This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By Georg Ebers
The admiral's ship, which bore King Philip's ambassador to Venice,reached its destination safely, though it had encountered many severestorms on the voyage, during which Ulrich was the only passenger, whoamid the rolling and pitching of the vessel, remained as well as an oldsailor.
But, on the other hand his peace of mind was greatly impaired, and anyone who had watched him leaning over the ship's bulwark, gazing into thesea, or pacing up and down with restless bearing and gloomy eyes, wouldscarcely have suspected that this reserved, irritable youth, who was onlytoo often under the dominion of melancholy moods, had won only a shorttime before a noble human heart, and was on the way to the realization ofhis boldest dreams, the fulfilment of his most ardent wishes.
How differently he had hoped to enter "the Paradise of Art!"
Never had he been so free, so vigorous, so rich, as in the dawn of theday, at whose close he was to unite Isabella's life with his own—andnow—now!
He had expected to wander through Italy from place to place asuntrammelled, gay, and free as the birds in the air; he had desired tosee, admire, en joy, and after becoming familiar with all the greatartists, choose a new master among them. Sophonisba's home was to havebecome his, and it had never entered his mind to limit the period of hisenjoyment and study on the sacred soil.
How differently his life must now be ordered! Until he went on board ofthe ship in Valencia, the thought of calling a girl so good, sensible andloving as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, but during thesolitary hours a sea-voyage so lavishly bestows, a strange transformationin his feelings occurred.
The wider became the watery expanse between him and Spain, the fartherreceded Isabella's memory, the less alluring and delightful grew thethought of possessing her hand.
He now told himself that, before the fatal hour, he had rejoiced at theanticipation of escaping her pedantic criticism, and when he lookedforward to the future and saw himself, handsome Ulrich Navarrete, whosesuperior height filled the smaller Castilians with envy, walking throughthe streets with his tiny wife, and perceived the smiles of the peoplethey met, he was seized with fierce indignation against himself and hishard fate.
He felt fettered like the galley-slaves, whose chains rattled andclanked, as they pulled at the oars in the ship's waist. At other timeshe could not help recalling her large, beautiful, love-beaming eyes, hersoft, red lips, and yearningly confess that it would have been sweet tohold her in his arms and kiss her, and, since he had forever lost hisRuth, he could find no more faithful, sensible, tender wife than she.
But what should he, the student, the wandering disciple of Art, do with abride, a wife? The best and fairest of her sex would now have seemed tohim an impediment, a wearisome clog. The thought of being obliged toaccomplish some fixed task within a certain time, and then be subjectedto an examination, curbed his enjoyment, oppressed, angered him.
Grey mists gathered more and more densely over the sunny land, for whichhe had longed with such passionate ardor, and it seemed as if in thatluckless hour, he had been faithless to the "word,"—had deprived himselfof its assistance forever.
He often felt tempted to send Coello his ducats and tell him he ha