"For he is not a man as I am that we should come together; neither is there any that might lay his hand upon us both. Let him, therefore, take his rod away from me, and let not his fear terrify me."
There exists, at this moment, in good preservation a remarkable work ofSchalken's. The curious management of its lights constitutes, as usualin his pieces, the chief apparent merit of the picture. I sayapparent, for in its subject, and not in its handling, howeverexquisite, consists its real value. The picture represents the interiorof what might be a chamber in some antique religious building; and itsforeground is occupied by a female figure, in a species of white robe,part of which is arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, isnot that of any religious order. In her hand the figure bears a lamp, bywhich alone her figure and face are illuminated; and her features wearsuch an arch smile, as well becomes a pretty woman when practising someprankish roguery; in the background, and, excepting where the dim redlight of an expiring fire serves to define the form, in total shadow,stands the figure of a man dressed in the old Flemish fashion, in anattitude of alarm, his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword,which he appears to be in the act of drawing.
There are some pictures, which impress one, I know not how, with aconviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes andcombinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist,but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually existed. There isin that strange picture, something that stamps it as the representationof a reality.
And such in truth it is, for it faithfully records a remarkable andmysterious occurrence, and perpetuates, in the face of the femalefigure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, anaccurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, thefirst, and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My greatgrandfather knew the painter well; and from Schalken himself he learnedthe fearful story of the painting, and from him too he ultimatelyreceived the picture itself as a bequest. The story and the picture havebecome heir-looms in my family, and having described the latter, Ishall, if you please, attempt to relate the tradition which hasdescended with the canvas.
There are few forms on which the mantle of romance hangs moreungracefully than upon that of the uncouth Schalken—the boorish butmost cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight the critics of our dayalmost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yetthis man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, in the midst of hiscelebrity, had in his obscure, but happier days, played the hero in awild romance of mystery and passion.
When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a veryyoung man; and in spite of his phlegmatic tempe