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.