"It is fortunate," he said, "that my sponsors have been less negligent towards me with respect to French, in which language, if you will take patience with slow reading, I doubt not of conveying to you the substance, and in some degree the style of the tale. Nay, no thanks," added he, forestalling my acknowledgments. "My motives are more selfish than you think. I want to convince you that if the Flemish tongue is little known, there are Flemish writers well worth the knowing."
There was no resisting such amiable pertinacity. I put off my journey, breakfasted with my Fleming, and after breakfast—none of your tea and toast business, but a real good déjeuner-à-la-fourchette, a dinner less the soup—he produced his Flemish volume, and read me in French the promised story. Seemingly unused to this off-hand style of translation, and patriotically anxious to do full justice to the original, he read so slowly that I had time to put down the narrative nearly verbatim. As it is more than probable that none of the readers of Maga, numberless though they be as the pebbles upon ocean's strand, are acquainted with the Flemish, I might have arrogated to myself, with every chance of impunity, the invention of the tale I now place before them. But it would go against conscience thus to rob the poor; and therefore have I taken the trouble to write these few pages, to explain the source whence I derive the veracious legend of
The Doomster's Firstborn.
CHAP. I—THE TAVERN.
The eve of Whitsuntide, in the year of grace 1507, was unusually dark and dismal in the good city of Antwerp, over which a dense and impenetrable canopy of cloud had spread and settled down. It was owing, doubtless, to this unpleasant aspect of the weather that at nine o'clock, an hour at which few of the inhabitants were in bed, profound silence reigned in the streets, broken only by the occasional dull clang of a church bell, and by the melancholy dripping of the water which a small dense noiseless rain made to stream from the eaves and gutters. Heedless of the rain and of the raw fog from the Scheldt, a man stood motionless and absorbed in thought upon one of the deserted squares. His back was against a tree, his arms were folded on his breast, his eyes were wide open; although evidently awake, he had the appearance of one in a dream. From time to time unintelligible but energetic words escaped his lips, and his features assumed an expression of extraordinary wildness; then a deep and painful sigh burst from his breast, or a sound, half groan, half gasping, like that with which an over-burthened porter throws down his load. At times, too, a smile passed across his face—no sign of joy, or laugh extorted by jovial or pleasant thoughts, but the bitter smile of agony and despair, more afflicting to behold than a flood of tears. He smiled, certainly, but whilst his countenance yet wore the deceitful sign of joy, he bit his lips till they bled, and his hand, thrust within his doublet, dug its nails into his breast. Thrice wretched was this unhappy man: for him the pains of purgatory had no new terrors, for already, during twenty years, he had felt its direst torments in his heart. To him the pleasant earth had been a valley of tears, an abode of bitter sorrow. When his mother bore him, and his first cry broke upon her ear, she pressed no kiss of welcome on his cheek. It was no gush of tenderness and maternal joy that brought tears to her eyes, when she knew it was a man-child she had brought forth. His father felt no pride in the growth and beauty of his first and only son; often he wept over him and prayed for his death, as though the child had been the offspring of some foul and accursed sin. And when the infant grew—although fed with his mother's tears rather than with her milk—into a comely boy, and ventured forth to mingle in the sports of others of his age, he was scoffed, tormented, and despised, as though his face were the face of a devil. Yet was he so patient and gentle, that none ever saw frown on his brow, or the flush of anger on his features; only his father knew what bitter melancholy lurked in the heart of his son.
Now the child had become a man. Despite his sufferings, his body had grown into strength and vigour. He felt a craving after society, a burning desire for the sympathy and respect of his fellows. But the hatred and persecution that had made his youth wretched, clave to him in manhood,—scoff and scorn were his portion wheresoever he showed himself; and if he failed instantly to retire, with servile mien and prayer for pity, he was driven forth, like a dog, with kick and cuff. For him there was no justice in the wide world,—submission was his lot, God his only comforter.
Such had been the life of the man who now leaned against the poplar tree, a prey to the tortures of despair. Yet that man's heart was formed for tenderness and love, his mind was intelligent, his countenance not without nobility, his gait proud and manly, his voice earnest and persuasive. At this moment he lifted it up to heaven, towards which he passionately extended his arms.
"Great God!" he cried, "since thy holy will created me to suffer, grant me also strength to endure my tortures! My heart burns! my senses leave me! Protect me, O Lord, from despair and madness! Preserve to me the consolatory belief in thy goodness and justice; for my heart is rent with the agonies of doubt!"
His voice grew weaker and subsided into an inarticulate murmur. Suddenly raising his head and starting from his leaning posture, he hurried across the square and through two or three streets, as though endeavouring to escape reflection by rapidity of motion. Then his pace slackened and grew irregular, and he occasionally stood still, like one who, absorbed in weighty thoughts, unconsciously pauses, the better to indulge them. On a sudden a shrill harsh sound broke from his lips; they were parched with thirst and fever.
"I must drink," he cried; "I am choked by this burning thirst."
There were many taverns in that street, and he approached the windows of several, from the crevices of whose shutters a bright light streamed; but he entered not, and still passed on, for in every house he heard men's voices, and that sufficed to drive him away. In St Jan's Street he paused somewhat longer before a public-house, and listened attentively at all the windows. A transient gleam of satisfaction lighted up his countenance.