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.