_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 103.)
“Good evening, my Lord,” said she with evident confusion, “have you not
met Lady Delier?”
“No, my Lady! I have not.”
“She left me some time since, and might already have returned.”
“Very strange! I am come to take leave, and meet you first by accident.”
“Leave?” she replied with surprise, “Then you are determined to depart
to-morrow.”
“I must.”
A long pause.
“And you are going to Ma***t?”
“To Ma***t, and from thence to my native country.”
A second pause. At length she said with emphasis and affection: “Heaven
protect you on your journey.”
“Dearest Countess--”
“What is the matter with you, my Lord?” Amelia exclaimed, fixing her
eyes on me, “Good God, how pale you look!”
The emotions of my heart were dreadful; my working bosom threatened to
burst. “God knows,” I replied with a faltering voice, “whether I shall
see you again.”
“We shall certainly meet again,” said she, looking up to heaven.
“Merciful God! should my hopes blossom first beyond the grave.”
“What hopes?” she exclaimed with inquisitive astonishment.
“And do you not divine how this separation will wound my heart?”
Amelia looked anxiously around, as if seeking Lady Delier; and then
fixed her eyes again doubtfully on me.
“My Lord, your words and your behaviour are mysterious to me.”
“Then receive their explanation kindly,” I replied, letting myself down
on one knee, and taking hold of her hand, “I love you.”
The Countess was struck dumb with surprise.----“And this you tell me
when taking _leave!_” she lisped at length.
I fancied I perceived a soft pressure from her hand, and returned it
with glowing lips. She bent her taper form to raise me up, and Lady
Delier stepped suddenly between us. “What do I see?” she exclaimed,
dissembling astonishment, “a declaration of love?”
Amelia remained silent, and the Baroness repeated her question.
“A declaration, my Lady!” I replied, but no answer.
“My sweet friend,” she whispered archly in Amelia’s ear, “I hope you
will not let him despair.”
“I cannot conceive, my Lord,” Amelia replied, “why you make this
declaration when taking _leave!_”
I told her nearly the same I had said to the Baroness in the morning.
Amelia viewed me a long time with silent astonishment, and at length
replied:
“A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding on both sides! very strange
indeed!” she shook her head smiling.
“My dearest love,” the Baroness exclaimed, “look at the Duke, how he
watches every word of yours in hope of receiving an answer.”
Amelia seemed to hesitate what to reply; however, after a short silence,
said to me with the innate dignity of a noble, generous mind: “My Lord,
if you want to have a consort, then I must beg you to forget me. But if
you are in quest of a loving heart, then--” added she in a low accent,
and with crimsoning cheeks, “you have found it.”
I don’t know what I replied, nor can I recollect what I said afterwards;
for from the moment she had pronounced the confession of her reciprocal
love, I thought myself transported to Paradise, and breathed in a new
and better sphere. The possession of Amelia’s heart, ensured to me by
the declaration of her own lips, had expelled from my breast every
terrestrial wish; my whole nature seemed to me exalted and purified of
all earthly dregs, and the flame which had penetrated my frame, was a
sacred fire cleared of every particle of sensuality. O! innocent love,
thou offspring of the sacred affinity of two congenial souls, thou art
perhaps the sole species of union and enjoyment, which is capable to
afford us here below a notion of the union and the pleasure of the
inhabitants of the heavenly regions. How natural therefore, if we,
particularly in the first moments of enjoyment, are incapable to express
such sentiments by words. However, my faltering accents, my confused
expressions, and my incoherent sentences, seemed nevertheless to be as
well understood by Amelia, as if she were reading in my soul, which I
could conclude from her words, and the still plainer speaking play of
her mien. Love had diffused over her countenance new and unspeakable
charms, which surrounded her with a glory that made her appear to me a
more than mortal being. And to be beloved by her--that bliss would have
overpowered me, if I had not been made acquainted with my happiness in
the morning.
Lady Delier, who had left us to ourselves all the time, interrupted us
at length. “Children!” said she, “do you know that it is not far from
eleven o’clock?” I started up as if some grisly spectre had surprised
me, because I recollected the _Unknown_, eleven o’clock being the time
when I had promised to meet him at the place of rendezvous at a
considerable distance.
To take leave!--without knowing whether I should ever see her again, for
I was to depart the next morn with the dawn of day. This idea
overpowered me so much, that I promised Amelia and myself to visit her
once more to-morrow before my departure. Our separation was,
nevertheless, so afflicting, the parting on both sides so difficult, and
the last adieu pronounced with quivering lips.--Alas! a secret
presentiment seemed to whisper in my ear that we should meet no more.
How many times did I attempt to go and stopped again--how many times did
I go and return again to assure Amelia that I should certainly see her
once more!--Her emotions seemed, indeed, to be less vehement than mine,
however, I could not be deceived, and observing the secret workings of
her soul, perceived the pearly tear that started from her eye, and the
violent heaving of her bosom.
Lady Delier did not long remain an idle spectator, exhorting us to
dedicate the present moment to joy, and to yield to our grief to-morrow,
tearing the Countess from my arms, and wishing me a good night.
I stopped once more on the terrace, saw the two ladies retiring to a
grove, of beech-trees, and Amelia turned twice, beckoning to me. My
tears flowed fluently, my arms were expanded for her, the darkness of
the night concealed her from my wishful looks. I rushed mechanically
into the street, and arrived at the place of rendezvous without knowing
how. It was lonely spot covered with trees. The Irishman soon joined me.
“My time is short,” he said, “and I have to tell you a great deal; let
us sit down.” So saying he led me to a stone bench beneath a spreading
oak, and we seated ourselves.
He seemed to observe my being violently agitated, and kept a long and
solemn silence to give me time to recover.--“I wish, my dear Duke!”--he
at length began, “that you may not expect more from this interview than
I am allowed to give. I must confine myself merely to the theoretical
part of that occult science to which I have promised to initiate you
after the time of probation shall be finished. However, it is here as it
is with all other sciences; the pupil of sense guesses by the theory,
what he may expect from the practical part of the science--as a painter
beholds in a sketch the picture which is to be drawn, or as an architect
sees in the plan drawn on the paper the building which is to be
constructed; be therefore satisfied with what I dare impart to you for
the present.”
“I do not desire you to disclose to me, more than I am able to bear at
present.”
The Irishman paused again, and then began thus:
“If our powers of perception were confined only to our senses, the
visible world would then encompass all our ideas, sentiments, wishes and
hopes. No idea of spirits, of God and of immortality would raise us
above the sphere of materiality. In order to produce and to conceive
these ideas, a supersensible faculty is required. This faculty which, if
closely examined, bears not the least resemblance to the rest of our
intellectual powers, is called _reason_. The idea of the whole sensible
world offers nothing to us that is not corporeal, finite, and
perishable. However the territory of reason opens to us a prospect to a
world without bounds, and of an everlasting duration; displays to us a
kingdom of spirits which is governed by _one_ Infinite Spirit after wise
and sacred laws. An unknown world of which we had not the most distant
notion, of which sensation gives us not the least hint, and for which
our senses have no perception nor scale, opens to our view when our
reason begins to unfold itself. You see, therefore what faculty of the
soul must be our guide in our present investigation, if we wish to
penetrate, by means of it, to the kingdom of spirits.”
“Reason!”
“Certainly! there is no other choice left; and therefore let us learn to
value and to use this light that illuminates the darkness in which every
object disappears from the eyes of mere sensitive men, or at most
appears very _obscure_ to them. That man whose reason is overdarkened,
or discomposed by sensuality, either will deny the existence of spirits
and our relation to them, or attribute to them the contradictory shape
which his disordered imagination has hatched out, like the blind-born,
who denies the existence of colours as ridiculous and absurd, or if he
believes the unanimous testimony of those that see, imagines colours to
bear some resemblance to sounds. Unbelief and superstition afford us
numberless instances of people of that description. Only the more
impartial have always maintained that one ought not to judge
precipitately of these objects, and only the wisest of mankind have been
able to form a just judgment of them.”
“O Hiermanfor! introduce me to the circle of the latter. I have already
in the different periods of my life adhered to all the other parties. In
the days of my earlier youth I believed in apparitions, like the most
ignorant of the lowest class. In a more advanced period of life I
fancied I was convinced of the impossibility of apparitions, and ever
since I got acquainted with you, I have been wavering between unbelief
and superstition. It was but lately that I resolved to postpone my
judgment on these subjects, till I should be better convinced, and this
conviction I expect of you.”
(_To be continued._)
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