After _Henri_ had written his letter, the exhausted body imperiously
demanded rest, and while it slept _Heinrich_ hastened to Cornelia and
hovered round her slumbering soul as if it were the petals of a folded
rosebud. She did not know, but she suspected it; the magic of the soul
revealed his presence, and she felt his spiritual kiss.
When Ottmar awoke the following morning he thought he had not slept
well, and had been dreaming a great deal of the Prison Fairy. Yet
neither had been dreaming; although their bodies slept, their souls
were together. _Heinrich_ remained in bed some time. He was in the best
of humors, and compared this awakening with the one six years before,
when he had resolved to yield to the power of the Jesuits. At that time
he was in the act of beginning a new but worse life, as to-day he had
awakened to a new and better one. He thought of Cornelia with grateful
reverence. Through her he obtained a peace of which he had long been
deprived; for, while in himself there was naught save opposition and
contrast, in her he found the complement of his nature and the full
satisfaction of homogeneousness. Thus _Heinrich_ already preferred to
dwell upon her harmonious character rather than the struggles in his
own breast, and this was one step, though scarcely perceptible, towards
liberation from the egotism that was constantly throwing him back upon
himself. Even _Henri_, the night before, had rejected the pleasure of
the moment, and yielded to an ardent love for an object he could never
expect to obtain his way. Even in this hopeless submission there was a
slight contest with his usual selfish pursuit of pleasure. It was with
a certain feeling of abhorrence that he compared the base passions of
the past with his longing for Cornelia's intellectual charms, and fell
into this temporary self-sacrifice. Thus egotism sooner or later
defeats itself. The true egotist ends with a feeling of loathing and
disgust, not only towards the world, but himself. Unmistakable tokens
of this state were already visible both in _Heinrich_ and _Henri_; but,
fortunately for him, he was at an age when fresh buds can shoot forth
and supply the places of those that are dead. These germs now began to
stir with life. Intellect and feeling, with equal power, drew
_Heinrich_ and _Henri_ towards a being whose bodily and mental gifts
were equal. In this the two extremes already began to approach; but
they did not yet understand each other, and their meeting must still
produce conflict instead of reconciliation.
Ottmar lay for a long time absorbed in meditations upon his strange
twofold nature. A servant entered to wake him. He remembered how he had
expected old Anton to come in that morning, and, for the first time, a
strange face appeared instead. "Good old Anton, no doubt he was right,"
thought _Heinrich_; "and how shamefully he was treated! Now he would
certainly have no occasion to be angry about such faults. He was the
best servant I ever had. I will take him back again." He rose, ordered
a message to be sent to the inn for old Anton, and sat down to write to
Cornelia.
"Her name is Erwing," said he; "that is the name of the famous
democrat. Can she be his daughter? If so, she can scarcely have known
her father, for Erwing must have fled from North Germany to America at
least twenty years ago. It must be so. That is why she concealed her
name in the prison; she probably knew it would be no letter of
recommendation. That accounts for her relations with Reinhold, too. It
is decidedly unpleasant! I shall not get much honor at court by the
acquaintance. But it need never be known there. It is winter, night
shuts in at four o'clock; I shall only go to her house in the evening,
so the whole affair can be concealed from the eyes of the jeering
aristocracy. My occasional appearance in literary circles will not be
misconstrued, as I have the reputation of unusual erudition." He began
to write: "Cornelia!" He paused. "Cornelia! It was a lofty spirit that
gave her this proud name; is she a true child of this spirit? I almost
believe it. That she glides into the cells of the lowest criminals does
not spring from humility,--it is the defiance of compassion against the
harshness of force, and the consciousness of the joy-giving power of
her own individuality. Woe to him who ventured to wound her pride! He
would have lost her."
Just at that moment Anton was announced. He threw aside his pen and
went forward to meet him. It seemed, as he rejoiced over the return of
the old servant, as if some kind of companionship was now a necessity.
"Welcome, faithful companion of my past!" he cried. "Will you share my
future?"
"I don't come to force myself upon you as a servant, Herr Baron," said
Anton, whose voice trembled with emotion, "but I must give you one
parting hint before my return,--it seems to be intended that I am to
keep watch for you."
"Well?"
"Your beautiful estates at H----, Herr Baron, really need your
oversight again. The steward and inspector are both in league to let
everything go to ruin and fill their own pockets."
"What, what! How do you know that? Do you know that during the last few
years my income from the estates has lessened so materially that it has
caused me serious anxiety, and were it not for my salary I should find
it difficult to live?"
"A proof that I speak the truth. On my way here I passed by
Ottmarsfeld, and a secret impulse led me into the old castle and the
gardens where I saw you, Herr Baron, grow to manhood. But it caused me
real sorrow to see how everything had changed for the worse. The
stately castle is out of repair in many places, the gardens have run
wild, and the cattle are miserable beasts. There are only fifteen
day-laborers on the estate, and they are lazy and carelessly watched."
"That is certainly shameful!" cried _Heinrich_. "The inspector has put
down thirty day-laborers to my account every year, and charged me many
hundreds for repairs on the buildings."
"You will convince yourself that you have been deceived, and your
splendid property must soon be ruined if matters go on in this way,"
said Anton.
_Heinrich_ paced thoughtfully up and down the room, then turned to
Anton and held out his hand. "You are the most faithful soul that I
have in the world. Anton, you must enter my service again; surely you
cannot yet live without me."
"You know why I left you, Herr Baron," he answered.
"I know," cried _Heinrich_, laughing; "but I don't think you will have
any further occasion to fear similar cases. I am not quite so bad as
you think, and have become much more steady of late."
"Oh, I can never think my own dear master wicked!" said Anton, deeply
touched. "But what suits you--is not quite so proper for me. It may be
perfectly natural for an aristocratic young gentleman to follow the
inclinations of his heart, while it would be wrong for a sedate old man
to lend his assistance to things which went against his conscience. So
I might be placed in a position where I should be compelled to disobey
you, and then you would only send me away again. Let me go home,--I
cannot promise unconditional obedience."
"And you need not, Anton," said _Heinrich_, gravely. "I do not wish to
make a mere machine of you; I will compel you to do nothing that is
against your principles, and you shall even tell me your opinion as
much as you please, if it should ever prove necessary. It is tiresome
for a man to have no one to quarrel with except himself. I have blessed
you a thousand times during the last few weeks for having had the
boldness to baffle my wishes, and therefore in atonement I will assure
you an inalienable asylum with me as long as you live. Can I do more?"
"Oh, my dear, kind master!" cried Anton, kissing _Heinrich's_ hands
with a flood of joyful tears. "After such, generosity it is surely my
duty to devote all the rest of my life to you, and serve you in all
honesty as long as I can. Ah, I really believe you are going to be the
dear little master I had thirty years ago!"
He was interrupted by the entrance of Albert, who looked paler and
graver than Ottmar had expected.
"Well," asked _Heinrich_, "have you slept off your first intoxication
of joy, and do you now feel somewhat depressed?"
"Yes, dear Herr Baron," replied Albert. "It is strange; yesterday I
felt nothing, thought of nothing, except that I was free; to-day I
already perceive the necessity for me to act, and as the prison was
formerly too narrow, the world is now too wide for me. I totter and
know not where I can obtain support. Yesterday I only felt that the
dungeon had cast me out; to-day I feel that life has not yet received
me, and seem so helpless that I could weep like a lost child."
"I understand that, Albert. You cannot yet feel at ease in your new
position. Your strength of will has been asleep during your five
years' imprisonment, and now, when you need it, refuses to obey your
bidding. This, as a matter of course, makes you anxious; but it is
ungrateful to consider yourself deserted. Can a man receive more
abundant assistance than you have had from me?"
"Oh, my noble, generous patron, my whole life belongs to you! How can
you believe me ungrateful? I bless you with every breath of God's free
air I take. But ought I to eat the bread of charity in your house, even
if you wished it? Must I not go out into the world and earn something,
that I may at last make a home for the unhappy girl who has suffered
and atoned so truly? But what am I to do? I can accomplish so little,
my superficial knowledge makes me so dependent. Who will trust the
murderer?"
"Any one who knows you, Albert," said _Heinrich_, kindly.
Albert's frank brown eyes gazed at him doubtfully. "Do you think so?
Ah, when I was in prison, among the criminals whose fate I unjustly
shared, I seemed like a saint; but now I am free and in the society of
irreproachable men, I feel for the first time like a criminal, and
scarcely venture to raise my shame-dyed face."
"Albert, in spite of your error, you are a man of more delicate and
noble feelings than millions of the irreproachable citizens who pride
themselves upon their phlegmatic honesty. That is why there are so few
who understand you well enough to disregard your past as I do. I will
take you henceforth into my employment. Will you undertake to become my
steward?"
"The steward of your estates?" asked Albert, in joyful astonishment.
"Yes; I know you studied agriculture with a landowner in V---- before
you turned to the career of a priest, and came to the college. However,
if you did not learn enough there, I will send you to the agricultural
school at C---- for six months to perfect your education; and then I
think you will become a faithful manager of my property. You can marry
your Roeschen; and the steward's house is so large that in the course of
a few years you can tell a number of children the story of the Prison
Fairy."
A deep blush suffused Albert's face, and he clasped his hands with an
involuntary sigh. "Oh, the Prison Fairy, Herr Baron! You and the Prison
Fairy are the noblest human beings the Lord ever made! What shall I say
to you? I can give you no better thanks than the wish that destiny may
unite you!" With these words he hurried from the room.
_Heinrich_ gazed after him for a long time in silence. "So that is the
greatest blessing you can desire for me? Poor fellow! You too, without
knowing it, love the Prison Fairy. It is because you must be deprived
of her that freedom itself seems cold and barren; and yet she is so far
above you that you do not venture to raise your eyes towards her. To me
alone you will not grudge her, whom you consider the essence of
everything admirable. And I? Does not the blood mount into my cheeks
when I think how little I deserve what you wish me; and how, like a
thief, I steal the semblance of virtues I do not possess!"
Veronica and Cornelia were sitting in their little tea-room, engaged in
needle-work. "Cornelia, you sew very little, and talk still less," said
Veronica to the young girl, who was sitting silent and motionless,
gazing at the green shade that covered the lamp.
"I can neither sew nor talk: I am thinking of Ottmar," she answered,
frankly. "Is not such a soul, which approaches ours for the first time
and opens a new world to us, worthy of being received with quiet
solemnity? Are we to rest on that day which commemorates a miracle that
happened long ago and has never been fully proved? and when the Deity
reveals one of its greatest wonders to our eyes, ought we to grudge our
souls a time of sabbath repose in which to receive this lofty guest?
You must not reproach me if, under this impression, I spend a few days
longer in idle dreams. It is my nature!"
"You are just what I wish to see you, my Cornelia. God grant that you
may remain so! Give yourself up to your own thoughts undisturbed. Put
aside your work and remain silent. People do not hold communion with
each other only when they talk."
Another pause followed, and nothing was to be heard except the clicking
of Veronica's knitting-needles. But the old lady was not silent long.
"You have a deep mind, Cornelia: I could not reflect so long upon any
subject; and in spite of my years I enjoy life more unquestioningly
than you. What approaches me lovingly I believe in, and when I trust I
enter into no subtle inquiries."
Cornelia smiled but made no reply, for these words showed her that
Veronica only partially understood her mood; and she did not feel
disposed to disclose her feelings any further, though she could not
have given a reason for it even to herself. Her large eyes rested
affectionately upon the old lady, and she merely asked, "Dear Veronica,
are people investigating a subject when they are silently enjoying it?"
"Make the tea, my little angel," said Veronica; "the organ will suit
your solemn mood."
Cornelia arranged the tea-table, lighted the wick under an
old-fashioned silver tea-kettle, and then sat down to listen to the
charming music that instantly became audible. At first one could only
distinguish the different tones of boiling water, but by degrees they
became more melodious, and blended together not into a confused
bubbling, but the notes of the choral song, "Blick hin nach Golgotha!"
It was a wonderfully artistic plaything, concealed in the lid, and set
in motion by a glass roller, by the pressure of steam. The tones of
course were louder or fainter as the water boiled more or less
violently, and thus the whole sounded like the singing of a tea kettle,
transformed into melody by some invisible fairy.
This tender, mysterious music did indeed harmonize with Cornelia's
mood, and she looked up as if roused from a dream when the stiff,
precise old servant entered, and, with a doubtful mien, said that Herr
von Ottmar wished to see the ladies.
"He is very welcome," said Veronica, joyfully; and the old man, casting
a sullen glance at Cornelia's blushing face, opened the door.
_Heinrich_ entered. He apologized for the late hour of his visit by
saying that he had received a note from the prince, directing him to
prepare for a journey, and expect further orders the following day.
Thus it might happen that he would be compelled to set out at once
without having any time for farewells.
Veronica assured him that no apology was necessary, and begged him to
take tea with them. The old servant, to his great disgust, was ordered
to bring another plate, and sternly placed a chair for _Heinrich_
beside Veronica, pressing it violently on the floor, as if he would
like to make it grow there; but _Heinrich_ involuntarily pushed it
towards Cornelia, and the old man withdrew, shaking his head.
Cornelia said nothing, and _Heinrich_ looked at her inquiringly. In the
silence that followed he noticed the singing of the tea-kettle.
"What strange little organ have you there?" he asked, in surprise.
"It is a relic of my sentimental youth," replied Veronica, "and is
really closely connected with a portion of my life."
"Why, that is very interesting! What air is it playing?"
"A choral I often sang in my young clays. Tell Herr von Ottmar the
words, Cornelia, or he will think you have forgotten how to speak."
Cornelia repeated the well-known strophe:
"Schau hin nach Golgotha!
Dort schwebt am Kreuzes-stamm'
Im Todeskampf dein Jesus,
Mit deiner Schuld beladen.
Schau hin nach Golgotha!
Er neigt sein sterbend Haupt,
Es bricht sein Herz,
Selbst Engel weinen:
Der Welterloeser todt!"
"It is a beautiful choral, but it does not suit a gay social circle,"
said Cornelia, evidently deeply moved. She had felt that her voice grew
tremulous during the recital, and thought herself obliged to apologize.
"The profound melancholy of that sublime death overwhelms me in those
few lines. They conjure up the whole picture of the saddest hour earth
has ever known, and I cannot refrain from tears."
"While you spoke I saw only the angels who were weeping there,"
whispered _Heinrich_, gazing at her with delight, "and yet your
trembling voice touched me strangely. Who gave you this prophetic
inspiration, which, after the lapse of centuries, feels agonies perhaps
never endured? All the sufferings of Christ were mirrored in your
eyes."
"Oh, who could help feeling them?" replied Cornelia. "Who that truly
entered into them could help being thrilled with the deepest grief?
What a sacrifice, to make himself the bleeding example of his
teachings! What a love, which devotes itself to secure the happiness of
a world! When I read the history of the passion, it seems as if I had a
thousand hearts, so keenly, so painfully, do I feel the death-agony of
the One Heart that bore in itself the sorrows of all, suffered for all,
bled for all, loved all,--even those who betrayed it,--and was
understood and valued by so few. I see him turn pale, and feel how Mary
counts his last sighs and dies ten deaths with him. The breezes pause
in their course and are silent: the clouded sky bends heavily towards
the earth; all creation is frozen with terror, and listens for the
fearful moment when the God-man shall die,--when the monstrous murder
of the Guiltless One shall be completed. And now he bends his head, and
all is over. It is done, and the long-repressed woe breaks forth. The
storm rages over the earth, rends the veil, bursts the false temple.
The world groans; and the Lord himself, touched even in his
unapproachable divinity, extends his arms to his beloved Son to receive
him to his heart. Oh, my friend, who can read or hear this story
without being moved to the very depths of his soul? Even if you deny
this great event and prove that it never existed, and even reveal who
invented it,--who subjected a world to the might of this thought,--he
too was inspired by a higher power,--he too came from God and has
performed a miracle; a miracle that no one can deny, for it uplifts
itself in gigantic structures of stone in every land; it stamps its
impress upon every grave; it receives the new-born infant with a holy
ordinance; it is the last consolation of the dying; nay, at this very
moment it fills your own breast with silent veneration: I can see it in
you."
_Heinrich_ could scarcely breathe; he did not know what had befallen
him. Was it a supernatural creature who was speaking to him? He was
obliged to start up and go to the window, so strangely did his thoughts
pulse through his brain. Was it the artistic impression of her
powerful, eloquent words, her animated play of expression, the capacity
for suffering in her nature bodingly revealed in this description, or
the effect of the words themselves? He knew not, but he felt as much
agitated as if Christianity had just been revealed to him for the first
time.
"You could do more good than many preachers," he said, at last,
returning to his seat. "You understand how to obtain a hold upon the
soul, and I am amazed at your religious enthusiasm. I should have
supposed you to have more tendency towards rationalism. Are you a
Protestant?"
"Oh, do not ask whether I am Catholic or Protestant! I am a
Christian,--that is the principal thing. By faith and education I
am a Protestant; but I belong to no creed, for I have no faith in
miracles,--at least the miracles the church teaches. I recognize too
entirely the divinity of the laws of the universe to believe that God
must remove Nature from her usual course to reveal himself. Every
deviation from natural laws is an abnormal condition, and therefore
unlovely, for all beauty consists in the harmony of each individual
part with the whole; but I can accept and reverence nothing that is not
beautiful,--far less consider God, the soul of the system of the world,
as the author of an anomaly. Herein I am a rationalist. I hate those
who bar the progress of science, because they fear the natural
explanation of things may destroy the dogma of revelation; but I also
hate those who think that by the natural explanation of things they can
deny the existence of a higher power. God reveals himself indirectly in
the laws of nature, and directly in the soul. The noblest man is to me
the greatest wonder of creation; and if I believe Christ to be the son
of Joseph, I adore him none the less as the true Son of God, spirit of
his Spirit, proceeding from and returning to him. Thus I am a Christian
with my whole soul, and, with ardent love, bear my Saviour in my heart
as my highest model. What would all my acts be if I had not this
fundamental principle of Christianity? if I did not perform my
charitable deeds in the spirit of self-sacrifice Christ taught us, what
should I be? A sentimental adventuress, a heroine of romance, who has
one eccentric caprice today and another to-morrow; is always playing a
part, and constantly unhappy because she has no object, no purpose, in
life; for selfishness leaves us always empty and unsatisfied, while
Christianity is its most powerful opponent."
_Heinrich_ sat for some time in silence, with his eyes fixed upon the
floor; when he looked up Cornelia was gazing into his grave countenance
with an expression of affectionate inquiry,--she felt that her last
words had touched some sensitive point. _Heinrich_ passed his hand
through his hair as if he wished to banish the obtrusive thoughts that
crowded upon him.
"The poetry of Christianity has excited and enchained your fancy. It
would be useless to convince you by scientific proofs, since you have
formed a religion which is not dependent upon them."
"Certainly," laughed Cornelia.
"You _wish_ to believe, and therefore you do. You are fortunate! You
have produced a wonderful harmony between your skeptical reason and
enthusiastic heart. I admire you; for this theory of spiritual
revelation by natural means, which can go hand in hand with science, is
the best that a talented woman can appropriate. Who taught you all
this?"
"Her own harmonious soul," said Veronica. "She has a keen intellect,
and a soft, feeling heart; therefore she does not believe
unconditionally, as we are obliged to do, and yet is full of religious
devotion. Thus she found that harmony, as you call it, and restored
peace to her mind. When you know her better, you will be astonished at
the wonderful symmetry of her nature."
"I am already!" exclaimed _Heinrich_; "I never had any intellectual
pleasure which could be compared to my intercourse with you. I could
listen forever in rapturous delight to the thousand turns her thoughts
take. Tell me, Cornelia, from what noble union of wondrous hearts did
you spring, to be mentally and bodily so beautiful,--so beautiful?"
Cornelia looked at Veronica. The latter passed _Heinrich_ a cup. "Take
some tea, and I will tell you the story of my musical urn, which
interested you so much just now. You will thereby learn our whole
history, if you care to know it."
"Oh. pray tell me whatever I may be permitted to hear. You do not know
how eagerly I desire it."
"I have already told you," began Veronica, "that Cornelia is the child
of my adopted daughter. This adopted daughter, the wife of the
political martyr Erwing, was thrown upon my hands by a singular
destiny, and I thank God, that, through her and afterwards through
Cornelia, he gave my life a purpose and meaning. I enjoyed a mother's
pleasures without being compelled to suffer her pains; for when God
took my dear adopted daughter from me, my grief would have been
infinitely greater if the lost one had been mine by birth. But Cornelia
has, as yet, given me nothing but joy. She was difficult to educate,
but even the toil of reducing these chaotic talents to order was a
pleasure. That I have succeeded in doing so is a wonder to myself, for
I never had an opportunity to study these powerful characters. My
mother, to the day of her death, had a childlike heart. She was only
sixteen years older than I, and seemed like a friend and playmate
rather than a mother. The governess my father procured for me really
educated the mamma at the same time with the little daughter! This gay,
innocent youth has been the foundation of my character. My grandfather
was a Danish nobleman, who became a widower at my mother's birth, and
lived a solitary life upon his estates at Soroee, though he opened his
house to all the nobility in the neighborhood. It chanced that an
acquaintance one day introduced a friend named Albin, a native of
Holstein, who was traveling through the country. Herr von Albin, a
handsome, attractive man of fifty, was seated at dinner next to my
mother, who at that time was not quite fifteen, and she particularly
remembered that when some magnificent strawberries were served at
dessert, the gentleman assured her that much larger and finer ones grew
on his estate. This greatly astonished my mother, for she had always
believed the strawberries in her garden the best in the world.
"A few weeks after a servant summoned her to her father's room, and the
latter informed her that she would soon be married. She said, 'As you
please, dear father,' and went sorrowfully back to her governess. When,
however, on the following day Herr von Albin was presented to her as
her future bridegroom, she was greatly delighted, for she thought of
the wonderful strawberries that grew on the kind gentleman's estate.
"This Herr von Albin was my father. He loved my mother with touching
tenderness, and did everything in his power to prevent her from feeling
the great difference in their ages. He took journeys with her, and as
German society pleased her far better than the formal Danish etiquette
of those days, lived by turns upon his Holstein estates in summer, and
the North German City of B---- in winter. Thus it happens that my whole
nature is thoroughly North German, and I have also inculcated some of
it into Cornelia's mind. When I was in my fourteenth year I lost my
father, and my mother, then scarcely thirty, was still very girlish in
her appearance, and equally so in character. The death of the kind
husband whom she had loved with childlike reverence was the first
sorrow of her life.
"With the same obedience with which she had formerly married Herr von
Albin she now, at her father's command, wedded a second husband; but
this time she did not rejoice over beautiful strawberries.
"My stepfather, an attache of the Danish Embassy in N----, was very
rich; and as my father's estates were entailed an male heirs, and my
mother had also inherited little or nothing, my grandfather, whose
property likewise reverted to the crown at his death, wished by this
marriage to secure his daughter a future free from care. But whether my
mother was happy with this man I will leave you to decide. He was a
cold aristocrat, chose society which was distasteful to us, and left us
much alone at a retired country seat, where we led a life devoted to
books and belles-lettres.
"Chance made me acquainted with a young officer, who, despite his
youth, was already a widower, and the father of a little two-year-old
daughter. We loved each other, and he asked for my hand; but my
stepfather refused his consent, because the marriage did not suit his
plans for me, and perhaps, also, because he had no inclination to give
me a dowry. What a nature that young man possessed! Alas! he bore the
doom of an early death. During our stay at our country seat my mother
sometimes permitted him to visit us. She became constantly sadder and
paler, and the only hours that she seemed more animated and joyous were
those we all spent together. I sang and played upon the piano passably
well, and the choral we have just mentioned, which was peculiarly in
harmony with my Edmund's religious feelings, I sang for him again and
again. We spent many such evenings as this together, and were never
happier than when assembled around the steaming tea-urn in North German
fashion. My friend often said it would be charming if its confused
humming could be transformed into a distinct melody, for he found all
the charm of northern sentimentality in its mysterious music.
"Just at this time my stepfather suddenly died, leaving my mother a
large fortune, and there was now no further impediment to our marriage.
We wished to have my betrothed husband resign from the army at once;
but he would not consent. He wished to take part in the last great
campaign against Napoleon before he resigned himself to the happiness
of private life. We parted as betrothed lovers; I took his little
daughter from her boarding-school to my own home, to be a mother to
her, for I loved the child; but my mother clung to the little one with
peculiar affection. After the departure of my affianced husband, she
was often confined to her bed, but her still youthful and beautiful
features beamed with almost superhuman love when she clasped the
little girl in her arms. She was then thirty-eight years old, and I
two-and-twenty. Alas! it was only later that I first suspected the true
cause of my mother's quiet illness. Her poor heart had never known
love,--let me be silent." The speaker's bright eyes suddenly grew dim,
and tears ran down her pale cheeks.
"Oh, God!" murmured _Heinrich_, involuntarily.
"She was constantly thinking of what we could do to surprise Edmund on
his return," continued Veronica. "One day she said she would like to
have him find on our table an urn constructed exactly as he had
desired, and that the toy, whose idea she suggested to me, should play
his favorite choral, 'Schau hin nach Golgotha!' As I saw how greatly
she had set her heart upon it, I instantly gave the order to the
celebrated mechanician, Gebhardt, and in the course of a few months the
work was completed. Alas! it afforded her the last pleasure she ever
knew. It played for the first time one dreary autumn evening. She sat
up in bed with her arm around the little girl, and listened with
childlike devotion. 'May you solemnize a beautiful service of love with
this organ!' said she. 'Make his home-life bright and pleasant, that he
may always be glad to stay with you; believe me, a solitary wife is a
most wretched creature. Make him happy, my Veronica; he deserves it.'
'Grandmamma,' lisped the child, throwing her little arms lovingly
around the neck of the fair, youthful 'grandmother.' Her cheeks flushed
feverishly, and she concealed her tears upon the neck of the 'little
angel.' Do you know, Veronica, that I have begun to write poetry in my
old age!' she said, suddenly, with a mournful smile. Yesterday I
composed these verses:
"Thank thy God, oh, happy mortal!
Love's thy portion here below,
And, glorified in death by love,
Thy immortal part shall glow.
"Love suffered for thee on the cross,
Upon Golgotha died for thee;
Is ever near, though far away
He whom thou lov'st may be.
"Cheer thee, my heart, though here on earth
Thou seekest love in vain;
Feel that there is no lack with God;
Cry blessings on his name.
"'Oh, mother!' I exclaimed, deeply touched, 'why is this? Do you lack
love? Do we not all love you most tenderly?' Weeping bitterly, I
pressed her to my heart. Just at that moment a letter was brought in.
From him she exclaimed, broke the seal, and sank back senseless upon
the pillows. I tore the letter from her rigid hands,--it was the notice
of my lover's death. I rushed into the next room to conceal the
outbreak of my anguish from my mother, and, throwing myself upon my
knees, prayed for strength. Suddenly I heard strange sounds, which made
me start up, and, at the same time, the child screamed aloud. In mortal
terror I hurried back to find my mother in her death-agony. 'Mother,
mother,' I shrieked, despairingly, 'do not leave me alone in my
misery!' With a look of inexpressible love, she placed the little one
in my arms; I clasped them both in a wild embrace; felt the last breath
of her pure lips, and then sank back senseless, dimly hearing, as if
from another world, the air 'Schau hin nach Golgotha!' Spare me the
description of my sufferings. For a year I struggled with a disease of
the lungs, but my strong, youthful constitution obtained the victory.
Yet one tiny flower of happiness bloomed for me upon my lover's grave:
his little daughter,--his own flesh and blood,--a part of himself. I
had not wholly lost him,--was not entirely alone. Nay, the child
resembled him so much that with silent delight I saw his living image
always before me, but the double blow had so crushed my soul that I
needed and sought seclusion. I purchased a small estate in the province
of R----, where I devoted myself entirely to the sorrowful pleasure of
educating my Antonie and cherishing memories of my lover,--let people
say what they chose,--and shut myself up in my little world of feeling.
I read everything new that appeared in the kingdom of literature, and
in all found myself and my own grief. By degrees I became not only calm
but happy; the lonely life I led caused all the pictures of my memory
to assume so tangible a form that my lover and my dear mother appeared
before me,--I was surrounded by all whom I loved. Thus the dead became
alive to me, and the living, with the exception of my child, dead. The
happier I felt in these dreams the more anxiously I avoided all contact
with reality, that the delicate webs of my fancy might not be torn
asunder by its rude touch. Nor was this difficult, for no one troubled
themselves about the stranger. Beautiful scenes of nature entranced me
with their ever-varying charms; an excellent servant managed my little
household; and thus for fourteen years I lived entirely apart from the
world with my adopted daughter, my books, and my dead. This is the
reason why I seem too young for my age,--I stood still for many years
of my life. But when Antonie grew up, I perceived that I ought not to
make the bright, blooming young girl a hermit. My parents' house in
N---- was empty, and I resolved to move here and introduce my adopted
child to society; but how was I astonished to find it so entirely
different from what I had left it! Since peace had once more smiled
upon the country,--since no universal sorrow impressed its deep seal
upon every soul,--men seemed to me more selfish, more material. They
doubtless still coquetted with a certain sentimentality, but it seemed
to me that with true sorrow true feeling had also vanished. Time had
advanced, while during my long seclusion I had remained standing still;
I felt that I did not understand this world, and was even allowed to
perceive that I no longer suited it. As through my extensive course of
reading Antonie and I had obtained knowledge, and also, probably,
formed some opinions, several literary people became interested
in us, and thus, with Antonie's full consent, I again withdrew from
society, to collect around me a circle of men and women who possessed
similar tastes. The unfortunate republican, Erwing, then a quiet,
much-respected man and a distinguished author, was also introduced to
me. He loved and married Antonie; Cornelia was born the following year.
At that time Erwing was already developing his dangerous political
tendencies. He was a noble man, and sacrificed himself to his
principles, and, alas! his wife also, who died of grief for him. God
took her from the world; her death broke down all the barriers that had
hitherto restrained Erwing, and his sorrow for her increased his
political wrath to its height. Soon after, the unhappy man was obliged
to fly to America, where he died, leaving the orphan, to whom, since
her father's flight, I have filled a mother's place, as I did to her
mother. In so doing I have fulfilled a sweet and sacred duty to my dead
love, who lives and hovers around me in eternal youth, and blesses my
efforts in behalf of his granddaughter!"
The old maid paused, with cheeks crimsoned with blushes; she had folded
her hands over her knitting, and seemed wholly absorbed in memories of
the past. Cornelia sat lost in thought, with her head resting on her
hand.
"What a face, so victorious in its calm pride!" said _Heinrich_ to
himself; "what hair, what a neck, what an arm! What movements, and
lines! What grace! Yes, it is the _soul_ that animates this frame, and
warm blood that gleams through it so rosily!"
He laid his open palm before her on the table; she placed her hand in
it. There was nothing very singular in the action, but her cheeks
glowed; it seemed as if he was drawing her head towards him, as if she
must bend forward yet he held her hand calmly in his. Veronica,
absorbed in her memories, rose to get _Heinrich_ a picture of her
lover. They were alone! A new expression flashed over Ottmar's
face,--_Heinrich_ and _Henri_ had changed places! the moment had
tempted the latter irresistibly. He slowly drew Cornelia's hand towards
him, and bent his handsome head to hers; his eyes beamed with
inexpressible love, and his voice trembled with fervor as he whispered:
"Poor heart, how mach you must have suffered, must still suffer, in the
memory of your unhappy father! Oh, if you could but look into the
depths of this soul and know how I feel for you!--oh, love!" He pressed
his lips gently upon her hand, and let them rest there, without kissing
it.
Cornelia scarcely breathed; the touch thrilled through her whole frame
like an electric shock. She felt that a new happiness, never known
before, was entering her heart, and yielded to it without the slightest
movement. Then the organ slowly played the strophe, "Selbst Engel
weinen," and died away. _Henri_ raised his head, and asked, gently,
"What do you think of me now?"
She could not speak, but looked into his eyes with an expression so
dreamy and ardent that _Henri_ needed no words. His quick ear heard
Veronica's approach, and he leaned back in his chair and attracted the
attention of Cornelia, who was completely absorbed in her own feelings.
The old lady showed _Henri_ her lover's miniature, and found it
perfectly natural that after these reminiscences Cornelia should burst
into tears. Cornelia herself did not know their cause, for she really
had no sorrowful memories; the things we hear in early childhood do not
make so vivid an impression; and her youth, under Veronica's care, had
been a happy one. Far less was it the recollection of her first love,
for this now seemed to her like a dream. What was it, then? What had
happened? He had told her that he pitied her; that was very natural:
she had given him her hand and he had kissed it,--no, not even kissed
it, he had only allowed his lips to rest upon it; but it was perhaps
that very thing,--how strange!
_Henri's_ accustomed eyes read all these thoughts in Cornelia's face,
and with exultant satisfaction saw the net resting upon the wings of
her soul. "Cornelia," he said, softly, while Veronica was counting her
stitches, "you are reflecting upon the nature of sympathy again, but
you will not fathom it yet!"
"You are right," she answered.
She had been playing mechanically with one of her rings, and it now
fell from her-hand. _Henri_ picked it up, and, with a smile, replaced
it on her finger. Again she blushed. "Why?" she asked unconsciously.
"Our child is sad," he said to Veronica, with the winning expression
which had always prevailed upon women to devote their lives to him.
"What can we do to cheer her?"
Cornelia, as if spell-bound by the magic of these tones, made no reply.
"How kind you are!" said Veronica.
"Are you angry because I call you 'our child'?" asked _Henri_, with
admirably assumed simplicity. "I am becoming intimate too rapidly, am I
not? Be kind, and attribute it to my warm, truthful nature. Sooner or
later we shall meet more familiarly, I am sure; so why delay and so
lose the precious moments for the sake of troublesome forms. I would
gladly take you to my heart as carefully and protectingly as--a father.
Fraeulein Veronica will allow me to do so, I am sure. Be our dear child,
and let me take some small share in your education."
He arose and stood before her in all his gentlemanly dignity, bent down
and kindly took her hands; but the quick pulsations of his heart, which
Cornelia heard close beside her ear, accorded strangely with these
paternal words. This was the well-calculated charm he had for her: the
manly, noble superiority which expressed itself in this fatherly
authority, and involuntarily extorted a childlike reverence; and the
enthusiastic, almost boyish, tenderness which bowed before her to raise
her to giddy heights.
"Teach me, then but permit me to do the same by you," she said, with an
embarrassed smile, rising from her chair.
"Certainly," replied _Henri_; "I need it more than you. Oh, I will
follow you blindly; the words of those pure lips shall be my oracle!"
His eyes-rested upon the young girl's fresh, beautiful mouth with
ardent longing. He felt that it would be better to go, and allow the
impression he had made to produce its effect upon her in silence. With
a violent effort he released Cornelia's hands and hastily took his
leave. As he opened the door he heard his name called gently: he
turned; Cornelia had followed him a step and asked, with the most
lovable frankness,--
"When will you come again?"
"Cornelia!" cried _Henri_, and was about to rush back to her; but
_Heinrich_, with a tremendous effort, checked the excited feelings,
made her a low bow, said, in a fatherly tone, "I will come as soon as I
can; I cannot fix any positive time now," and left the room without
looking back.
"What was that?" asked Cornelia, covering her eyes with her hand. "Did
it not seem as if another person was speaking from his lips? Did he not
call my name so eagerly, and the next moment take leave of me so
distantly, so coldly? Can a man's mood change so suddenly? Whims can
alter in an instant, I know that by myself; but what we feel,
what is deeply and firmly rooted our hearts, we cannot so suddenly
deny,--it cannot yield to a caprice. Which is true, his warmth or his
coldness?--or is it possible that they can both exist? Ah, do not
question, incredulous heart! What he has given you to-day is true: let
that satisfy you; and where you cannot understand him, trust him." With
a heavy sigh she threw herself on her knees before Veronica and laid
her head on her lap. "Ah, Veronica, how could I live without the man
you loved!"
"What a submission!" thought _Henri_, as he walked towards home in the
proud conviction of a certain victory.
"Take care!" said _Heinrich_: "this submission is no amorous weakness,
but the implicit confidence every innocent, loving girl places in the
man she adores. If you ever abuse this faith, you will perceive with
terror her power of resistance."