!" said Martin, "that's a love-letter, isn't it, to that splendid,black-eyed marchioness, whom I saw looking at you?"

  "Well, not exactly," said Adrian, highly pleased, although to tell thetruth he could not recollect upon what occasion the fair Isabella hadfavoured him with her kind glances. "Yet I suppose that you might callit so, an idealised love-letter, a letter in which ardent and distantyet tender admiration is wrapt with the veil of verse."

  "Quite so. Well, Master Adrian, just you send it to her."

  "You don't think that she might be offended?" queried Adrian doubtfully.

  "Offended!" said Martin, "if she is I know nothing of women" (as amatter of fact he didn't.) "No, she will be very pleased; she'll takeit away and read it by herself, and sleep with it under her pillow untilshe knows it by heart, and then I daresay she will ask you to come andsee her. Well, I must be off, but thank you for reading me the beautifulpoetry letter, Heer Adrian."

  "Really," reflected Adrian, as the door closed behind him, "this isanother instance of the deceitfulness of appearances. I always thoughtMartin a great, brutal fool, yet in his breast, uncultured as it is, thesacred spark still smoulders." And then and there he made up his mindthat he would read Martin a further selection of poems upon the firstopportunity.

  If only Adrian could have been a witness to the scene which at that verymoment was in progress at the works! Martin having delivered the keyof the box, sought out Foy, and proceeded to tell him the story. More,perfidious one, he handed over a rough draft of the sonnet which he hadsurreptitiously garnered from the floor, to Foy, who, clad in a leatherapron, and seated on the edge of a casting, read it eagerly.

  "I told him to send it," went on Martin, "and, by St. Peter, I think hewill, and then if he doesn't have old Don Diaz after him with a pistolin one hand and a stiletto in the other, my name isn't Martin Roos."

  "Of course, of course," gasped Foy, kicking his legs into the airwith delight, "why, they call the old fellow 'Singe jaloux.' Oh! it'scapital, and I only hope that he opens the lady's letters."

  Thus did Foy, the commonplace and practical, make a mock of the poeticefforts of the high-souled and sentimental Adrian.

  Meanwhile Adrian, feeling that he required air after his literarylabours, fetched his peregrine from its perch--for he was fond ofhawking--and, setting it on his wr
ist, started out to find a quarry onthe marshes near the town.

  Before he was halfway down the street he had forgotten all about thesonnet and the lovely Isabella. His was a curious temperament, and thissentimentality, born of vainness and idle hours, by no means expressedit all. That he was what we should nowadays call a prig we know, andalso that he possessed his father's, Montalvo's, readiness of speechwithout his father's sense of humour. In him, as Martin had hinted, thestrain of the sire predominated, for in all essentials Adrian was asSpanish in mind as in appearance.

  For instance, the sudden and violent passions into which he was apt tofall if thwarted or overlooked were purely Spanish; there seemed to benothing of the patient, phlegmatic Netherlander about this side of him.Indeed it was this temper of his perhaps more than any other desire ortendency that made him so dangerous, for, whereas the impulses of hisheart were often good enough, they were always liable to be perverted bysome access of suddenly provoked rage.

  From his birth up Adrian had mixed little with Spaniards, and everyinfluence about him, especially that of his mother, the being whom hemost loved on earth, had been anti-Spanish, yet were he an hidalgofresh from the Court at the Escurial, he could scarcely have beenmore Castilian. Thus he had been brought up in what might be calleda Republican atmosphere, yet he was without sympathy for the love ofliberty which animated the people of Holland. The sturdy independenceof the Netherlanders, their perpetual criticism of kings and establishedrules, their vulgar and unheard-of assumption that the good things ofthe world were free to all honest and hard-working citizens, and notmerely the birthright of blue blood, did not appeal to Adrian. Also fromchildhood he had been a member of the dissenting Church, one of theNew Religion. Yet, at heart, he rejected this faith with its humbleprofessors and pastors, its simple, and sometimes squalid rites; itslong and earnest prayers offered to the Almighty in the damp of a cellaror the reek of a cowhouse.

  Like thousands of his Spanish fellow-countrymen, he was constitutionallyunable to appreciate the fact that true religion and true faith are thenatural fruits of penitence and effort, and that individual repentanceand striving are the only sacrifices required of man.

  For safety's sake, like most politic Netherlanders, Adrian was calledupon from time to time to attend worship in the Catholic churches. Hedid not find the obligation irksome. In fact, the forms and rites ofthat stately ceremonial, the moving picture of the Mass in thosedim aisles, the pealing of the music and the sweet voices of hiddenchoristers--all these things unsealed a fountain in his bosom and atwhiles moved him well nigh to tears. The system appealed to him also,and he could understand that in it were joy and comfort. For here wasto be found forgiveness of sins, not far off in the heavens, but at handupon the earth; forgiveness to all who bent the head and paid the fee.Here, ready made by that prince of armourers, a Church that claimed tobe directly inspired, was a harness of proof which, after the death hedreaded (for he was full of spiritual fears and superstitions), wouldsuffice to turn the shafts of Satan from his poor shivering soul,however steeped in crime. Was not this a more serviceable and practicalfaith than that of these loud-voiced, rude-handed Lutherans among whomhe lived; men who elected to cast aside this armour and trust instead toa buckler forged by their faith and prayers--yes, and to give up theirevil ways and subdue their own desires that they might forge it better?

  Such were the thoughts of Adrian's secret heart, but as yet he had neveracted on them, since, however much he might wish to do so, he had notfound the courage to break away from the influence of his surroundings.His surroundings--ah! how he hated them! How he hated them! For veryshame's sake, indeed, he could not live in complete idleness amongfolk who were always busy, therefore he acted as accountant in hisstepfather's business, keeping the books of the foundry in a scanty andinefficient fashion, or writing letters to distant customers, for he wasa skilled clerk, to order the raw materials necessary to the craft. Butof this occupation he was weary, for he had the true Spanish dislike andcontempt of trade. In his heart he held that war was the only occupationworthy of a man, successful war, of course, against foes worthplundering, such as Cortes and Pizarro had waged upon the poor Indiansof New Spain.

  Adrian had read a chronicle of the adventures of these heroes, andbitterly regretted that he had come into the world too late to sharethem. The tale of heathen foemen slaughtered by thousands, and of theincalculable golden treasures divided among their conquerors, fired hisimagination--especially the treasures. At times he would see them in hissleep, baskets full of gems, heaps of barbaric gold and guerdon offair women slaves, all given by heaven to the true soldier whom it hadcharged with the sacred work of Christianising unbelievers by means ofmassacre and the rack.

  Oh! how deeply did he desire such wealth and the power which it wouldbring with it; he who was dependent upon others that looked down uponhim as a lazy dreamer, who had never a guilder to spare in his pouch,who had nothing indeed but more debts than he cared to remember. But itnever occurred to him to set to work and grow rich like his neighboursby honest toil and commerce. No, that was the task of slaves, like theselow Hollander fellows among whom his lot was cast.

  Such were the main characteristics of Adrian, surnamed van Goorl; Adrianthe superstitious but unspiritual dreamer, the vain Sybarite, the dullpoet, the chopper of false logic, the weak and passionate self-seeker,whose best and deepest cravings, such as his love for his mother andanother love that shall be told of, were really little more than areflection of his own pride and lusts, or at least could be subordinatedto their fulfilment. Not that he was altogether bad; somewhere in himthere was a better part. Thus: he was capable of good purposes and ofbitter remorse; under certain circumstances even he might become capablealso of a certain spurious spiritual exaltation. But if this was tobloom in his heart, it must be in a prison strong enough to protect fromthe blows of temptation. Adrian tempted would always be Adrian overcome.He was fashioned by nature to be the tool of others or of his owndesires.

  It may be asked what part had his mother in him; where in his weakignoble nature was the trace of her pure and noble character? It seemshard to find. Was this want to be accounted for by the circumstancesconnected with his birth, in which she had been so unwilling an agent?Had she given him something of her body but naught of that which waswithin her own control--her spirit? Who can say? This at least is true,that from his mother's stock he had derived nothing beyond a certainDutch doggedness of purpose which, when added to his other qualities,might in some events make him formidable--a thing to fear and flee from.