SIXTH MEMORY.
Early the next morning, there was a knock at the door, and my old doctor, the Hofrath, entered. He was the friend, the body-and-soul-guardian of our entire little village. He had seen two generations grow up. Children whom he had brought into the world had in turn become fathers and mothers, and he treated them as his children. He himself was unmarried, and even in his old age was strong and handsome to look upon. I never knew him otherwise than as he stood before me at that time; his clear blue eyes gleaming under the bushy brows, his flowing white hair still full of youthful strength, curling and vigorous. I can never forget, also, his shoes, with their silver buckles, his white stockings, his brown coat, which always looked new, and yet seemed to be old, and his cane, which was the same I had seen standing by my bedside in childhood, when he felt my pulse and prescribed my medicines. I had often been sick, but it was always faith in this man which made me well again. I never had the slightest doubt of his ability to cure me, and when my mother said she must send for the Hofrath that I might get well again, it was as if she had said she must send for the tailor to mend my torn trousers. I had only to take the medicine, and I felt that I must be well again.
"How are you, my child?" said he, as he entered the room. "You are not looking perfectly well. You must not study too much. But I have little time to-day to talk, and only came to tell you, you must not go to see the Countess Marie again. I have been with her all night, and it is your fault. So be careful, if her life is dear to you, that you do not go again. She must leave here as soon as possible, and be taken into the country. It would be best for you also to travel for a long time. So good morning, and be a good child."
With these words, he gave me his hand, looked at me affectionately in the eyes, as if he would exact the promise, and then went on his way to look after his sick children.
I was so astonished that another had penetrated so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and that he knew what I did not know myself, that when I recovered from it he had already been long upon the street. An agitation began to seize me, as water, which has long been over the fire without stirring, suddenly bubbles up, boils, heaves and rages until it overflows.
Not see her again! I only live when I am with her. I will be calm; I will not speak a word to her; I will only stand at her window as she sleeps and dreams. But not to see her again! Not to take one farewell from her! She knows not, they cannot know, that I love her. Surely I do not love her—I desire nothing, I hope for nothing, my heart never beats more quietly then when I am with her. But I must feel her presence—I must breathe her spirit—I must go to her! She waits for me. Has destiny thrown us together without design? Ought I not to be her consolation, and ought she not to be my repose? Life is not a sport. It does not force two souls together like the grains of sand in the desert, which the sirocco whirls together and then asunder. We should hold fast the souls which friendly fate leads to us, for they are destined for us, and no power can tear them from us if we have the courage to live, to struggle, and to die for them. She would despise me if I deserted her love at the first roll of the thunder, as it were in the shadow of a tree, under which I have dreamed so many happy hours.
Then I suddenly grew calm, and heard only the words "her love;" they reverberated through all the recesses of my soul like an echo, and I was terrified at myself. "Her love," and how had I deserved it? She hardly knows me, and even if she could love me, must I not confess to her I do not deserve the love of an angel? Every thought, every hope which arose in my soul, fell back like a bird which essays to soar into the blue sky and does not see the wires which restrain it. And yet, why all this blissfulness, so near and so unattainable? Cannot God work wonders? Does He not work wonders every morning? Has He not often heard my prayer when it importuned him, and would not cease, until consolation and help came to the weary one? These are not earthly blessings for which we pray. It is only that two souls, which have found and recognized each other, may be allowed to finish their brief life-journey, arm in arm, and face to face; that I may be a support to her in suffering, and that she may be a consolation and precious burden to me until we reach the end. And if a still later spring were promised to her life, if her burdens were taken from her—Oh, what blissful scenes crowded upon my vision! The castle of her deceased mother, in the Tyrol, belonged to her. There, on the green mountains, in the fresh mountain air, among a sturdy and uncorrupted people, far away from the hurly-burly of the world, its cares and its struggles, its opinion and its censure, how blissfully we could await the close of life, and silently fade away like the evening-red! Then I pictured the dark lake, with the dancing shimmer of waves, and the clear shadows of distant glaciers reflected in it; I heard the lowing of cattle and the songs of the herdsmen; I saw the hunters with their rifles crossing the mountains, and the old and young gathering together at twilight in the village; and, to crown all, I saw her passing along like an angel of peace in benediction, and I was her guide and friend. "Poor fool!" I cried out, "poor fool! Is thy heart always to be so wild and so weak? Be a man. Think who thou art, and how far thou art from her. She is a friend. She gladly reflects herself in another's soul, but her childlike trust and candor at best only show that no deeper feeling lives in her breast for thee. Hast thou not, on many a clear summer's night, wandering alone, through the beech groves, seen how the moon sheds its light upon all the branches and leaves, how it brightens the dark, dull water of the pool and reflects itself clearly in the smallest drops? In like manner she shines upon this dark life, and thou may'st feel her gentle radiance reflected in thy heart—but hope not for a warmer glow!"
Suddenly an image approached me as it were from life; she stood before me, not like a memory but as a vision, and I realized for the first time how beautiful she was. It was not that beauty of form and face which dazzles us at the first sight of a lovely maiden, and then fades away as suddenly as a blossom in spring. It was much more the harmony of her whole being, the reality of every emotion, the spirituality of expression, the perfect union of body and soul which blesses him so who looks upon it. The beauty which nature lavishes so prodigally does not bring any satisfaction, if the person is not adapted to it and as it were deserves and overcomes it. On the other hand, it is offensive, as when we look upon an actress striding along the stage in queenly costume, and notice at every step how poorly the attire fits her, how little it becomes her. True beauty is sweetness, and sweetness is the spiritualizing of the gross, the corporeal and the earthly. It is the spiritual presence which transforms ugliness into beauty. The more I looked upon the vision which stood before me, the more I perceived, above all else, the majestic beauty of her person and the soulful depths of her whole being. Oh, what happiness was near me! And was this all—to be shown the summit of earthly bliss and then be thrust out into the flat, sandy wastes of existence? Oh, that I had never known what treasures the earth conceals! Once to love, and then to be forever alone! Once to believe, and then forever to doubt! Once to see the light, and then forever to be blinded! In comparison with this rack, all the torture-chambers of man are insignificant.
Thus rushed the wild chase of my thoughts farther and farther away until at last all was silent. The confused sensations gradually collected and settled. This repose and exhaustion they call meditation, but it is rather an inspection—one allows time for the mixture of thoughts to crystallize themselves according to eternal laws, and regards the process like an observing chemist; and the elements having assumed a form, we often wonder that they, as well as ourselves, are so entirely different from what we expected.
When I awoke from my abstraction, my first words were, "I must away." I immediately sat down and wrote the Hofrath that I should travel for fourteen days and submit entirely to him. I easily made an excuse to my parents, and at night I was on my way to the Tyrol.
SEVENTH MEMORY.
Wandering, arm in arm with a friend, through the valleys and over the mountains of the Tyrol, one sips life's fresh air and enjoyment; but to travel the same road solitary and alone with your thoughts is time and trouble lost. Of what interest to me are the green mountains, the dark ravines, the blue lake, and the mighty cataracts? Instead of contemplating them they look at me and wonder among themselves at this solitary being. It smote me to the heart that I had found no one in all the world who loved me more than all others. With such thoughts I awoke every morning, and they haunted me all the day like a song which one cannot drive away. When I entered the inn at night and sat down wearied, and the people in the room watched me, and wondered at the solitary wanderer, it often urged me out into the night again, where no one could see I was alone. At a late hour I would steal back, go quietly up to my room and throw myself upon my hot bed, and the song of Schubert's would ring through my soul until I went to sleep: "Where thou art not, is happiness." At last the sight of men, whom I continually met laughing, rejoicing and exulting in this glorious nature, became so intolerable that I slept by day, and pursued my journey from place to place in the clear moonlight nights. There was at least one emotion which dispelled and dissipated my thoughts: it was fear. Let any one attempt to scale mountains alone all night long in ignorance of the way—where the eye, unnaturally strained, beholds distant shapes it cannot solve—where the ear, with morbid acuteness, hears sounds without knowing whence they come—where the foot suddenly stumbles, it may be over a root which forces its way through the rocks, or on a slippery path which the waterfall has drenched with its spray—and besides all this, a disconsolate waste in the heart, no memory to cheer us, no hope to which we may cling—let any one attempt this, and he will feel the cold chill of night both outwardly and inwardly. The first fear of the human heart arises from God forsaking us; but life dissipates it, and mankind, created after the image of God, consoles us in our solitariness. When even this consolation and love, however, forsake us, then we feel what it means to be deserted by God and man, and nature with her silent face terrifies rather than consoles us. Even when we firmly plant our feet upon the solid rocks, they seem to tremble like the mists of the sea from which they once slowly emerged. When the eye longs for the light, and the moon rises behind the firs, reflecting their tapering tops against the bright rock opposite, it appears to us like the dead hand of a clock which was once wound up, and will some day cease to strike. There is no retreat for the soul, which feels itself alone and forsaken even among the stars, or in the heavenly world itself. One thought brings us a little consolation: the repose, the regularity, the immensity, and the unavoidableness of nature. Here, where the waterfall has clothed the gray rocks on either side with green moss, the eye suddenly recognizes a blue forget-me-not in the cool shade. It is one of millions of sisters now blossoming along all the rivulets and in all the meadows of earth, and which have blossomed ever since the first morning of creation shed its entire inexhaustible wealth over the world. Every vein in its leaves, every stamen in its cup, every fibre of its roots, is numbered, and no power on earth can make the number more or less. Still more, when we strain our weak eyes and, with superhuman power, cast a more searching glance into the secrets of nature, when the microscope discloses to us the silent laboratory of the seed, the bud and the blossom, do we recognize the infinite, ever-recurring form in the most minute tissues and cells, and the eternal unchangeableness of Nature's plans in the most delicate fibre. Could we pierce still deeper, the same form-world would reveal itself, and the vision would lose itself as in a hall hung with mirrors. Such an infinity as this lies hidden in this little flower. If we look up to the sky, we see again the same system—the moon revolving around the planets, the planets around suns, and the suns around new suns, while to the straining eye the distant star-nebulae themselves seem to be a new and beautiful world. Reflect then how these majestic constellations periodically revolve, that the seasons may change, that the seed of this forget-me-not may shed itself again and again, the cells open, the leaves shoot out, and the blossoms decorate the carpet of the meadow; and look upon the lady-bug which rocks itself in the blue cup of the flower, and whose awakening into life, whose consciousness of existence, whose living breath, are a thousand-fold more wonderful than the tissue of the flower, or the dead mechanism of the heavenly bodies. Consider that thou also belongest to this infinite warp and woof, and that thou art permitted to comfort thyself with the infinite creatures which revolve and live and disappear with thee. But if this All, with its smallest and its greatest, with its wisdom and its power, with the wonders of its existence, and the existence of its wonders, is the work of a Being in whose presence thy soul does not shrink back, before whom thou fallest prostrate in a feeling of weakness and nothingness, and to whom thou risest again in the feeling of His love and mercy—if thou really feelest that something dwells in thee more endless and eternal than the cells of the flowers, the spheres of the planets, and the life of the insect—if thou recognizest in thyself as in a shadow the reflection of the Eternal which illuminates thee—if thou feelest in thyself, and under and above thyself, the omnipresence of the Real, in which thy seeming becomes being, thy trouble, rest, thy solitude, universality—then thou knowest the One to Whom thou criest in the dark night of life: "Creator and Father, Thy will be done in Heaven as upon earth, and as on earth so also in me." Then it grows bright in and about thee. The daybreak disappears with its cold mists, and a new warmth streams through shivering nature. Thou hast found a hand which never again leaves thee, which holds thee when the mountains tremble and moons are extinguished. Wherever thou may'st be, thou art with Him, and He with thee. He is the eternally near, and His is the world with its flowers and thorns, His is man with his joys and sorrows. "The least important thing does not happen except as God wills it."
With such thoughts I went on my way. At one time, all was well with me; at another, troubled; for even when we have found rest and peace in the lowest depths of the soul, it is still hard to remain undisturbed in this holy solitude. Yes, many forget it after they find it and scarcely know the way which leads back to it.
Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had reached me from her. "Perhaps she is dead and lies in quiet rest," was another song forever on my tongue, and always returning as often as I drove it from me. It was not impossible, for the Hofrath had told me she suffered with heart troubles, and that he expected to find her no more among the living every morning he visited her. Could I ever forgive myself if she had left this world and I had not taken farewell of her, nor told her at the last moment how I loved her? Must I not follow until I found her again in another life, and heard from her that she loved me and that I was forgiven? How mankind defers from day to day the best it can do, and the most beautiful things it can enjoy, without thinking that every day may be the last one, and that lost time is lost eternity! Then all the words of the Hofrath, the last time I saw him, recurred to me, and I felt that I had only resolved to make my sudden journey to show my strength to him, and that it would have been a still more difficult task to have confessed my weakness and remained. It was clear to me that it was my simple duty to return to her immediately and to bear everything which Heaven ordained. But as soon as I had laid the plan for my return journey, I suddenly remembered the words of the Hofrath: "As soon as possible she must go away and be taken into the country." She had herself told me that she spent the most of her time, in summer, at her castle. Perhaps she was there, in my immediate vicinity; in one day I could be with her. Thinking was doing; at daybreak I was off, and at evening I stood at the gate of the castle.
The night was clear and bright. The mountain peaks glistened in the full gold of the sunset and the lower ridges were bathed in a rosy blue. A gray mist rose from the valleys which suddenly glistened when it swept up into the higher regions, and then like a cloud-sea rolled heavenwards. The whole color-play reflected itself in the gently agitated breast of the dark lake from whose shores the mountains seemed to rise and fall, so that only the tops of the trees and the peaks of the church steeples and the rising smoke from the houses defined the limits which separated the reality of the world from its reflection. My glance, however, rested upon only one spot—the old castle—where a presentiment told me I should find her again. No light could be seen in the windows, no footstep broke the silence of the night. Had my presentiment deceived me? I passed slowly through the outer gateway and up the steps until I stood at the fore-court of the castle. Here I saw a sentinel pacing back and forwards, and I hastened to the soldier to inquire who was in the castle. "The Countess and her attendants are here," was the brief reply, and in an instant I stood at the main portal and had even pulled the bell. Then, for the first time, my action occurred to me. No one knew me. I neither could nor dare say who I was. I had wandered for weeks about the mountains, and looked like a beggar. What should I say? For whom should I ask? There was little time for consideration, however, for the door opened and a servant in princely livery stood before me, and regarded me with amazement.
I asked if the English lady, who I knew would never forsake the Countess, was in the castle, and when the servant replied in the affirmative, I begged for paper and ink and wrote her I was present to inquire after the health of the Countess.
The servant called an attendant, who took the letter away. I heard every step in the long halls, and every moment I waited, my position became more unendurable. The old family portraits of the princely house hung upon the walls—knights in full armor, ladies in antique costume, and in the center a lady in the white robes of a nun with a red cross upon her breast. At any other time I might have looked upon these pictures and never thought that a human heart once beat in their breasts. But now it seemed to me I could suddenly read whole volumes in their features, and that all of them said to me: "We also have once lived and suffered." Under these iron armors secrets were once hidden as even now in my own breast. These white robes and the red cross are real proofs that a battle was fought here like that now raging in my own heart. Then I fancied all of them regarded me with pity, and a loftier haughtiness rested on their features as if they would say, Thou dost not belong to us. I was growing uneasy every moment, when suddenly a light step dissipated my dream. The English lady came down the stairs and asked me to step into an apartment. I looked at her closely to see if she suspected my real emotions, but her face was perfectly calm, and without manifesting the slightest expression of curiosity or wonder, she said in measured tones, the Countess was much better to-day and would see me in half an hour.
When I heard these words, I felt like the good swimmer who has ventured far out into the sea, and first thinks of returning when his arms have begun to grow weary. He cleaves the waves with haste, scarcely venturing to cast a glance at the distant shore, feeling with every stroke that his strength is failing and that he is making no headway, until at last, purposeless and cramped, he scarcely has any realization of his position; then suddenly his foot touches the firm bottom, and his arm hugs the first rock on the shore. A fresh reality confronted me, and my sufferings were a dream. There are but few such moments in the life of man, and thousands have never known their rapture. The mother whose child rests in her arms for the first time, the father whose only son returns from war covered with glory, the poet in whom his countrymen exult, the youth whose warm grasp of the hand is returned by the beloved being with a still warmer pressure—they know what it means when a dream becomes a reality.
At the expiration of the half hour, a servant came and conducted me through a long suite of rooms, opened a door, and in the fading light of the evening I saw a white figure, and above her a high window, which looked out upon the lake and the shimmering mountains.
"How singularly people meet!" she cried out in a clear voice, and every word was like a cool rain-drop on a hot summer's day.
"How singularly people meet, and how singularly they lose each other," said I; and thereupon I seized her hand, and realized that we were together again.
"But people are to blame if they lose each other," she continued; and her voice, which seemed always to accompany her words, like music, involuntarily modulated into a tenderer key.
"Yes, that is true," I replied; "but first tell me, are you well, and can I talk with you?"
"My dear friend," said she, smiling, "you know I am always sick, and if I say that I feel well, I do so for the sake of my old Hofrath; for he is firmly convinced that my entire life since my first year is due to him and his skill. Before I left the Court-residence I caused him much anxiety, for one evening my heart suddenly ceased beating, and I experienced such distress that I thought it would never beat again. But that is past, and why should we recall it? Only one thing troubles me, I have hitherto believed I should some time close my eyes in perfect repose, but now I feel that my sufferings will disturb and embitter my departure from life." Then she placed her hand upon her heart, and said: "But tell me, where have you been, and why have I not heard from you all this time? The old Hofrath has given me so many reasons for your sudden departure, that I was finally compelled to tell him I did not believe him—and at last he gave me the most incredible of all reasons, and counselled—what do you suppose?"
"He might seem untruthful," I interrupted, so that she should not explain the reason, "and yet, perhaps he was only too truthful. But this also is past, and why should we recall it?"
"No, no, my friend," said she, "why call it past? I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the last reason for your sudden departure, that I understood neither him nor you. I am a poor sick, forsaken being, and my earthly existence is only a slow death. Now if Heaven sends me a few souls who understand me, or love me, as the Hofrath calls it, why then should it disturb their joy or mine? I had been reading my favorite poet, the old Wordsworth, when the Hofrath made his acknowledgment, and I said: 'My dear Hofrath, we have so many thoughts and so few words that we must express many thoughts in every word. Now if one who does not know us understood that our young friend loved me, or I him, in such manner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet and Juliet Romeo, you would be entirely right in saying it should not be so. But is it not true that you love me also, my old Hofrath, and that I love you, and have loved you for many years? And has it not sometimes occurred to you that I have neither been past remedy nor unhappy on that account? Yes, my dear Hofrath, I will tell you still more—I believe you have an unfortunate love for me, and are jealous of our young friend. Do you not come every morning and inquire how I am, even when you know I am very well? Do you not bring me the finest flowers from your garden? Did you not oblige me to send you my portrait, and—perhaps I ought not to disclose it—did you not come to my room last Sunday and think I was asleep? I was really sleeping—at least I could not stir myself. I saw you sitting at my bedside for a long time, your eyes steadfastly fixed upon me, and I felt your glances playing upon my face like sunbeams. At last your eyes grew weary, and I perceived the great tears falling from them. You held your face in your hands, and loudly sobbed: Marie, Marie! Ah, my dear Hofrath, our young friend has never done that, and yet you have sent him away.' As I thus talked with him, half in jest and half in earnest, as I always speak, I perceived that I had hurt the old man's feelings. He became perfectly silent, and blushed like a child. Then I took the volume of Wordsworth's poems which I had been reading, and said: 'Here is another old man whom I love, and love with my whole heart, who understands me, and whom I understand, and yet I have never seen him, and shall never see him on earth, since it is so to be. Now I will read you one of his poems, that you may see how one can love, and that love is a silent benediction which the lover lays upon the head of the beloved, and then goes on his way in rapturous sorrow.' Then I read to him Wordsworth's 'Highland Girl;' and now, my friend, place the lamp nearer, and read the poem to me, for it refreshes me every time I hear it. A spirit breathes through it like the silent, everlasting evening-red, which stretches its arms in love and blessing over the pure breast of the snow-covered mountains."
As her words thus gradually and peacefully filled my soul, it at last grew still and solemn in my breast again; the storm was over, and her image floated like the silvery moonlight upon the gently rippling waves of my love—this world-sea which rolls through the hearts of all men, and which each calls his own while it is an all-animating pulse-beat of the whole human race. I would most gladly have kept silent like Nature as it lay before our view without, and ever grew stiller and darker: But she gave me the book, and I read:
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks, that household lawn,
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn,
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode—
In truth, together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess:
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father—anything to thee!
Now thanks to heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall,
And thee, the spirit of them all!
I had finished, and the poem had been to me like a draught of the fresh spring-water which I had sipped so often of late as it dropped from the cup of some large green leaf.
Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first tone of the organ, which wakens us from our dreamy devotion, and she said:
"Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the old Hofrath loves me, and thus in one way or another we should all love and believe in each other. But the world, although I scarcely know it, does not seem to understand this love and faith, and, on this earth, where we could have lived so happily, men have made existence very wretched.
"It must have been otherwise of old, else how could Homer have created the lovely, wholesome, tender picture of Nausikaa? Nausikaa loves Ulysses at the first glance. She says at once to her female friends: 'Oh, that I could call such a man my spouse, and that it were his destiny to remain here.' She was even too modest to appear in public at the same time with him, and she says, in his presence, that if she should bring such a handsome and majestic stranger home, the people would say, she may have taken him for a husband. How simple and natural all this is! But when she heard that he was going home to his wife and children, no murmur escaped her. She disappears from our sight, and we feel that she carried the picture of the handsome and majestic stranger a long time afterward in her breast, with silent and joyful admiration. Why do not our poets know this love—this joyful acknowledgment, this calm abnegation? A later poet would have made a womanish Werter out of Nausikaa, for the reason that love with us is nothing more than the prelude to the comedy, or the tragedy, of marriage. Is it true there is no longer any other love? Has the fountain of this pure happiness wholly dried up? Are men only acquainted with the intoxicating draught, and no longer with the invigorating well-spring of love?"
At these words the English poet occurred to me, who also thus complains:
From heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man.
"Yet, how happy the poets are," said she. "Their words call the deepest feelings into existence in thousands of mute souls, and how often their songs have become a confession of the sweetest secrets! Their heart beats in the breasts of the poor and the rich. The happy sing with them, and the sad weep with them. But I cannot feel any poet so completely my own as Wordsworth. I know many of my friends do not like him. They say he is not a poet. But that is exactly why I like him; he avoids all the hackneyed poetical catch-words, all exaggeration, and everything comprehended in Pegasus-flights. He is true—and does not everything lie in this one word? He opens our eyes to the beauty which lies under our feet like the daisy in the meadow. He calls everything by its true name. He never intends to startle, deceive, or dazzle any one. He seeks no admiration for himself. He only shows mankind how beautiful everything is which man's hand has not yet spoiled or broken. Is not a dew-drop on a blade of grass more beautiful than a pearl set in gold? Is not a living spring, which gushes up before us, we know not whence, more beautiful than all the fountains of Versailles? Is not his Highland Girl a lovelier and truer expression of real beauty than Goethe's Helena, or Byron's Haidee? And then the plainness of his language, and the purity of his thoughts! Is it not a pity that we have never had such a poet? Schiller could have been our Wordsworth, had he had more faith in himself than in the old Greeks and Romans. Our Ruckert would come the nearest to him, had he not also sought consolation and home under Eastern roses, away from his poor Fatherland. Few poets have the courage to be just what they are. Wordsworth had it; and as we gladly listen to great men, even in those moments when they are not inspired, but, like other mortals, quietly cherish their thoughts, and patiently wait the moment that will disclose new glimpses into the infinite, so have I also listened gladly to Wordsworth himself, in his poems, which contain nothing more than any one might have said. The greatest poets allow themselves rest. In Homer we often read a hundred verses without a single beauty, and just so in Dante; while Pindar, whom all admire so much, drives me to distraction with his ecstacies. What would I not give to spend one summer on the lakes; visit with Wordsworth all the places to which he has given names; greet all the trees which he has saved from the axe; and only once watch a far-off sunset with him, which he describes as only Turner could have painted."
It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice never dropped at the close of her talk, as with most people; on the contrary, it rose and always ended, as it were, in the broken seventh chord. She always talked up, never down, to people. The melody of her sentences resembled that of the child when it says: "Can't I, father?" There was something beseeching in her tones, and it was well-nigh impossible to gainsay her.
"Wordsworth," said I, "is a dear poet, and a still dearer man to me, and as one often has a more beautiful, wide-spread, and stirring outlook from a little hill which he ascends without effort, than when he has clambered up Mont Blanc with difficulty and weariness, so it seems to me with Wordsworth's poetry. At first, he often appeared commonplace to me, and I have frequently laid down his poems unable to understand how the best minds of England to-day can cherish such an admiration for him. The conviction has grown upon me that no poet whom his nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his people, recognize as a poet, should remain unenjoyed by us, whatever his language. Admiration is an art which we must learn. Many Germans say Racine does not please them. The Englishman says, 'I do not understand Goethe.' The Frenchman says Shakespeare is a boor. What does all this amount to? Nothing more than the child who says it likes a waltz better than a symphony of Beethoven's. The art consists in discovering and understanding what each nation admires in its great men. He who seeks beauty will eventually find it, and discover that the Persians are not entirely deceived in their Hafiz, nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa. We cannot understand a great man all at once. It takes strength, effort, and perseverance, and it is singular that what pleases us at first sight seldom captivates us any length of time.
"And yet," she continued, "there is something common to all great poets, to all true artists, to all the world's heroes, be they Persian or Hindoo, heathen or Christian, Roman or German; it is—I hardly know what to call it—it is the Infinite which seems to lie behind them, a far away glance into the Eternal, an apotheosis of the most trifling and transitory things. Goethe, the grand heathen, knew the sweet peace which comes from Heaven; and when he sings:
"On every mountain-height
Is rest.
O'er each summit white
Thou feelest
Scarcely a breath.
The bird songs are still from each bough;
Only wait, soon shalt thou
Rest too, in death.
"does not an endless distance, a repose which earth cannot give, disclose itself to him above the fir-clad summits? This background is never wanting with Wordsworth. Let the carpers say what they will, it is nevertheless only the super-earthly, be it ever so obscure, which charms and quiets the human heart. Who has better understood this earthly beauty than Michel Angelo?—but he understood it, because it was to him a reflection of superearthly beauty. You know his sonnet:
["La forza d'un bel volto al ciel mi sprona
(Ch'altro in terra non e che mi diletti),
E vivo ascendo tra gli spirti eletti;
Grazia ch'ad uom mortal raro si dona.
Si ben col suo Fattor l'opra consuona,
Ch'a lui mi levo per divin concetti;
E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti;
Ardendo, amando per gentil persona.
Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo
Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce
Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide;
E se nel lume loro acceso io ardo,
Nel nobil foco mio dolce riluce
La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride."]
"The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires;
Nor death I heed nor purgatorial fires.
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For, Oh! how good, how beautiful must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove.
Forgive me if I cannot turn away
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,
For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,
I live and love in God's peculiar light."
She was exhausted and silent, and how could I disturb that silence? When human hearts, after friendly interchange of thoughts feel calmed and quieted, it is as if an angel had flown through the room and we heard the gentle flutter of wings over our heads. As my gaze rested upon her, her lovely form seemed illuminated in the twilight of the summer evening, and her hand, which I held in mine, alone gave me the consciousness of her real presence. Then suddenly a bright refulgence spread over her countenance. She felt it, opened her eyes and looked upon me wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her eyes, which the half-closed eyelids covered as with a veil, shone like the lightning. I looked around and at last saw that the moon had arisen in full splendor between two peaks opposite the castle, and brightened the lake and the village with its friendly smiles. Never had I seen Nature, never had I seen her dear face so beautiful, never had such holy rest settled down upon my soul. "Marie," said I, "in this resplendent moment, let me, just as I am, confess my whole love. Let us, while we feel so powerfully the nearness of the superearthly, unite our souls in a tie which can never again be broken. Whatever love may be, Marie, I love you and I feel, Marie, you are mine for I am thine."
I knelt before her, but ventured not to look into her eyes. My lips touched her hand and I kissed it. At this she withdrew her hand from me, slowly at first and then quickly and decidedly, and as I looked at her an expression of pain was on her face. She was silent for a time, but at last she raised herself and said with a deep sigh:
"Enough for to-day. You have caused me pain, but it is my fault. Close the window. I feel a cold chill coming over me as if a strange hand were touching me. Stay with me—but no, you must go. Farewell! Sleep well! Pray that the peace of God may abide with us. We see each other again—shall we not? To-morrow evening I await you."
Oh, where all at once had this heavenly rest flown? I saw how she suffered, and all that, I could do was to quickly hurry away, summon the English lady and then go alone in the darkness of night to the village. Long time I wandered back and forth about the lake, long my gaze strayed to the lighted window where I had just been. Finally, the last light in the castle was extinguished. The moon mounted higher and higher, and every pinnacle and projection and decoration on the lofty walls grew visible in the fairy-like illumination. Here was I all alone in the silent night. It seemed to me my brain had refused its office, for no thought came to an end and I only felt I was alone on this earth, that it contained no soul for me. The earth was like a coffin, the black sky a funeral pall, and I scarcely knew whether I was living or had long been dead. Then I suddenly looked up to the stars with their blinking eyes, which went their way so quietly—and it seemed to me that they were only for the lighting and consolation of men, and then I thought of two heavenly stars which had risen in my dark heaven so unexpectedly, and a thanksgiving rang through my breast—a thanksgiving for the love of my angel.
LAST MEMORY.
The sun was already looking into my window over the mountains when I awoke. Was it the same sun which looked upon us the evening before with lingering gaze, like a departing friend, as if it would bless the union of our souls, and which set like a lost hope? It shone upon me now, like a child which bursts into our room with beaming glance to wish us good morning on a joyful holiday. And was I the same man who, only a few hours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, broken in body and spirit? Immediately I felt once more the old life-courage and trust in God and myself, which quickened and animated my soul like the fresh morning, breeze. What would become of man without sleep? We know not where this nightly messenger leads us; and when he closes our eyes at night who can assure us that he will open them again in the morning—that he will bring us to ourselves? It required courage and faith for the first man to throw himself into the arms of this unknown friend; and were there not in our nature a certain helplessness which forces us to submission, and compels us to have faith in all things we are to believe, I doubt whether any man, notwithstanding all his weariness, could close his eyes of his own free will and enter into this unknown dream-land. The very consciousness of our weakness and our weariness gives us faith in a higher power, and courage to resign ourselves to the beautiful system of the All, and we feel invigorated and refreshed when, in waking or in sleeping, we have loosened, even for a short time only, the chains which bind our Eternal Self to our temporal Ego.
What had appeared to me, only yesterday, dark as an evening cloud flying overhead, became instantly clear. We belonged to one another, that I felt; be it as brother and sister, father and child, bridegroom and bride, we must remain together now and forever. It only concerned us to find the right name for that which we in our stammering speech call Love.
"Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father—anything to thee."
It was this "anything" for which a name must be found, for the world now recognizes nothing as nameless. She had told me herself that she loved me with that pure all-human love, out of which springs all other love. Her shuddering, her uneasiness, when I confessed my full love to her, were still incomprehensible to me, but it could no longer shatter my faith in our love. Why should we desire to understand all that takes place in other human natures, when there is so much that is incomprehensible in our own? After all, it is the inconceivable which generally captivates us, whether in nature, in man, or in our own breasts. Men whom we understand, whose motives we see before us like an anatomical preparation, leave us cold, like the characters in most of our novels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and men more than this ethic rationalism which insists upon clearing up everything, and illuminating every mystery of our inner being. There is in every person a something that is inseparable—we call it fate, the suggestive power or character—and he knows neither himself nor mankind, who believes that he can analyze the deeds and actions of men without taking into account this ever-recurring principle. Thus I consoled myself on all those points which had troubled me in the evening; and at last no streak of cloud obscured the heaven of the future.
In this frame of mind I stepped out of the close house into the open air, when a messenger brought a letter for me. It was from the Countess, as I saw by the beautiful, delicate handwriting. I breathlessly opened it—I looked for the most blissful tidings man can expect. But all my hopes were immediately shattered. The letter contained only a request not to visit her to-day, as she expected a visit at the castle from the Court Residence. No friendly word—no news of her health—only at the close, a postscript: "The Hofrath will be here to-morrow and the next day."
Here were two days torn out at once from the book of life. If they could only be completely obliterated—but no, they hang over me like the leaden roof of a prison. They must be lived. I could not give them away as a charity to king or beggar, who would gladly have sat two days longer upon his throne, or on his stone at the church door. I remained in this abstraction for a long time; but then I thought of my morning prayer, and how I said to myself there was no greater unbelief than despondency—how the smallest and greatest in life are part of one great divine plan, to which we must submit, however hard it may be. Like a rider who sees a precipice before him, I drew in the reins. "Be it so, since it must be!" I cried out; "but God's earth is not the place for complaints and lamentations. Is it not a happiness to hold in my hand these lines which she has written? and is not the hope of seeing her again in a short time a greater bliss than I have ever deserved? 'Always keep the head above water,' say all good life-swimmers. As well sink at once as allow the water to run into your eyes and throat." If it is hard for us, amid these little ills of life, to keep God's providence continually in view, and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every struggle, to step out of the common-places of life into the presence of the divine, then life ought to appear, to us at least, an art, if not a duty. What is more disagreeable than the child who behaves ungovernably and grows dejected and angry at every little loss and pain? On the other hand, nothing is more beautiful than the child in whose tearful eyes the sunshine of joy and innocence soon beams again, like the flower, which quivers and trembles in the spring shower, and soon after blossoms and exhales its fragrance, as the sun dries the tears upon its cheeks.
A good thought speedily occurred to me, that I could live both these days with her, notwithstanding fate. For a long time I had intended to write down the dear words she had said, and the many beautiful thoughts she had confided to me; and so the days passed away in memory of the many charming hours spent, together, and in the hope of a still more beautiful future, and I was by her and with her, and lived in her, and felt the nearness of her spirit and her love more than I had ever felt them when I held her hand in mine.
How dear to me now are these leaves! How often have I read and re-read them—not that I had forgotten one word she said, but they were the witnesses of my happiness, and something looked out of them upon me like the gaze of a friend, whose silence speaks more than words. The memory of a past happiness, the memory of a past sorrow, the silent meditation upon the past, when everything disappears that surrounds and restrains us, when the soul throws itself down, like a mother upon the green grave-mound of her child who has slept under it many long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sadness which only those know who have loved and suffered much. Ask the mother what she feels when she ties upon the head of her daughter the veil she once wore as a bride, and thinks of the husband no longer with her! Ask a man what he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, and the world has torn from him, sends him after death the dried rose which he gave her in youth! They may both weep, but their tears are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself to the Divine, and with faith in God's love and wisdom, looks upon the dearest he has passing away from him.
Still let us go back in memory, back in the living presence of the past. The two days flew so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness of seeing her again drew nearer and nearer. As the carriages and horsemen arrived on the first day from the city, I saw that the castle was alive with gaily-dressed visitors. Banners fluttered from the roof, music sounded through the castle-yard. In the evening, the lake swarmed with pleasure-boats. The moennerchors sounded over the waves, and I could not but listen, for I fancied she also listened to these songs from the window. Everything was stirring, also, on the second day, and early in the afternoon the guests prepared for departure. Late in the evening I saw the Hofrath's carriage also going back alone to the city. I could not restrain myself any longer, I knew she was alone. I knew she thought of me, and longed for me. Should I allow one night to pass without at least pressing her hand, without saying to her that the separation was over, that the next morning would waken us to new rapture. I still saw a light in her window—why should she be alone? Why should I not, for one moment at least, feel her sweet presence? Already I stood at the castle; already I was about to pull the bell—then suddenly I stopped and said: "No! no weakness! You should be ashamed to stand before her like a thief in the night. Early in the morning go to her like a hero, returning from battle, for whom she is now weaving the crown of love, which she will place upon thy head in the morning."
And the morning came—and I was with her, really with her. Oh, speak not of the spirit as if it could exist without the body. Complete existence, consciousness, and enjoyment, can only be where body and soul are one—an embodied spirit, a spiritualized body. There is no spirit without body, else it would be a ghost: there is no body without spirit, else it would be a corpse. Is the flower in the field without spirit? Does it not appear in a divine will, in a creative thought which preserves it, and gives it life and existence? That is its soul—only it is silent in the flower, while it manifests itself in man by words. Real life is, after all, the bodily and spiritual life; real consciousness is, after all, the bodily and spiritual consciousness; real being together is, after all, bodily and spiritually being together, and the whole world of memory in which I had lived so happily for two days, disappeared like a shadow, like a nonentity, as I stood before her, and was really with her. I could have laid my hands upon her brow, her eyes, and her cheeks, to know, to unmistakably know, if it were really she—not only the image which had hovered before my soul day and night, but a being who was not mine, and still could and would be mine; a being in whom I could believe as in myself; a being far from me and yet nearer to me than my own self; a being without whom my life was no life, death was no death; without whom my poor existence would dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, in this very instant, the happiness of my existence was complete—and a shudder crept over me as I thought of death—but it seemed no longer to have any terror for me; for death could not destroy this love; it would only purify; ennoble, and immortalize it.
It was so beautiful to be silent with her. The whole depth of her soul was reflected in her countenance, and as I looked upon her I saw and heard her every thought and emotion. "You make me sad," she seemed on the point of saying, and yet would not, "Are we not together again at last? Be quiet! Complain not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome to me! Be not bad to me!" All this looked from her eyes, and still we did not venture to disturb the peace of our happiness with a word.
"Have you received a letter from the Hofrath?" was the first question, and her voice trembled with each word.
"No," I replied.
She was silent for a time, and then said:
"Perhaps it is better it has happened thus, and that I can tell you everything myself. My friend, we see each other to-day for the last time. Let us part in peace, without complaint and without anger. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I have intruded upon your life without thinking that even a light breath often withers a flower. I know so little of the world that I did not believe a poor suffering being like myself could inspire anything but pity. I welcome you in a frank and friendly way because I had known you so long, because I felt so well in your presence—why should I not tell all?—because I loved you. But the world does not understand or tolerate this love. The Hofrath has opened my eyes. The whole city is talking about us. My brother, the Regent, has written to the Prince, and he requests me never to see you again. I deeply regret that I have caused you this sorrow. Tell me you forgive me—and then let us separate as friends."
Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed them that I should not see her weeping.
"Marie," said I, "for me there is but one life which is with you; but for you there is one will which is your own. Yes, I confess, I love you with the whole fire of love, but I feel I am not worthily yours. You stand far above me in nobility, sublimity and purity, and I can scarcely understand the thought of ever calling you my wife. And, yet, there is no other road on which we could travel through life together. Marie, you are wholly free; I ask for no sacrifice. The world is great, and if you wish it, we shall never see each other again. But if you love me, if you feel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget the world and its cold verdict. In my arms I will bear you to the altar, and on my knees I will swear to be yours in life and in death."
"My friend," said she, "we must never wish for the impossible. Had it been God's will that such a tie should unite us in this life, would He, forsooth, have imposed these burdens upon me which make me incapable of being else than a helpless child? Do not forget that what we call Fate, Circumstance, Relations, in life, is in reality only the work of Providence. To resist it is to resist God himself, and were it not so childish one might call it presumptuous. Men wander on earth like the stars in heaven. God has indicated the paths upon which they meet, and if they are to separate, they must. Resistance were useless, otherwise it would destroy the whole system of the world. We cannot understand it, but we can submit to it. I cannot myself understand why my inclination towards you was wrong. No! I cannot, will not call it wrong. But it cannot be, it is not to be. My friend, this is enough—we must submit in humility and faith."
Notwithstanding the calmness with which she spoke, I saw how deeply she suffered; and yet I thought it wrong to surrender so quickly in this battle of life. I restrained myself as much as I could, so that no passionate word should increase her trouble, and said:
"If this is the last time we are to meet in this life, let us see clearly to whom we offer this sacrifice. If our love violated any higher law whatsoever, I would, as you say, bow myself in humility. It were a forgetfulness of God to oppose one's self to a higher will. It may seem at times as if men could delude God, as if their small sense had gained some advantage over the Divine wisdom. This is frenzy—and the man who commences this Titanic battle; will be crushed and annihilated. But what opposes our love? Nothing but the talk of the world. I respect the customs of human society. I even respect them when, as in our time, they are over-refined and confused. A sick body needs artificial medicines, and without the barriers, the respect and the prejudices of society, at which we smile, it were impossible to hold mankind together as at present existing, and to accomplish the purpose of our temporal co-existence. We must sacrifice much to these divinities. Like the Athenians, we send every year a heavy boatload of youths and maidens as tribute to this monster which rules the labyrinth of our society. There is no longer a heart that has not broken; there is no longer a man of true feelings who has not been obliged to break the wings of his love before he came into the cage of society for rest. It must be so. It cannot be otherwise. You know not life, but thinking only of my friends, I can tell you many volumes of tragedy.
"One loved a maiden, and the love was returned; but he was poor, she was rich. The fathers and relatives wrangled and sneered, and two hearts were broken. Why? Because the world looked upon it as a misfortune for a woman to wear a dress made of the wool of a shrub in America, and not of the fibres of a worm in China.
"Another loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was a Protestant, she was a Catholic. The mothers and the priests bred mischief, and two hearts were broken. Why? On account of a political game of chess which Charles V and Henry VIII played together, three hundred years ago.
"A third loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was a noble, she a peasant. The sisters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts were broken. Why? Because, a hundred years ago, one soldier slew another in battle, who threatened the life of his king. This gave him title and honors, and his great grandson expiated the blood shed at that time, with a disappointed life.
"The statisticians say a heart is broken every hour, and I believe it. But why? In almost every case, because the world does not recognize love between 'strange people,' unless it be between man and wife. If two maidens love the same man—the one must fall as a sacrifice. If two men love the same maiden, one or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why? Cannot one love a maiden, without wishing to marry her? Cannot one look upon a woman, without desiring her for his own? You close your eyes, and I feel I have said too much. The world has changed the most sacred things in life into the most common. But, Marie, enough! Let us talk the language of the world when we must talk, and act in it, and with it. But let us preserve a sanctuary where two hearts can speak the pure language of the heart, undisturbed by the raging of the world without. The world itself honors this seclusion, this courageous resistance, which noble hearts, conscious of their own rectitude, oppose to the ordinary course of things. The attentions, the amenities, the prejudices of the world are like a climbing plant. It is pleasant to see an ivy, with its thousand tendrils and roots, decorating the solid wall-work; but it should not be allowed too luxuriant growth, else it will penetrate every crevice of the structure, and destroy the cement which welds it together. Be mine, Marie; follow the voice of your heart. The word which now hangs upon your lips decides forever your life and mine—my happiness and yours."
I was silent. The hand I held in mine returned the warm pressure of the heart. A storm raged in her breast, and the blue heaven before me never seemed so beautiful as now, while the storm swept by, cloud upon cloud.
"Why do you love me?" said she, gently, as if she must still delay the moment of decision.
"Why, Marie? Ask the child why it is born; ask the flower why it blossoms; ask the sun why it shines. I love you because I must love you. But if I am compelled to answer further, let this book, lying by you, which you love so much, speak for me:
["Das beste solte das liebste sin, und in diser libe solte nicht angesehen werden nuss und unnuss, fromen oder schaden, gewin oder vorlust, ere oder unere, lob oder unlob oder diser keins, sunder was in der warheit das edelste und das aller beste ist, das solt auch das allerliebste sin, und umb nichts anders dan allein umb das, das es das edelst und das beste ist. Hie nach mocht ein mensche sin leben gerichten von ussen und von innen. Von ussen: wan under den creaturen ist eins besser dan das ander, dar nach dan das ewig gut in einem mer oder minner schinet und wurket dan in dem andern. In welchem nun das ewig gut aller meist schinet, luchtet, wurket und bekant und geliebet wirt, das ist ouch das beste under den creaturen; und in welchem dis minst ist, das ist ouch das aller minst gut. So nu der mensche die creatur handelt und da mit umb get, und disen underscheit bekennet, so sol im ie die beste creatur die liebste sin und sol sich mit flis zu ir halden und sich da mit voreinigen. . ."]
"The best should be the most loved, and in this love there should be no consideration of advantage or disadvantage, gain or loss, honor or dishonor, praise or blame, or anything else, but of that which in reality is the noblest and best, which should be the dearest of all; and for no other reason, but because it is the noblest and best. According to this a man should plan his inner and outer life. From without: if among mankind there is one better than another, in proportion as the eternally good shines or works more in one than in another. That being in whom the eternally good shines, works, is known and loved most, is therefore the best among mankind; and in whom this is most, there is also the most good. As now a man has intercourse with a being, and apprehends this distinction, then the best being should be the dearest to him, and he should fervently cling to it, and unite himself with it. . . . . ."
"Because you are the most perfect creature that I know, Marie, therefore I am good to you, therefore you are dear to me, therefore we love each other. Speak the word which lives in you, say that you are mine. Deny not your innermost convictions. God has imposed a life of suffering upon you. He sent me to bear it with you. Your sorrow shall be my sorrow, and we will bear it together, as the ship bears the heavy sails which guide it through the storms of life into the safe haven at last."
She grew more and more silent, A gentle flush played upon her cheeks like the quiet evening gleam. Then she opened her eyes full—the sun gleamed all at once with marvellous lustre.
"I am yours," said she. "God wills it. Take me just as I am; so long as I live I am yours, and may God bring us together again in a more beautiful life, and recompense your love."
We lay heart to heart. My lips closed the lips upon which had just now hung the blessing of my life, with a gentle kiss. Time stood still for us. The world about us disappeared. Then a deep sigh escaped from her breast. "May God forgive me for this rapture," she whispered. "Leave me alone now, I cannot endure more. Auf wiedersehen! my friend, my loved one, my savior."
These were the last words I ever heard from her. But no—I had reached home and was lying upon my bed in troubled dreams. It was past midnight when the Hofrath entered my room. "Our angel is in Heaven," said he; "here is the last greeting she sends you." With these words he gave me a letter. It enclosed the ring which she had given me, and I once had given her, with the words: "As God wills." It was wrapped in an old paper, whereon she had some time written the words I spoke to her when a child: "What is thine, is mine. Thy Marie."
Hours long, we sat together without speaking. It was a spiritual swoon which Heaven sends us when the load of pain becomes greater than we can bear. At last the old man arose, took my hand and said: "We see each other to-day for the last time, for you must leave here, and my days are numbered. There is but one thing I must say to you—a secret which I have carried all my life, and confessed to no one. I have always longed to confess it to some one. Listen to me. The spirit which has left us was a beautiful spirit, a majestic, pure soul, a deep, true heart. I knew one spirit as beautiful as hers—still more beautiful. It was her mother. I loved her mother, and she loved me. We were both poor, and I struggled with life to obtain an honorable position both on her account and my own. The young Prince saw my bride and loved her. He was my Prince; he loved her ardently. He was ready to make any sacrifice and to elevate her, the poor orphan, to the rank of Princess. I loved her so that I sacrificed the happiness of my love for her. I forsook my native land and wrote her I would release her from her vow. I never saw her again, except on her death-bed. She died in giving birth to her first daughter. Now you know why I loved your Marie, and prolonged her life from day to day. She was the only being that linked my heart to this life. Bear life as I have borne it. Lose not a day in useless lamentation. Help mankind whenever you can. Love them and thank God that you have seen and known and loved on this earth such a human heart as hers—and that you have lost it."
"As God will." said I, and we parted for life.
* * * * *
And days and weeks and months and years have flown. Home is a stranger to me, and a foreign land is my home. But her love remains with me, and as a tear drops into the ocean, so has her love dropped into the living ocean of humanity and pervades and embraces millions—millions of the "strange people" whom I have so loved from childhood.
* * * * *
Only on quiet summer days like this, when one in the green woods has nature alone at heart, and knows not whether there are human beings. without, or he is living entirely alone in the world, then there is a stir in the graveyard of memory, the dead thoughts, rise again, the full omnipotence of love returns to the heart and streams out from that beautiful being who once looked upon me with her deep unfathomable eyes. Then it seems as if the love for the millions were lost in the love for the one, my good angel, and my thoughts are dumb in the presence of the incomprehensible enigma of endless and everlasting love.