Cloister and the Hearth — Chapter 53, Part 1
“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?
” “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!
” Thus poor good-natured Denys was bringing into one house the materials of an explosion.
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.
Beauty knew its business then as now.
And with all this she kept her enemies waiting, though it was three by the dial.
At last she started, attended by her he-comrade.
And when they were halfway, she stopped and said thoughtfully, “Denys!
” “Well, she-general?
” “I must go home” (piteously).
“What, have ye left somewhat behind?
” “What?
” “My courage.
Oh!
oh!
oh!
” “Nay, nay, be brave, she-general.
I shall be with you.
” “Ay, but wilt keep close to me when I be there?
” Denys promised, and she resumed her march, but gingerly.
Meantime they were all assembled, and waiting for her with a strange mixture of feelings.
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.
At last Denys came alone, and whispered, “The she-comrade is without.
” “Fetch her in,” said Eli.
“Now whisht, all of ye.
None speak to her but I.
” They all turned their eyes to the door in dead silence.
A little muttering was heard outside; Denys's rough organ and a woman's soft and mellow voice.
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.
They all rose but Kate, and remained mute and staring.
“Be seated, mistress,” said Eli gravely, and motioned to a seat that had been set apart 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.
Cornelis and Sybrandt hated her for it.
Richart thought it spoiled her beauty.
It softened the women somewhat.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
” At these words, which came quite unexpectedly to him, Denys leaned his head on Margaret's high chair, and groaned aloud.
She turned quickly as she sat, and found his hand, and pressed it.
And so the sweetheart and the friend held hands while the sweetheart 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.
” There was a general sigh, followed by an oath 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.
” “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.
“I beg pardon, all the company,” said he 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.
” 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 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.
” Catherine.
“Alas!
that he will think so.
” Eli.
“Whisht, 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.
” “He!
he!
he!
he!
he!
” went Sybrandt, laughing and cackling.
Margaret's eyes flashed: she began to fold the letter up.
“Nay, lass,” said Eli, “heed him not!
Thou unmannerly cur, offer't but again and I put thee to the door.
” “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.
” “'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?'
” Catherine.
“There you see.
” Eli.
“Whisht, dame, whisht!
” “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.
“Oh!
” ejaculated Margaret's hearers in a body.
“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.
” Eli.
“Good lad!
good lad!
” “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?
