This took some time. First, as all true artists know, the Muse must be summoned, and she will rarely arrive under an hour’s appropriate and gloomy contemplation of things in general. Then, especially in the case of sonnets, rhymes, which are stubborn and remorseless things, must be found and arranged. The pivot and object of this particular poem was a certain notable Spanish beauty, Isabella d’Ovanda by name. She was the wife of a decrepit but exceedingly noble Spaniard, who might almost have been her grandfather, and who had been sent as one of a commission appointed by King Philip II. to inquire into certain financial matters connected with the Netherlands. This grandee, who, as it happened, was a very industrious and conscientious person, among other cities, had visited Leyden in order to assess the value of the Imperial dues and taxes. The task did not take him long, because the burghers rudely and vehemently declared that under their ancient charter they were free from any Imperial dues or taxes whatsoever, nor could the noble marquis’s arguments move them to a more rational view. Still, he argued for a week, and during that time his wife, the lovely Isabella, dazzled the women of the town with her costumes and the men with her exceedingly attractive person. Especially did she dazzle the romantic Adrian; hence the poetry. On the whole the rhymes went pretty well, though there were difficulties, but with industry he got round them. Finally the sonnet, a high-flown and very absurd composition, was completed. By now it was time to eat; indeed, there are few things that make a man hungrier than long-continued poetical exercise, so Adrian ate. In the midst of the meal his mother returned, pale and anxious-faced, for the poor woman had been engaged in making arrangements for the safety of the beggared widow of the martyred Jansen, a pathetic and even a dangerous task. In his own way Adrian was fond of his mother, but being a selfish puppy he took but little note of her cares or moods. Therefore, seizing the opportunity of an audience he insisted upon reading to her his sonnet, not once but several times. “Very pretty, my son, very pretty,” murmured Lysbeth, through whose bewildered brain the stilted and meaningless words buzzed like bees in an empty hive, “though I am sure I cannot guess how you find the heart in such times as these to write poetry to fine ladies whom you do not know.” “Poetry, mother,” said Adrian sententiously, “is a great consoler; it lifts the mind from the contemplation of petty and sordid cares.”