As soon as I was left alone, I began to look in a large mirror, which
hung in the room, and to give myself formal lessons in gait and
demeanour. For this purpose, the discovery made by the _frizeur_ had
given me very necessary hints. Monks acquire a peculiar awkwardness of
walk from their long dresses, which confine the limbs, and from their
attempt at the same time to move quickly, which the rules of our order
enjoin. There is also something farther characteristic in a submissive
bending forward of the body, and in the carriage of the arms, which must
never hang downwards. All this I endeavoured to unlearn as effectually
as possible.
Now, however, I derived most encouragement from the idea, that I was
completely transformed in mind, as well as in appearance; that the
thread of my former life was wholly broken, so that I could look on its
adventures as on transactions foreign to myself, which I had now done
with for ever. I had entered on a new state of existence, wherein, if
recollections still haunted me, these would every day become fainter and
fainter, until at last they wore out, and perished altogether.
When I looked out from the window, the tumult of people, the
uninterrupted noise of business which was kept up upon the streets--all
was new to me, and was exactly calculated to prolong that levity of
mind, which the loquacity of the little man, and my being forced to
laugh at him, had excited.
In my new dress I ventured down to the crowded _table d'hote_, and all
apprehension vanished, when I found that no one observed me, nay, that
even my nearest neighbour did not give himself the trouble of looking at
me when I set myself beside him.
In the list of strangers, I had entered my name simply as Mr Leonard,
and given myself out for a _particulier_, who travelled for his own
pleasure. Of such travellers there might be many in the town, and of
course I would escape farther questioning.
After dinner, it afforded me a new and incalculable pleasure to wander
through the town, where I found streets much broader and better paved,
with far finer houses, than any to which I had yet been accustomed.
Luckily there were now preparations set on foot for the approaching
great yearly fair, which caused an unusual bustle in every quarter; and
I had been told at my hotel that a few days later it would have been
impossible for me to obtain lodgings. The richness of the booths, which
already began to open, exceeded all that my imagination had ever
conceived. _There_ were the _choicest_ goods from all quarters of the
globe; from France, Italy, England, the East and West Indies; from
Persia, Turkey, Russia, down to the nearer kingdoms of Hungary and
Poland; and I became confirmed in my conviction that here no one would
observe my dress or appearance, since there were natives of all
countries, in their proper costumes, parading the streets, or arranging
their merchandize. The air was perfumed by the fragrance of Turkish
tobacco, as the natives of Constantinople stalked silently about with
their long pipes, in dresses which I had till then only seen in books;
and there were Persians, who, from their splendour of attire, might
have passed for sultans, had not their present occupations proved the
contrary.
But as I found my way at last to the streets more particularly allotted
to the dealers in all sorts of _bijouterie_, toys, paintings,
engravings, and other works of art, my wonder and delight were increased
at every step. Amid the infinite variety of objects conducive to luxury
and amusement here exhibited, time passed on like a dream. I did not
fail to indulge myself in the purchase of several articles of ornament
and convenience. A watch and chain, two seal rings, a large _meerschaum_
pipe, (which the vender rightly declared to be a _chef d'oeuvre_,) a
few books and prints, etc.; all which I ordered to be sent home to my
hotel.
On arriving afterwards at the Great Square, in the centre of the town, I
was confounded by finding it already occupied by caravans and temporary
theatres, filled with wild beasts, travelling players, puppet-shows,
giants, dwarfs, panoramas, jugglers, etc. etc. etc.
These sights, however, I did not venture for the present to examine more
narrowly, but made my way into the public walks and gardens by which
the town is surrounded, and which were now gay with genteel parties,
enjoying the afternoon's promenade, enlivened, moreover, with excellent
music from harp-players, singers, organists, etc., many of whom,
especially of the singers, reminded me of the best music that I had
heard in early days, in the house of the choir-master at Koenigswald.
For a moment, too, I was reminded of his sister, by the countenance, and
yet more by the figure, of a girl that passed me, in the midst of a
thicket of very dark massive pines, near the Bockenheimer gate; but the
recollection was transient; for now, though surrounded by gaiety and
music, by sparkling groups and beautiful countenances, (for at
Frankenburg, as at Saxe Gotha, almost every female, not in the extreme
of old age, is beautiful,) yet by rapid degrees the cheerfulness which I
had felt at the commencement of my walk vanished quite away.
All at once I felt within me the solution of the riddle, the explanation
of the cause why I was thus changed. I was _alone_ in the midst of these
happy groups. The trees, the flowers, (withered and yellowed already by
the blasts of autumn,) the ruddy gleams of the western sky, and the
varieties of the landscape--these, indeed, were like society--these I
partook in common with the parties around me--but of all the shapes and
forms of men and women, smiling or grave, meditative or gay, that moved
about me, I knew _not one_. There was not a single individual in whose
breast I could imagine a shadow of apprehension who I really was--what
strange chance had brought me hither, or even the least atom of that
overpowering load of mystery by which I was weighed down, and which was
wholly locked up within my own bosom.
All this, however convenient at the present moment, made on me an
impression hostile, destructive, and almost insupportable. As long as I
had the gay booths, the paintings, toys, jewels, sparkling dresses,
liqueurs, and confections, tobacco-pipes, books, and engravings around
me,--such things, however contemptible in the eyes of one accustomed to
the world, had, from their novelty, power enough to rivet my attention,
and alienate it from _selfish_ fears and despondency. But now, amid
these rural walks, surrounded only by happy groups, of whom each
individual enjoyed mutual confidence with his neighbour--by husbands
and wives, lovers and mistresses, parents and children; amid scenes that
reminded me of my early days of innocence, methought I was like a
condemned spirit--like a _revenant_, doomed involuntarily to wander on
the earth, from whence all, and every one to whom he had been attached,
had long since died away!
If I called to mind how, formerly, every visitant at the Capuchin
Convent so kindly and respectfully greeted the pulpit orator, and how
the whole neighbourhood, and even strangers from remote countries,
thirsted after his conversation, rejoicing even in the opportunity of a
few words, then my heart was wrung with the bitterest anguish.
I strove against this, however, as much as possible. "That pulpit
orator," said I to myself, "was the Monk Medardus, he who is now dead,
buried, and (ought to be) forgotten, in the abysses of the mountains--in
the darkness of the far-distant pine-tree forest. With him I have
nothing to do, for I am alive and active, nay, life itself has for the
first time dawned upon me, and begun to offer its varied and substantial
enjoyments."
Thus, when in my involuntary waking dreams I recalled the strange and
frightful adventures at the castle, I said to myself, "These things are
indeed known to me, yet it is to some one else that they refer; over me
they can have no influence." This _other_ was again the Capuchin; but I
was no longer a monk. It was only the never-dying thoughts of Aurelia
that united still, by indissoluble ties, my former with my present
existence; but when this feeling was truly awoke, like the torment of an
incurable malady, it killed and annihilated that spirit of pleasure
which had risen up within me. I was then suddenly torn out of those
brilliant circles of glittering forms and fantastic imagery, by which
life had begun to surround me. The delusions fled. I despised myself for
having been pleased for a moment, like a child, with toys and rattles,
and once more sunk down, a prey to the darkest and most rayless
despondency.
This evening, on my return from the public walks, I visited, for the
first time in my life, a theatre. This was to me another new enjoyment;
but before reaching thither, my despondency had gained its full
influence. The piece performed happened to be a tragedy, and I thought,
during the whole performance, only of Aurelia.
* * * * *
During my residence at Frankenburg, I did not omit to visit some of the
many houses of public resort, in which people met to breakfast, _a la
fourchette_; to dine, to sup, and enjoy the pleasures of wine, gaming,
and conversation. Accordingly, I soon felt a particular preference for a
certain hotel in the middle of the town, where, on account of the
superior quality of the wines, a numerous society were to be found every
night.
At a table, in a room adjoining to the great _salle_, I found regularly,
at a fixed hour in the evening, the same persons assembled. Their
conversation was always lively and ingenious. Accident at last brought
me acquainted with these people, who had thus formed an especial circle
for themselves, and who for some time shewed no disposition to bestow on
me any share of their attention.
At first, I used to sit quietly in a corner of the room, and drink my
wine alone; but on one occasion it so happened that I was able to afford
them information on a literary topic which they were discussing, and
was in consequence invited to a place at their table, which afterwards
was the more willingly kept open for me, as my good address and the
extent of my reading and acquirements exactly suited their dispositions.
Thus I obtained, without trouble, some very agreeable acquaintances; and
accustoming myself more and more to the world, I became every day more
unconcerned, and was able, in great measure, to rub off the rust of my
former habits.
For several evenings there had been much talk in this society of a
certain painter, (an entire stranger in the town,) who had lately
arrived, and during the fair was to hold an exhibition of his works.
Every member of the society but myself had seen his pictures, and
praised them so highly, that I of course felt anxious for an opportunity
of judging for myself, and went accordingly.
The painter was absent when I entered his exhibition-room, but an old
man acted as _cicerone_, and named the masters of various old pictures
which the artist exhibited along with his own. Among them were many
admirable pieces, most of them originals, of celebrated Italian masters,
with which I was highly delighted.
At last, I came to a series of pictures which the man said were copies
from certain large _frescoes_, designed many years ago. What was now my
astonishment, when involuntarily the recollections of my youth here
began to dawn upon me, every moment acquiring more distinct forms and
livelier colours! These were obviously copies from the Convent of the
Lime-Tree. Above all, I recognized most unequivocally, in a holy family,
the features of the old pilgrim who had come to us with the miraculous
boy! At this sight, the levity in which I had for some time indulged,
once more completely declined; and, sunk into the deepest melancholy, I
stood long gazing at the group. But when my sight next fell on a
portrait (large as life, and admirably done) of my adoptive mother, the
Princess, I could not forbear a loud outcry of wonder. This portrait
exhibited a most accurate resemblance, (such as Vandyke never failed to
give to all his pictures,) the costume was the same in which she used to
walk before the nuns in their procession through the church, and the
painter had seized the moment, when, having finished her private
devotions, she was leaving her room in full dress, in order to join in
that solemnity. The perspective behind shewed the interior of the
church, crowded with the expectant congregation.
In the looks of this admirable woman, was fully developed that
expression of a mind wholly devoted to Heaven, which was so
pre-eminently her own. It now seemed to me as if she implored
forgiveness for that unhappy sinner, whom his own crimes had torn from
her maternal embraces. I felt once more all the bitterness of contrast
between what I now was, and what I _had been_! Feelings long lost and
estranged gained their full influence over my heart, and I was borne
away by an unspeakable longing after the scenes and impressions of my
youth.
Methought I once more heard the south wind sigh through the dark
yew-hedges and tall beech-trees of the old manor-house, and traced again
the bright wanderings of the Saale, but _not_, as on the occasion of my
last visit there, with coldness and indifference! The delusion for a
moment was perfect, only to be followed by the bitterness of reality and
remorse. Anon, it seemed as if I were again with the good priest of the
Cistertian Convent, a cheerful, free-minded, and courageous boy,
wandering at will through the wild country, losing himself in rocky
recesses of the Thuringian mountains, or shouting and rejoicing because
the grand festival of St Bernard was drawing near!
That well-known form of her whom I so deeply revered, was again
presented, as if living, before me. Methought, too, I heard her
voice.--"Medardus," said she, "hast thou been good and pious?" The
well-known tones, deepened by anxiety and love, floated like soft music
around me. "Hast thou been good and pious?" Alas! what must now be my
answer? The beautiful picture, traced by the pencil of Innocence and
Hope, is clouded and defaced for ever--the vernal skies are
darkened--the cold tempest winds of grief and remorse desolate the
landscape. I have heaped up crime on crime. On the first breach of my
monastic vows followed murder; and _now_, is not my daily life of
dissipation and deceit, but the certain commencement of crimes yet to
come?
These thoughts, and many more, that it would require a volume to
delineate, rushed at once upon me, so that, completely overpowered, I
sunk, half-fainting, into a chair, and burst into tears.
The old man was terrified. "For God's sake, sir," said he, "what's the
matter? what has happened to you?"
"That picture," said I, in a hollow suppressed voice, "resembles with
such accuracy a near relation whom I lost by a cruel and untimely death,
that it has deeply affected me." With these words I arose, and assumed
as much composure as possible.
"Come, sir," said this man, "such recollections are far too painful, and
should be avoided. There is yet one portrait here, which my master
considers his best, and which you have not seen. It is painted after the
life, and has only just now been finished. We have hung a curtain before
it, that the sun might not injure the fresh colours."
The old man placed me carefully in the proper light, and then drew up
the curtain--IT WAS AURELIA!