The Argosy — page 222: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Caterina. 203 “That confounded idiot, Jacob! I have toiled and slaved in the counting-house all my days to lay up a competence for him, and he must needs risk life and fortune in sailing to Cathay by the Polar seas.” ‘* Alas, my dear father ! ” “ He swears he is fond of thee, Caterina; but thou hast no influ- ence with him as far as I can make out. Eh, eh? Answer me, Vrow Caterina ! ” His daughter-in-law flushed vividly, but she made no reply. ‘And thou canst waste thy time in painting when thou mightst be on thy knees praying the good-for-nothing fellow to stay at home and eat his meat in quietness, and not break his poor father’s heart.” Caterina let her paint-brush fall this time, stung to the quick by the old man’s reproaches. ‘‘ And my heart, father ?” she cried, her face aflame with passion in an instant. ‘‘ Dost thou think nothing of my heart? Dost thou imagine that I have not prayed him to give up this mad voyage? Ay, I have implored till my voice was hoarse with pleading, my knees sore with kneeling, but in vain—all in vain! He loves me not. If I had brought him a child to put its little arms round his neck and hold him back, maybe but I——-I have no power over him. He loves me not.” And she burst into distressing tears. The old man, whose anger and grief were peevish, not passionate, stopped short in amazement at her outbreak. ‘“Hey-day,” he muttered, raising both hands to his ears. ‘The people err who call thee cold and proud. Cold? Ay, so is a volcano. It wonders me that thou canst not sway that provoking husband of thine. But gently, vrow, gently. Be patient,” forgetting that he had spent the last hour in trying to excite the storm he now deprecated. Caterina did not heed him any longer. Rocking herself to and fro before her easel she sobbed, ‘‘ He loves me not! He loves me not! ” ‘Who loves thee not, dearest? Not thy Jacob? Thou dost not speak of him?” said a deep voice behind her, and the old man saw his son enter the room in the fading daylight, and gather the weeping Caterina to his breast. “Ay, take my fool of a son to task now, Madame daughter-in-law,” he grumbled, raising the tapestry and | shuffling out of the room. Caterina was the child of an Italian artist, who had settled in _ Amsterdam many years previously, and attained to fame and fortune. His talent had descended to his daughter, who painted pictures that _ were eagerly bought by the rich burghers of the city. Artists of native birth painted realistic scenes well enough—scenes representing | their shops and houses, their canals, windmills and poplars—but | Heemskerk’s Italian ike painted landscapes bathed in the sunshine | of southern climes, and subjects instinct with sombre or delicate fancy. To live by means of art had been her desire—a desire so , Strong that the gallant sailor had had some difficulty in inducing her SS) (C(O) im = } h . | | EOE DOC