Chapter 10 No.10

The Blacksmith of Antwerp

They were seated in a rich and shady arbour, over which creeping vines wandered in every variety of curve, suspending large clusters of precious fruits, while the atmosphere was laden with the mellow fragrance of the gorgeous plants which grew in wild, untutored luxuriance about the shady retreat. The fading light of day yet lingered, and gave a rosy hue to the face of the maid who sat therein, as she regarded with mournful tenderness the youth seated at her side.

"Nay, Quentin," said she, "say not so, it is duty which prompts me to say it must not be. Had I not affection for my father, do you believe I would act contrary to my own desires? would I cause you unhappiness?"

"Is this your love?" said the other, with a tone of fretfulness. "Methinks it cannot be a very ardent flame when it is so easily extinguished by the perverse and obstinate tyranny of a-"

"Stay your words," interrupted the girl, as she laid her delicate hand tenderly on his lips. "You will respect the father if you love the child." The noble mind of the youth was struck with the reproof, and although opposed to his desires her filial reply expressed such purity and excellence, that he instantly made reparation.

"Forgive me, dearest," he entreated. "I spoke hastily and unworthily. But your words have crazed my soul, which builds its happiness on the possession of you. If it may not be that I shall be your husband, oh! promise me that no other shall."

"I would fain do so," sighed the afflicted girl, "but if my father commands, can I disobey? I have had no mother's care since childhood, but I have scarce felt the loss. My father has thrown off the coldness of a man and been a very woman in his affection for me. Shall I repay his kindness with ingratitude? Alas! Quentin, if he tells me to love another, I cannot do so; but if he bids me wed, Quentin, you would not censure me?" The expiring rays of the setting sun fell on her features as she earnestly gazed upon her lover.

"Ah!" cried the youth, with a sudden start, as he struck his hand upon his brow, "why that blush, that agitation? Deceive me not, Elzia, you are not supposing a case. This has already happened; I see it all; your father has selected a bridegroom for you."

The maid sank her head upon his bosom, and through her struggling tears she sobbed, "Quentin, thou hast said it."

Desperate was the conflict in the bosom of the youth as he sat like one in a trance, his eyes fixed on hers, which, like the sun breaking through clouds of the passing storm, gleamed from under their dripping lashes. Soon he saw the rainbow of hope.

"Who is my rival?" he asked with a voice scarcely audible.

"Van Deg," she answered sorrowfully.

"Do you love him, Elzia?"

"How can you ask?"

"Will you marry him?"

"My father's happiness is dearer to me than my own. Think you I would wantonly sacrifice it?"

"But why van Deg?"

"Because he excels in my father's art."

"Alas!" cried the despairing lover, "why am I not a painter?"

The bed of Quentin was one of thorns that night, as he threw himself upon it and yielded to his agony of thought. How vainly, yet how ardently had he loved, how industriously had he laboured to procure her affection. Just when he had achieved the victory over her confiding heart, all that he struggled for was lost-no, not lost-he could bear the thoughts of her death, he could weep over her grave, he could care for the flowers above it, but to think that the prize must be torn from him to be given to another's embrace, there was madness in it. And then van Deg, that rough, haughty, distant man! how unworthy he to possess a jewel of such value, how unfit to care for such a tender plant, how unsuitable his unsocial spirit for the angel who needed some congenial soul to insure her happiness.

"Will she not droop and die in that cold atmosphere with him?" he asked himself, as at length exhausted nature yielded to weariness and he fell asleep.

The mind, however, yielded not to the fatigue of the body; on the contrary it seemed to have more abundant vitality. Quentin dreamed he was in the street. The bells rang, the people shouted, and gay equipages passed by. It was a day of public rejoicing, for Elzia, the daughter of Algini, was to wed van Deg, the nation's favourite, the celebrated painter. People recounted the scenes he had delineated and lauded the artist to the skies. Quentin trembled and the cold perspiration gathered on his forehead as the nuptial cavalcade approached. They halted at the chapel and the groom conducted the bride all pale and trembling up the aisle to the altar. As the father was about giving his daughter away, Quentin rushed up and seized her; she shrieked and fell dead in his embrace. Her relatives and the priest all gazed in horror! Quentin raised his eyes, saw the misery in their countenances, and as his face fell upon the bosom of his lovely burden he expired-and at that moment awoke.

Still the people were before his eyes, fresh in his recollection as if he had beheld the awful scenes by the noonday sun. Impelled by an unaccountable impulse he arose and lighted his lamp, and taking a coal from the extinguished embers in his chimney, he commenced a picture of this scene upon the wall. He drew each face, recoiling in surprise at the perfect resemblance to the individuals. As he finished the outline he beheld in it a faithful transfer of his dream, wanting nothing but colour. A thousand thoughts darted through his brain. He flung himself on his bed, and when he next awoke the rays of the sun had gilded his apartment. His first object was to seek the mural picture, and he trembled lest it had all been a dream, but there it stood as if executed by a magic power.

"If this is the result of an effort with charcoal," cried he, striking his breast in a delirium of joy, "what might I not effect with other means? What might be my reward?"

As daylight sought its slumbers in the bosom of night the lovers met again. "I'm doing wrong," murmured Elzia, "in meeting you, since I am an affianced bride. This night must be our last. It is a sad thing to part with those we love; yet I act as virtue dictates, and we must meet no more, as-"

"Say not that we shall meet no more as lovers; say that we shall meet no more; for, Elzia, could we meet but to love, to upbraid fate which so cruelly divides us?"

"I must away," said the girl; "if Quentin's affection is pure he will condemn me for lingering."

"Farewell, then, sweetest. If I lose thee I will wander to some distant clime and strive to bury my regrets in new cares and new companions."

He imprinted a kiss upon her willing lips. He watched her retiring form as it appeared and disappeared amid the foliage at intervals until it was finally lost to his anxious view; then he turned slowly and sadly away.

Never did father love his daughter with more fondness than Algini his child Elzia. Her good was his great aim. He was an enthusiast in the art of the pencil, and deemed that one of that profession would be most worthy of his child. The two passions of his soul mingled in such a manner that they became one. He considered the canvas a lasting monument to genius, and that he would best secure his daughter's happiness by uniting her to one who would be alive to all posterity in his works. Algini had therefore selected van Deg, as he was the boast of his country, and the figures of his creation wanted nothing but motion to make them the exact counterpart of the living originals. Besides, he was wealthy and would add to the riches of the family. Finally, his daughter was not old enough now to judge for herself, and though she had confessed that she was prejudiced against her proposed husband, a few years of connubial intercourse would overcome that, and she would ultimately be benefited.

Just as the father was at this point of reflection a letter carrier entered the apartment and handed him a letter, saying he would wait without for an answer, that he had been bound by oath not to disclose who had commissioned him to deliver this communication. Algini was astonished at these words, and as soon as the man retired broke the seal and read.

"If the parent consulted the daughter's happiness would he not find out from her whether she loves another? I think she does. May it not be a mistake for van Deg to possess the fair being? May her marriage to the man of your choice not hurry her to another world? Her obedience causes her to submit. I lay claim to her affections, but do not pretend to alter your determination. You have the reputation of patronizing merit as it appears in painting. Defer the nuptials to this day twelve month, and let van Deg on that day place his chef d'?uvre on the left of the altar. If the one which appears on the right does not tell of a more skilful master I abide the result. If it does, then it is fair to leave your daughter the privilege of choosing her husband."

The father was delighted with the proposal, and agreed to the trial of skill in his favourite pursuit. He accordingly returned word of his acceptance of the terms and notified van Deg thereof.

A year passed away, during which the lovers never met. Elzia had lost sight of Quentin, and in answer to her inquiries concerning him, all that she had been able to learn was that shortly after their last interview he had left the city and had gone no one knew whither.

The wedding day arrived. Elzia kept a smiling face, although her soul was weighed down by grief.

The chapel was thronged with people anxious to view the ceremony, and as the bride, richly clad, was led to the altar by her father the latter announced that her hand was to be bestowed on the artist whose skill was to be determined by the merit of the pictures which stood veiled on either side of the altar. At the proclamation van Deg glanced triumphantly around, and striding to the picture he had painted, uncurtained it to their view. A burst of applause rose from the audience as he did so, and well merited was the cry of approval. The painting was of the chapel and the company assembled for the marriage. There was the priest all but breathing, while the bride and groom and their friends appeared as if in the full flush of joy.

Algini was about to speak in rapture of the performance when suddenly the other curtain was drawn aside and a cry of horror burst from the multitude as they pressed forward to behold it better. Van Deg gazed in breathless wonder and Algini uttered a wild shriek of despair-"My daughter!"

The picture represented Quentin's dream; each face in it was easy to recognize, except that of the youth, which was buried in the bosom of the bride. But before they had fully scanned it, it was thrust aside and another appeared in its place. This represented a lonely arbour in which Algini in his old age dangled a beautiful infant which bore a likeness to Elzia, who sat on an opposite seat with her head resting on the bosom of a young man, whose arm encircled her waist.

Every one was charmed and delighted beyond measure, and as they beheld the youth, every tongue cried, "The Blacksmith!"

WELL OF QUENTIN MATSYS, ANTWERP.

"Blacksmith no more," said Quentin, stepping from behind the canvas, "but the artist who demands his reward."

It is unnecessary to say more than that genius was rewarded, and to the happy husband Quentin Matsys, the Blacksmith of Antwerp, the world owes some of the finest relics of art.