Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter
by J. Sheridan Le Fanu
You will no doubt be surprised, my dear friend, at
the subject of the following narrative. What had I
to do with Schalken, or Schalken with me? He
had returned to his native land, and was probably
dead and buried before I was born; I never visited
Holland, nor spoke with a native of that country.
So much I believe you already know. I must, then,
give you my authority, and state to you frankly the
ground upon which rests the credibility of the strange
story which I am about to lay before you.
I was acquainted, in my early days, with a Captain
Vandael, whose father had served King William in
the Low Countries, and also in my own unhappy
land during the Irish campaigns. I know not how
it happened that I liked this man’s society, spite of
his politics and religion: but so it was; and it was
by means of the free intercourse to which our intimacy
gave rise that I became possessed of the curious
tale which you are about to hear.
I had often been struck, while visiting Vandael,
by a remarkable picture, in which, though no connoisseur
myself, I could not fail to discern some very
strong peculiarities, particularly in the distribution of
light and shade, as also a certain oddity in the design
itself, which interested my curiosity. It represented
the interior of what might be a chamber in some
antique religious building—the foreground was occupied
by a female figure, arrayed in a species of white
robe, part of which was arranged so as to form a veil.
The dress, however, was not strictly that of any religious
order. In its hand the figure bore a lamp, by
whose light alone the form and face were illuminated;
the features were marked by an arch smile, such as
pretty women wear when engaged in successfully
practising some roguish trick; in the background,
and (excepting where the dim red light of an expiring
fire serves to define the form) totally in the shade,
stood the figure of a man equipped in the old fashion,
with doublet and so forth, in an attitude of alarm, his
hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which
he appeared to be in the act of drawing.
“There are some pictures,” said I to my friend,
“which impress one, I know not how, with a conviction
that they represent not the mere ideal shapes
and combinations which have floated through the
imagination of the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations
which have actually existed. When I look
upon that picture, something assures me that I
behold the representation of a reality.”
Vandael smiled, and, fixing his eyes upon the
painting musingly, he said,—
“Your fancy has not deceived you, my good friend,
for that picture is the record, and I believe a faithful
one, of a remarkable and mysterious occurrence. It
was painted by Schalken, and contains, in the face
of the female figure which occupies the most prominent
place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose
Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the first and,
I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My
father knew the painter well, and from Schalken himself
he learned the story of the mysterious drama,
one scene of which the picture has embodied. This
painting, which is accounted a fine specimen of
Schalken’s style, was bequeathed to my father by
the artist’s will, and, as you have observed, is a very
striking and interesting production.”
I had only to request Vandael to tell the story of
the painting in order to be gratified; and thus it is
that I am enabled to submit to you a faithful recital
of what I heard myself, leaving you to reject or to
allow the evidence upon which the truth of the tradition
depends—with this one assurance, that Schalken
was an honest, blunt Dutchman, and, I believe,
wholly incapable of committing a flight of imagination;
and further, that Vandael, from whom I heard
the story, appeared firmly convinced of its truth.
There are few forms upon which the mantle of
mystery and romance could seem to hang more ungracefully
than upon that of the uncouth and clownish
Schalken—the Dutch boor—the rude and dogged,
but most cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight
the initiated of the present day almost as much as his
manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yet
this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, I had
almost said so savage in mien and manner, during
his after successes, had been selected by the capricious
goddess, in his early life, to figure as the hero
of a romance by no means devoid of interest or of
mystery.
Who can tell how meet he may have been in his
young days to play the part of the lover or of the
hero? who can say that in early life he had been the
same harsh, unlicked, and rugged boor that, in his
maturer age, he proved? or how far the neglected
rudeness which afterwards marked his air, and garb,
and manners, may not have been the growth of that
reckless apathy not unfrequently produced by bitter
misfortunes and disappointments in early life?
These questions can never now be answered.
We must content ourselves, then, with a plain
statement of facts, leaving matters of speculation to
those who like them.
When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard
Douw, he was a young man; and in spite of the
phlegmatic constitution and excitable manner which
he shared, we believe, with his countrymen, he was
not incapable of deep and vivid impressions, for it is
an established fact that the young painter looked
with considerable interest upon the beautiful niece of
his wealthy master.
Rose Velderkaust was very young, having, at the
period of which we speak, not yet attained her seventeenth
year; and, if tradition speaks truth, she possessed
all the soft dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired
Flemish maidens. Schalken had not studied long in
the school of Gerard Douw when he felt this interest
deepening into something of a keener and intenser
feeling than was quite consistent with the tranquillity
of his honest Dutch heart; and at the same time he
perceived, or thought he perceived, flattering symptoms
of a reciprocal attachment, and this was quite
sufficient to determine whatever indecision he might
have heretofore experienced, and to lead him to
devote exclusively to her every hope and feeling of
his heart. In short, he was as much in love as a
Dutchman could be. He was not long in making
his passion known to the pretty maiden herself, and
his declaration was followed by a corresponding confession
upon her part.
Schalken, howbeit, was a poor man, and he possessed
no counterbalancing advantages of birth or
position to induce the old man to consent to a union
which must involve his niece and ward in the strugglings
and difficulties of a young and nearly friendless
artist. He was, therefore, to wait until time had
furnished him with opportunity, and accident with
success; and then, if his labours were found sufficiently
lucrative, it was to be hoped that his proposals
might at least be listened to by her jealous guardian.
Months passed away, and, cheered by the smiles of
the little Rose, Schalken’s labours were redoubled,
and with such effect and improvement as reasonably
to promise the realization of his hopes, and no contemptible
eminence in his art, before many years
should have elapsed.
The even course of this cheering prosperity was,
unfortunately, destined to experience a sudden and formidable
interruption, and that, too, in a manner so
strange and mysterious as to baffle all investigation,
and throw upon the events themselves a shadow of
almost supernatural horror.
Schalken had one evening remained in the master’s
studio considerably longer than his more volatile
companions, who had gladly availed themselves of
the excuse which the dusk of evening afforded to
withdraw from their several tasks, in order to finish
a day of labour in the jollity and conviviality of the
tavern.
But Schalken worked for improvement, or rather
for love. Besides, he was now engaged merely in
sketching a design, an operation which, unlike that
of colouring, might be continued as long as there was
light sufficient to distinguish between canvas and
charcoal. He had not then, nor, indeed, until long
after, discovered the peculiar powers of his pencil;
and he was engaged in composing a group of extremely
roguish-looking and grotesque imps and
demons, who were inflicting various ingenious torments
upon a perspiring and pot-bellied St. Anthony,
who reclined in the midst of them, apparently in the
last stage of drunkenness.
The young artist, however, though incapable of
executing, or even of appreciating, anything of true
sublimity, had nevertheless discernment enough to
prevent his being by any means satisfied with his
work; and many were the patient erasures and corrections
which the limbs and features of saint and
devil underwent, yet all without producing in their
new arrangement anything of improvement or increased
effect.
The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and,
with the exception of himself, quite deserted by its
usual inmates. An hour had passed—nearly two—without
any improved result. Daylight had already
declined, and twilight was fast giving way to the
darkness of night. The patience of the young man
was exhausted, and he stood before his unfinished
production, absorbed in no very pleasing ruminations,
one hand buried in the folds of his long dark hair,
and the other holding the piece of charcoal which
had so ill executed its office, and which he now
rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks
which it produced, with irritable pressure upon his
ample Flemish inexpressibles.
“Pshaw!” said the young man aloud, “would that
picture, devils, saint, and all, were where they should
be—in hell!”
A short, sudden laugh, uttered startlingly close to
his ear, instantly responded to the ejaculation.
The artist turned sharply round, and now for the
first time became aware that his labours had been
overlooked by a stranger.
Within about a yard and a half, and rather behind
him, there stood what was, or appeared to be, the
figure of an elderly man: he wore a short cloak, and
broad-brimmed hat with a conical crown, and in his
hand, which was protected with a heavy, gauntlet-shaped
glove, he carried a long ebony walking-stick,
surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly
in the twilight to be a massive head of gold; and
upon his breast, through the folds of the cloak,
there shone the links of a rich chain of the same
metal.
The room was so obscure that nothing further of
the appearance of the figure could be ascertained,
and the face was altogether overshadowed by the
heavy flap of the beaver which overhung it, so that no
feature could be clearly discerned. A quantity of dark
hair escaped from beneath this sombre hat, a circumstance
which, connected with the firm, upright
carriage of the intruder, proved that his years could
not yet exceed threescore or thereabouts.
There was an air of gravity and importance about
the garb of this person, and something indescribably
odd—I might say awful—in the perfect, stone-like
movelessness of the figure, that effectually checked
the testy comment which had at once risen to the
lips of the irritated artist. He therefore, as soon as
he had sufficiently recovered the surprise, asked the
stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know if
he had any message to leave for his master.
“Tell Gerard Douw,” said the unknown, without
altering his attitude in the smallest degree, “that
Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires to
speak with him to-morrow evening at this hour, and,
if he please, in this room, upon matters of weight;
that is all. Good-night.”
The stranger, having finished this message, turned
abruptly, and, with a quick but silent step quitted
the room before Schalken had time to say a word in
reply.
The young man felt a curiosity to see in what
direction the burgher of Rotterdam would turn on
quitting the studio, and for that purpose he went
directly to the window which commanded the door.
A lobby of considerable extent intervened between
the inner door of the painter’s room and the street
entrance, so that Schalken occupied the post of
observation before the old man could possibly have
reached the street.
He watched in vain, however. There was no other
mode of exit.
Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about
the recesses of the lobby for some bad purpose?
This last suggestion filled the mind of Schalken with
a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense
as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room
alone and reluctant to pass through the lobby.
However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned
to the occasion, he summoned resolution
to leave the room, and, having double-locked the
door, and thrust the key in his pocket, without
looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage
which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the
person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing
to breathe till he had arrived in the open street.
“Mynher Vanderhausen,” said Gerard Douw, within
himself, as the appointed hour approached; “Mynher
Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam! I never heard of the
man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A
portrait, perhaps, to be painted; or a younger son or
a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a collection to be
valued; or—pshaw! there’s no one in Rotterdam to
leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may
be, we shall soon know it all.”
It was now the close of day, and every easel,
except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard
Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless
step of impatient expectation, every now and then
humming a passage from a piece of music which he
was himself composing; for, though no great proficient,
he admired the art; sometimes pausing to
glance over the work of one of his absent pupils, but
more frequently placing himself at the window, from
whence he might observe the passengers who threaded
the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.
“Said you not, Godfrey,” exclaimed Douw, after a
long and fruitless gaze from his post of observation,
and turning to Schalken—“said you not the hour of
appointment was at about seven by the clock of the
Stadhouse?”
“It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir,”
answered the student.
“The hour is close at hand, then,” said the master,
consulting a horologe as large and as round as a
full-grown orange. “Mynher Vanderhausen, from
Rotterdam—is it not so?”
“Such was the name.”
“And an elderly man, richly clad?” continued
Douw.
“As well as I might see,” replied his pupil. “He
could not be young, nor yet very old neither, and his
dress was rich and grave, as might become a citizen
of wealth and consideration.”
At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse
clock told, stroke after stroke, the hour of
seven; the eyes of both master and student were
directed to the door; and it was not until the last
peal of the old bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw
exclaimed,—
“So, so; we shall have his worship presently—that
is, if he means to keep his hour; if not, thou
mayst wait for him, Godfrey, if you court the
acquaintance of a capricious burgomaster. As for
me, I think our old Leyden contains a sufficiency
of such commodities, without an importation from
Rotterdam.”
Schalken laughed, as in duty bound; and, after a
pause of some minutes, Douw suddenly exclaimed,—
“What if it should all prove a jest, a piece of
mummery got up by Vankarp, or some such worthy!
I wish you had run all risks, and cudgelled the old
burgomaster, stadholder, or whatever else he may
be, soundly. I would wager a dozen of Rhenish,
his worship would have pleaded old acquaintance
before the third application.”
“Here he comes, sir,” said Schalken, in a low,
admonitory tone; and instantly, upon turning towards
the door, Gerard Douw observed the same
figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly
greeted the vision of his pupil Schalken.
There was something in the air and mien of the
figure which at once satisfied the painter that there
was no mummery in the case, and that he really
stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so,
without hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously
saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated.
The visitor waved his hand slightly, as if in
acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained
standing.
“I have the honour to see Mynher Vanderhausen,
of Rotterdam?” said Gerard Douw.
“The same,” was the laconic reply.
“I understand your worship desires to speak with
me,” continued Douw, “and I am here by appointment
to wait your commands.”
“Is that a man of trust?” said Vanderhausen,
turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little
distance behind his master.
“Certainly,” replied Gerard.
“Then let him take this box and get the nearest
jeweller or goldsmith to value its contents, and let
him return hither with a certificate of the valuation.”
At the same time he placed a small case, about
nine inches square, in the hands of Gerard Douw,
who was as much amazed at its weight as at the
strange abruptness with which it was handed to
him.
In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he
delivered it into the hands of Schalken, and repeating
his directions, despatched him upon the mission.
Schalken disposed his precious charge securely
beneath the folds of his cloak, and rapidly traversing
two or three narrow streets, he stopped at a corner
house, the lower part of which was then occupied by
the shop of a Jewish goldsmith.
Schalken entered the shop, and calling the little
Hebrew into the obscurity of its back recesses, he
proceeded to lay before him Vanderhausen’s packet.
On being examined by the light of a lamp, it
appeared entirely cased with lead, the outer surface
of which was much scraped and soiled, and nearly
white with age. This was with difficulty partially
removed, and disclosed beneath a box of some dark
and singularly hard wood; this, too, was forced, and
after the removal of two or three folds of linen, its
contents proved to be a mass of golden ingots, close
packed, and, as the Jew declared, of the most perfect
quality.
Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little
Jew, who seemed to feel an epicurean delight in
touching and testing these morsels of the glorious
metal; and each one of them was replaced in the
box with the exclamation,—
“Mein Gott, how very perfect! not one grain of
alloy—beautiful, beautiful!”
The task was at length finished, and the Jew
certified under his hand that the value of the ingots
submitted to his examination amounted to many
thousand rix-dollars.
With the desired document in his bosom, and the
rich box of gold carefully pressed under his arm, and
concealed by his cloak, he retraced his way, and,
entering the studio, found his master and the stranger
in close conference.
Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to
execute the commission he had taken in charge,
than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in the
following terms:
“I may not tarry with you to-night more than a
few minutes, and so I shall briefly tell you the matter
upon which I come. You visited the town of Rotterdam
some four months ago, and then I saw in the
church of St. Lawrence your niece, Rose Velderkaust.
I desire to marry her, and if I satisfy you as to the
fact that I am very wealthy—more wealthy than
any husband you could dream of for her—I expect
that you will forward my views to the utmost
of your authority. If you approve my proposal,
you must close with it at once, for I cannot
command time enough to wait for calculations
and delays.”
Gerard Douw was, perhaps, as much astonished as
anyone could be by the very unexpected nature of
Mynher Vanderhausen’s communication; but he did
not give vent to any unseemly expression of surprise.
In addition to the motives supplied by prudence and
politeness, the painter experienced a kind of chill
and oppressive sensation—a feeling like that which
is supposed to affect a man who is placed unconsciously
in immediate contact with something to
which he has a natural antipathy—an undefined
horror and dread—while standing in the presence of
the eccentric stranger, which made him very unwilling
to say anything that might reasonably prove
offensive.
“I have no doubt,” said Gerard, after two or three
prefatory hems, “that the connection which you
propose would prove alike advantageous and honourable
to my niece; but you must be aware that she
has a will of her own, and may not acquiesce in what
we may design for her advantage.”
“Do not seek to deceive me, Sir Painter,” said
Vanderhausen; “you are her guardian—she is your
ward. She is mine if you like to make her so.”
The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as
he spoke, and Gerard Douw, he scarce knew why,
inwardly prayed for the speedy return of Schalken.
“I desire,” said the mysterious gentleman, “to
place in your hands at once an evidence of my wealth,
and a security for my liberal dealing with your niece.
The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum in
value five times the fortune which she has a right to
expect from a husband. This shall lie in your
hands, together with her dowry, and you may
apply the united sum as suits her interest best; it
shall be all exclusively hers while she lives. Is that
liberal?”
Douw assented, and inwardly thought that fortune
had been extraordinarily kind to his niece. The
stranger, he deemed, must be most wealthy and
generous, and such an offer was not to be despised,
though made by a humorist, and one of no very
prepossessing presence.
Rose had no very high pretensions, for she was
almost without dowry; indeed, altogether so, excepting
so far as the deficiency had been supplied by
the generosity of her uncle. Neither had she any
right to raise any scruples against the match on the
score of birth, for her own origin was by no means
elevated; and as to other objections, Gerard resolved,
and, indeed, by the usages of the time was warranted
in resolving, not to listen to them for a moment.
“Sir,” said he, addressing the stranger, “your offer
is most liberal, and whatever hesitation I may feel in
closing with it immediately, arises solely from my
not having the honour of knowing anything of your
family or station. Upon these points you can, of
course, satisfy me without difficulty?”
“As to my respectability,” said the stranger, drily,
“you must take that for granted at present; pester
me with no inquiries; you can discover nothing
more about me than I choose to make known. You
shall have sufficient security for my respectability—my
word, if you are honourable; if you are sordid,
my gold.”
“A testy old gentleman,” thought Douw; “he
must have his own way. But, all things considered,
I am justified in giving my niece to him. Were she
my own daughter, I would do the like by her. I
will not pledge myself unnecessarily, however.”
“You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily,” said
Vanderhausen, strangely uttering the very words
which had just floated through the mind of his companion;
“but you will do so if it is necessary, I
presume; and I will show you that I consider it indispensable.
If the gold I mean to leave in your
hands satisfies you, and if you desire that my proposal
shall not be at once withdrawn, you must, before I
leave this room, write your name to this engagement.”
Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the
hands of Gerard, the contents of which expressed an
engagement entered into by Gerard Douw, to give
to Wilken Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, in marriage,
Rose Velderkaust, and so forth, within one week of
the date hereof.
While the painter was employed in reading this
covenant, Schalken, as we have stated, entered the
studio, and having delivered the box and the valuation
of the Jew into the hands of the stranger, he was
about to retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to
wait; and, presenting the case and the certificate to
Gerard Douw, he waited in silence until he had satisfied
himself by an inspection of both as to the value
of the pledge left in his hands. At length he said:
“Are you content?”
The painter said “he would fain have another day
to consider.”
“Not an hour,” said the suitor, coolly.
“Well, then,” said Douw, “I am content; it is a
bargain.”
“Then sign at once,” said Vanderhausen; “I am
weary.”
At the same time he produced a small case of
writing materials, and Gerard signed the important
document.
“Let this youth witness the covenant,” said the
old man; and Godfrey Schalken unconsciously
signed the instrument which bestowed upon another
that hand which he had so long regarded as the
object and reward of all his labours.
The compact being thus completed, the strange
visitor folded up the paper, and stowed it safely in an
inner pocket.
“I will visit you to-morrow night, at nine of the
clock, at your house, Gerard Douw, and will see the
subject of our contract. Farewell.” And so saying,
Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly out
of the room.
Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed
himself by the window in order to watch the street
entrance; but the experiment served only to support
his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from the
door. This was very strange, very odd, very fearful.
He and his master returned together, and talked but
little on the way, for each had his own subjects of
reflection, of anxiety, and of hope.
Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which
threatened his cherished schemes.
Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment
which had sprung up between his pupil and his
niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whether he
would have regarded its existence as any serious
obstruction to the wishes of Mynher Vanderhausen.
Marriages were then and there matters of traffic
and calculation; and it would have appeared as
absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make a mutual
attachment an essential element in a contract of
marriage, as it would have been to draw up his bonds
and receipts in the language of chivalrous romance.
The painter, however, did not communicate to his
niece the important step which he had taken in her
behalf, and his resolution arose not from any anticipation
of opposition on her part, but solely from a
ludicrous consciousness that if his ward were, as she
very naturally might do, to ask him to describe the
appearance of the bridegroom whom he destined for
her, he would be forced to confess that he had not
seen his face, and, if called upon, would find it impossible
to identify him.
Upon the next day, Gerard Douw having dined,
called his niece to him, and having scanned her
person with an air of satisfaction, he took her hand,
and looking upon her pretty, innocent face with a
smile of kindness, he said:
“Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your
fortune.” Rose blushed and smiled. “Such faces
and such tempers seldom go together, and, when they
do, the compound is a love-potion which few heads
or hearts can resist. Trust me, thou wilt soon be a
bride, girl. But this is trifling, and I am pressed for
time, so make ready the large room by eight o’clock
to-night, and give directions for supper at nine. I
expect a friend to-night; and observe me, child, do
thou trick thyself out handsomely. I would not have
him think us poor or sluttish.”
With these words he left the chamber, and took
his way to the room to which we have already had
occasion to introduce our readers—that in which his
pupils worked.
When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schalken,
who was about to take his departure to his
obscure and comfortless lodgings, and asked him
to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen.
The invitation was of course accepted, and Gerard
Douw and his pupil soon found themselves in the
handsome and somewhat antique-looking room which
had been prepared for the reception of the stranger.
A cheerful wood-fire blazed in the capacious
hearth; a little at one side an old-fashioned table,
with richly-carved legs, was placed—destined, no
doubt, to receive the supper, for which preparations
were going forward; and ranged with exact regularity
stood the tall-backed chairs whose ungracefulness
was more than counterbalanced by their comfort.
The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and
the artist, awaited the arrival of the expected visitor
with considerable impatience.
Nine o’clock at length came, and with it a summons
at the street-door, which, being speedily answered,
was followed by a slow and emphatic tread upon the
staircase; the steps moved heavily across the lobby,
the door of the room in which the party which we
have described were assembled slowly opened, and
there entered a figure which startled, almost appalled,
the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose
scream with affright; it was the form, and arrayed
in the garb, of Mynher Vanderhausen; the air, the
gait, the height was the same, but the features had
never been seen by any of the party before.
The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and
displayed his form and face completely. He wore a
dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was short and full,
not falling quite to the knees; his legs were cased in
dark purple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned
with roses of the same colour. The opening of the
cloak in front showed the under-suit to consist of
some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his
hands were enclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves
which ran up considerably above the wrist, in the
manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carried his
walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and
the other hung heavily by his side. A quantity of
grizzled hair descended in long tresses from his head,
and its folds rested upon the plaits of a stiff ruff,
which effectually concealed his neck.
So far all was well; but the face!—all the flesh
of the face was coloured with the bluish leaden hue
which is sometimes produced by the operation of
metallic medicines administered in excessive quantities;
the eyes were enormous, and the white appeared
both above and below the iris, which gave to them
an expression of insanity, which was heightened by
their glassy fixedness; the nose was well enough, but
the mouth was writhed considerably to one side,
where it opened in order to give egress to two long,
discoloured fangs, which projected from the upper
jaw, far below the lower lip; the hue of the lips themselves
bore the usual relation to that of the face, and
was consequently nearly black. The character of
the face was malignant, even satanic, to the last
degree; and, indeed, such a combination of horror
could hardly be accounted for, except by supposing
the corpse of some atrocious malefactor, which had
long hung blackening upon the gibbet, to have at
length become the habitation of a demon—the frightful
sport of satanic possession.
It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger
suffered as little as possible of his flesh to appear, and
that during his visit he did not once remove his gloves.
Having stood for some moments at the door,
Gerard Douw at length found breath and collectedness
to bid him welcome, and, with a mute inclination
of the head, the stranger stepped forward
into the room.
There was something indescribably odd, even
horrible about all his motions, something undefinable,
something unnatural, unhuman—it was as if the limbs
were guided and directed by a spirit unused to the
management of bodily machinery.
The stranger said hardly anything during his visit,
which did not exceed half an hour; and the host
himself could scarcely muster courage enough to
utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies:
and, indeed, such was the nervous terror which the
presence of Vanderhausen inspired, that very little
would have made all his entertainers fly bellowing
from the room.
They had not so far lost all self-possession, however,
as to fail to observe two strange peculiarities of
their visitor.
During his stay he did not once suffer his eyelids
to close, nor even to move in the slightest degree;
and further, there was a death-like stillness in his
whole person, owing to the total absence of the
heaving motion of the chest caused by the process
of respiration.
These two peculiarities, though when told they
may appear trifling, produced a very striking and
unpleasant effect when seen and observed. Vanderhausen
at length relieved the painter of Leyden of
his inauspicious presence; and with no small
gratification the little party heard the street door
close after him.
“Dear uncle,” said Rose, “what a frightful man!
I would not see him again for the wealth of the
States!”
“Tush, foolish girl!” said Douw, whose sensations
were anything but comfortable. “A man may be as
ugly as the devil, and yet if his heart and actions are
good, he is worth all the pretty-faced, perfumed
puppies that walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is
very true he has not thy pretty face, but I know him
to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten times
more ugly—”
“Which is inconceivable,” observed Rose.
“These two virtues would be sufficient,” continued
her uncle, “to counterbalance all his deformity; and
if not of power sufficient actually to alter the shape
of the features, at least of efficacy enough to prevent
one thinking them amiss.”
“Do you know, uncle,” said Rose, “when I saw
him standing at the door, I could not get it out of
my head that I saw the old, painted, wooden figure
that used to frighten me so much in the church of
St. Laurence at Rotterdam.”
Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly
acknowledging the justness of the comparison. He
was resolved, however, as far as he could, to check
his niece’s inclination to ridicule the ugliness of her
intended bridegroom, although he was not a little
pleased to observe that she appeared totally exempt
from that mysterious dread of the stranger, which, he
could not disguise it from himself, considerably
affected him, as it also did his pupil Godfrey Schalken.
Early on the next day there arrived from various
quarters of the town, rich presents of silks, velvets,
jewellery, and so forth, for Rose; and also a packet
directed to Gerard Douw, which, on being opened,
was found to contain a contract of marriage, formally
drawn up, between Wilken Vanderhausen of the
Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust of
Leyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of
painting, also of the same city; and containing
engagements on the part of Vanderhausen to make
settlements upon his bride far more splendid than he
had before led her guardian to believe likely, and
which were to be secured to her use in the most
unexceptionable manner possible—the money being
placed in the hands of Gerard Douw himself.
I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty
of guardians or magnanimity of wards, or agonies of
lovers. The record I have to make is one of
sordidness, levity, and interest. In less than a week
after the first interview which we have just described,
the contract of marriage was fulfilled, and Schalken
saw the prize which he would have risked anything
to secure, carried off triumphantly by his formidable
rival.
For two or three days he absented himself from
the school; he then returned and worked, if with less
cheerfulness, with far more dogged resolution than
before; the dream of love had given place to that of
ambition.
Months passed away, and, contrary to his expectation,
and, indeed, to the direct promise of the
parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of his niece or
her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money,
which was to have been demanded in quarterly sums,
lay unclaimed in his hands. He began to grow
extremely uneasy.
Mynher Vanderhausen’s direction in Rotterdam
he was fully possessed of. After some irresolution
he finally determined to journey thither—a trifling
undertaking, and easily accomplished—and thus to
satisfy himself of the safety and comfort of his ward,
for whom he entertained an honest and strong
affection.
His search was in vain, however. No one in
Rotterdam had ever heard of Mynher Vanderhausen.
Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay
untried; but all in vain. No one could give him
any information whatever touching the object of his
inquiry; and he was obliged to return to Leyden,
nothing wiser than when he had left it.
On his arrival he hastened to the establishment
from which Vanderhausen had hired the lumbering,
though, considering the times, most luxurious
vehicle which the bridal party had employed to
convey them to Rotterdam. From the driver of this
machine he learned, that having proceeded by slow
stages, they had late in the evening approached
Rotterdam; but that before they entered the city,
and while yet nearly a mile from it, a small party of
men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with
peaked beards and moustaches, standing in the
centre of the road, obstructed the further progress
of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses,
much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and
the loneliness of the road, that some mischief was
intended.
His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his
observing that these strange men carried a large
litter, of an antique shape, and which they immediately
set down upon the pavement, whereupon
the bridegroom, having opened the coach-door from
within, descended, and having assisted his bride to
do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly and wringing
her hands, to the litter, which they both entered.
It was then raised by the men who surrounded it,
and speedily carried towards the city, and before it
had proceeded many yards the darkness concealed
it from the view of the Dutch chariot.
In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse,
whose contents more than thrice paid the hire of the
carriage and man. He saw and could tell nothing
more of Mynher Vanderhausen and his beautiful
lady. This mystery was a source of deep anxiety
and almost of grief to Gerard Douw.
There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vanderhausen
with him, though for what purpose committed
he could not imagine. He greatly doubted how far
it was possible for a man possessing in his
countenance so strong an evidence of the presence of
the most demoniac feelings to be in reality anything
but a villain; and every day that passed without
his hearing from or of his niece, instead of
inducing him to forget his fears, tended more and
more to intensify them.
The loss of his niece’s cheerful society tended also
to depress his spirits; and in order to dispel this
despondency, which often crept upon his mind after
his daily employment was over, he was wont
frequently to prevail upon Schalken to accompany
him home, and by his presence to dispel, in some
degree, the gloom of his otherwise solitary supper.
One evening, the painter and his pupil were
sitting by the fire, having accomplished a comfortable
supper. They had yielded to that silent pensiveness
sometimes induced by the process of digestion, when
their reflections were disturbed by a loud sound at
the street-door, as if occasioned by some person
rushing forcibly and repeatedly against it. A
domestic had run without delay to ascertain the
cause of the disturbance, and they heard him twice or
thrice interrogate the applicant for admission, but
without producing an answer or any cessation of the
sounds.
They heard him then open the hall door, and
immediately there followed a light and rapid tread
upon the staircase. Schalken laid his hand on his
sword, and advanced towards the door. It opened
before he reached it, and Rose rushed into the room.
She looked wild and haggard, and pale with
exhaustion and terror; but her dress surprised them
as much even as her unexpected appearance. It
consisted of a kind of white woollen wrapper, made
close about the neck, and descending to the very
ground. It was much deranged and travel-soiled.
The poor creature had hardly entered the chamber
when she fell senseless on the floor. With some
difficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on
recovering her senses she instantly exclaimed, in a
tone of eager, terrified impatience,—
“Wine, wine, quickly, or I’m lost!”
Much alarmed at the strange agitation in which
the call was made, they at once administered to her
wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and
eagerness which surprised him. She had hardly
swallowed it, when she exclaimed with the same
urgency,—
“Food, food, at once, or I perish!”
A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon
the table, and Schalken immediately proceeded to
cut some, but he was anticipated; for no sooner had
she become aware of its presence than she darted at
it with the rapacity of a vulture, and, seizing it in
her hands, she tore off the flesh with her teeth and
swallowed it.
When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little
appeased, she appeared suddenly to become aware
how strange her conduct had been, or it may have
been that other more agitating thoughts recurred to
her mind, for she began to weep bitterly, and to wring
her hands.
“Oh! send for a minister of God,” said she;
“I am not safe till he comes; send for him
speedily.”
Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly,
and prevailed on his niece to allow him to surrender
his bedchamber to her use; he also persuaded her to
retire to it at once and to rest; her consent was
extorted upon the condition that they would not
leave her for a moment.
“Oh that the holy man were here!” she said;
“he can deliver me. The dead and the living can
never be one—God has forbidden it.”
With these mysterious words she surrendered
herself to their guidance, and they proceeded to the
chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to her
use.
“Do not—do not leave me for a moment,” said
she. “I am lost for ever if you do.”
Gerard Douw’s chamber was approached through
a spacious apartment, which they were now about to
enter. Gerard Douw and Schalken each carried a
wax candle, so that a sufficient degree of light was
cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now
entering the large chamber, which, as I have said,
communicated with Douw’s apartment, when Rose
suddenly stopped, and, in a whisper which seemed
to thrill with horror, she said,—
“O God! he is here—he is here! See, see—there
he goes!”
She pointed towards the door of the inner room,
and Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined
form gliding into that apartment. He drew
his sword, and raising the candle so as to throw its
light with increased distinctness upon the objects in
the room, he entered the chamber into which the
figure had glided. No figure was there—nothing
but the furniture which belonged to the room, and
yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that
something had moved before them into the chamber.
A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold
perspiration broke out in heavy drops upon his
forehead; nor was he more composed when he heard
the increased urgency, the agony of entreaty, with
which Rose implored them not to leave her for a
moment.
“I saw him,” said she. “He’s here! I cannot be
deceived—I know him. He’s by me—he’s with me—he’s
in the room. Then, for God’s sake, as you
would save, do not stir from beside me!”
They at length prevailed upon her to lie down
upon the bed, where she continued to urge them to
stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherent
sentences, repeating again and again, “The dead and
the living cannot be one—God has forbidden it!”
and then again, “Rest to the wakeful—sleep to the
sleep-walkers.”
These and such mysterious and broken sentences
she continued to utter until the clergyman arrived.
Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that
the poor girl, owing to terror or ill-treatment, had
become deranged; and he half suspected, by the
suddenness of her appearance, and the unseasonableness
of the hour, and, above all, from the wildness
and terror of her manner, that she had made her
escape from some place of confinement for lunatics,
and was in immediate fear of pursuit. He resolved
to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his
niece had been in some measure set at rest by the
offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had
so earnestly desired; and until this object had been
attained, he did not venture to put any questions to
her, which might possibly, by reviving painful or
horrible recollections, increase her agitation.
The clergyman soon arrived—a man of ascetic
countenance and venerable age—one whom Gerard
Douw respected much, forasmuch as he was a veteran
polemic, though one, perhaps, more dreaded as a
combatant than beloved as a Christian—of pure
morality, subtle brain, and frozen heart. He entered
the chamber which communicated with that in which
Rose reclined, and immediately on his arrival she
requested him to pray for her, as for one who lay in
the hands of Satan, and who could hope for deliverance
only from Heaven.
That our readers may distinctly understand all the
circumstances of the event which we are about imperfectly
to describe, it is necessary to state the
relative positions of the parties who were engaged in
it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the
ante-room of which we have already spoken; Rose
lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was
open; and by the side of the bed, at her urgent
desire, stood her guardian; a candle burned in the
bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outer
apartment.
The old man now cleared his voice, as if about to
commence; but before he had time to begin, a sudden
gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate
the room in which the poor girl lay, and she
with hurried alarm, exclaimed:
“Godfrey, bring in another candle; the darkness is
unsafe.”
Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated
injunctions in the immediate impulse, stepped
from the bedchamber into the other, in order to
supply what she desired.
“O God! do not go, dear uncle!” shrieked the
unhappy girl; and at the same time she sprang from
the bed and darted after him, in order, by her grasp,
to detain him.
But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he
passed the threshold, and hardly had his niece had
time to utter the startling exclamation, when the
door which divided the two rooms closed violently
after him, as if swung to by a strong blast of wind.
Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their
united and desperate efforts could not avail so much
as to shake it.
Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber,
with all the piercing loudness of despairing terror.
Schalken and Douw applied every energy and
strained every nerve to force open the door; but all
in vain.
There was no sound of struggling from within, but
the screams seemed to increase in loudness, and at
the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed
window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon
the sill as if thrown open.
One last shriek, so long and piercing and agonized
as to be scarcely human, swelled from the room, and
suddenly there followed a death-like silence.
A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from
the bed to the window; and almost at the same
instant the door gave way, and yielding to the
pressure of the external applicants, they were nearly
precipitated into the room. It was empty. The
window was open, and Schalken sprang to a chair and
gazed out upon the street and at the canal below. He
saw no form, but he beheld, or thought he beheld, the
waters of the broad canal beneath settling ring after
ring in heavy circular ripples, as if a moment before
disturbed by the immersion of some large and heavy
mass.
No trace of Rose was ever after discovered, nor
was anything certain respecting her mysterious wooer
detected or even suspected; no clue whereby to trace
the intricacies of the labyrinth, and to arrive at a
distinct conclusion was to be found. But an incident
occurred, which, though it will not be received by our
rational readers as at all approaching to evidence
upon the matter, nevertheless produced a strong and
a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken.
Many years after the events which we have detailed,
Schalken, then remotely situated, received an
intimation of his father’s death, and of his intended
burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam.
It was necessary that a very considerable journey
should be performed by the funeral procession, which,
as it will readily be believed, was not very numerously
attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotterdam
late in the day upon which the funeral was
appointed to take place. The procession had not
then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did not
appear.
Schalken strolled down to the church—he found it
open; notice of the arrival of the funeral had been
given, and the vault in which the body was to be laid
had been opened. The official who corresponds to
our sexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose
object was to attend the expected funeral, pacing the
aisle of the church, hospitably invited him to share
with him the comforts of a blazing wood fire, which
as was his custom in winter time upon such occasions,
he had kindled on the hearth of a chamber which
communicated by a flight of steps with the vault
below.
In this chamber Schalken and his entertainer
seated themselves; and the sexton, after some fruitless
attempts to engage his guest in conversation,
was obliged to apply himself to his tobacco-pipe and
can to solace his solitude.
In spite of his grief and cares, the fatigues of a
rapid journey of nearly forty hours gradually overcame
the mind and body of Godfrey Schalken, and
he sank into a deep sleep, from which he was
awakened by some one shaking him gently by the
shoulder. He first thought that the old sexton had
called him, but he was no longer in the room.
He roused himself, and as soon as he could clearly
see what was around him, he perceived a female form,
clothed in a kind of light robe of muslin, part of
which was so disposed as to act as a veil, and in her
hand she carried a lamp. She was moving rather
away from him, and towards the flight of steps which
conducted towards the vaults.
Schalken felt a vague alarm at the sight of this
figure, and at the same time an irresistible impulse
to follow its guidance. He followed it towards the
vaults, but when it reached the head of the stairs, he
paused; the figure paused also, and turning gently
round, displayed, by the light of the lamp it carried,
the face and features of his first love, Rose Velderkaust.
There was nothing horrible, or even sad, in
the countenance. On the contrary, it wore the same
arch smile which used to enchant the artist long
before in his happy days.
A feeling of awe and of interest, too intense to be
resisted, prompted him to follow the spectre, if spectre
it were. She descended the stairs—he followed;
and, turning to the left, through a narrow passage
she led him, to his infinite surprise, into what
appeared to be an old-fashioned Dutch apartment,
such as the pictures of Gerard Douw have served to
immortalize.
Abundance of costly antique furniture was disposed
about the room, and in one corner stood a four-post
bed, with heavy black cloth curtains around it. The
figure frequently turned towards him with the same
arch smile; and when she came to the side of the
bed, she drew the curtains, and by the light of the
lamp which she held towards its contents, she disclosed
to the horror-stricken painter, sitting bolt
upright in the bed, the livid and demoniac form of
Vanderhausen. Schalken had hardly seen him when
he fell senseless upon the floor, where he lay until
discovered, on the next morning, by persons employed
in closing the passages into the vaults. He
was lying in a cell of considerable size, which had
not been disturbed for a long time, and he had fallen
beside a large coffin which was supported upon small
stone pillars, a security against the attacks of vermin.
To his dying day Schalken was satisfied of the
reality of the vision which he had witnessed, and he
has left behind him a curious evidence of the impression
which it wrought upon his fancy, in a painting
executed shortly after the event we have narrated,
and which is valuable as exhibiting not only the
peculiarities which have made Schalken’s pictures
sought after, but even more so as presenting a portrait,
as close and faithful as one taken from memory
can be, of his early
love, Rose Velderkaust,
whose mysterious fate
must ever remain matter
of speculation.
The picture represents a chamber of antique
masonry, such as might be found in most old cathedrals,
and is lighted faintly by a lamp carried in the
hand of a female figure, such as we have above
attempted to describe; and in the background, and
to the left of him who examines the painting, there
stands the form of a man apparently aroused from
sleep, and by his attitude, his hand being laid upon
his sword, exhibiting considerable alarm; this last
figure is illuminated only by the expiring glare of a
wood or charcoal fire.
The whole production exhibits a beautiful specimen
of that artful and singular distribution of light and
shade which has rendered the name of Schalken
immortal among the artists of his country. This
tale is traditionary, and the reader will easily perceive,
by our studiously omitting to heighten many points
of the narrative, when a little additional colouring
might have added effect to the recital, that we have
desired to lay before him, not a figment of the brain,
but a curious tradition connected with, and belonging
to, the biography of a famous artist. |