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Updated: June 26, 2025
But that men should wreak their anger on others by the bruising of the flesh and the letting of blood was something strangely and fearfully new to me. Not for nothing had I been called "Sissy" Van Weyden, I thought, as I tossed restlessly on my bunk between one nightmare and another. And it seemed to me that my innocence of the realities of life had been complete indeed.
Besides, I was not skilled in the speech of eyes. I was only Humphrey Van Weyden, a bookish fellow who loved. And to love, and to wait and win love, that surely was glorious enough for me. And thus I thought, even as we chaffed each other's appearance, until we arrived ashore and there were other things to think about.
"Down that flying jib, Mr. Van Weyden," Wolf Larsen commanded. "And stand by to back over the jibs." I ran forward and had the downhaul of the flying jib all in and fast as we slipped by the boat a hundred feet to leeward. The three men in it gazed at us suspiciously. They had been hogging the sea, and they knew Wolf Larsen, by reputation at any rate.
It had needed a Van Eyck, and the yet more exquisite Roger van der Weyden, to breathe the air of Heaven into these craftsmen. They thus had changed their manner, had imitated the ascetic innocence of the Flemings, had assimilated their tender piety and simplicity, and, in their turn, had sung the glory of the Mother and mourned over the sufferings of the Son in ingenuous hymns.
"I remember the 'Forge. Filled with pretty sentiments and an almighty faith in human illusions. By the way, Mr. Van Weyden, you'd better look in on Cooky. He's complaining and restless." Thus was I bluntly dismissed from the poop, only to find Mugridge sleeping soundly from the morphine I had given him.
I had not been called "Sissy" Van Weyden all my days without reason, and that "Sissy" Van Weyden should be capable of doing this thing was a revelation to Humphrey Van Weyden, who knew not whether to be exultant or ashamed. But nothing happened. At the end of two hours Thomas Mugridge put away knife and stone and held out his hand.
He turned and walked aft to the wheel. I went forward and took my station at the jibs. Another whisper of wind, and another, passed by. The canvas flapped lazily. "Thank Gawd she's not comin' all of a bunch, Mr. Van Weyden," was the Cockney's fervent ejaculation.
And so many things were there that I could never write them all in a book, so I let it well alone. BRUSSELS August 26-September 3, 1520. In the golden chamber in the Townhall at Brussels I saw the four paintings which the great Master Roger van der Weyden made.
It was under his auspices that the realistic tendency of the Van Eycks pervaded all Germany; for it was only after the death of Jan Van Eyck, in 1441, that the widespread fame of Roger Van der Weyden induced Germans to visit his studio at Brussels.
This woman was the sister of the Zeitbloms and the Grünewalds, she had their clear visions, their vivid colouring, their wild scent; but she seemed to bring back also, by her care for exact detail, by her precise indication of places, the old Flemish Masters, Roger Van der Weyden and Bouts; she united in herself two currents, springing one from Germany, the other from Flanders, and this painting brushed in with blood, and varnished with tears, was transposed by her into a prose style which has no relation to any known literature, of which we can only find by analogy the ancestry in the panels of the fifteenth century.
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