"Yes, it's a pity for silly girls to allow themselves to be so blinded.
If they thought more of their honor, they wouldn't meet with
misfortune. And the poor children always have to suffer for it. This
one was put out to board with strangers, who neglected it so that it
fell sick and died. The girl to whom it belonged was obliged to go out
to service again because her lover deserted her before the child was
born, so she couldn't trouble herself about it, and was obliged to
leave it to die."
"Poor, poor child!" thought Cornelia, looking at the grave with tearful
eyes. "Usually when a child is born it is received with joy and love;
but shame stood beside your cradle, shame hovers over your lonely
grave. No happy father took you in his arms, no gladsome mother's eyes
answered your first trusting smile; nobody wanted you, and the only one
who loved you was obliged to deny you until God had compassion upon you
and took you to himself. Now your forsaken mother may perhaps be
stretching out her arms despairingly to grasp the empty air, and must
conceal her anguish as deeply as her darling has just been buried in
the earth. Terrible fate! May God protect every loving woman from it!"
Tears flowed more and more quickly down her cheeks; she turned away and
wept out the emotion that had seized upon her on the graves of Veronica
and Reinhold. As she went home she noticed for the first time that it
was misty and dreary, and entered the house in a graver mood than she
had left it.
"Marie," she said to her chambermaid, "while I was at the churchyard it
occurred to me that this is Veronica's birthday. Order some wreaths for
her grave; I wish to have it adorned on such anniversaries."
The hours dragged slowly away. Ottmar did not appear at the usual time;
but instead the evening paper announced his appointment as minister.
That was why he had been so absent-minded yesterday, why his words had
contained a vague promise of a speedy decision of her fate; so this was
the secret. Surely the turning-point in her life must now be reached;
he had obtained what he desired, and might dare to marry. Her heart
beat more and more violently. Quarter of an hour after quarter of an
hour passed away. He could not come today: he probably had too much to
do; and yet she longed so anxiously to see him.
Her servants asked whether they should carry the wreaths the gardener
had just skillfully arranged to the grave. "Yes, go," said Cornelia,
absently; "no one will come to-day now." But scarcely had the maids
left the house when the bell was impatiently pulled. Cornelia opened
the door with trembling expectation, and sank upon Ottmar's breast.
_Henri_ had just met the two servants in the street. Had Cornelia
ventured to send them away when she knew he was coming? or was she
preparing to leave the house? He could form no conclusion, but
explained the incident in his own favor; knew himself to be alone with
Cornelia, and gave himself up entirely to his own excited feelings.
"You are a minister," she began. "You have now obtained that for which
you struggled. It will afford you no greater happiness than your
present position; but I perceive this throws too heavy a weight into
the scale not to outbalance my counsels."
"Come here, my Cornelia do not let us discuss such matters now," said
_Henri_, drawing her upon his knee. "I can do nothing to-day but look
at and caress you. Do not grudge me the sweet refreshment after long
hours of burdensome ceremonies and fatiguing business. My mind is so
wearied that I can no longer think of anything, only feel that I clasp
you to my heart, that you are mine, wholly mine! Is it not so?"
Cornelia leant silently upon his breast. "At last, at last he will
utter the word I have so longed to hear!" she thought, clinging to him
in a fond embrace. He pressed his lips to her ear, and whispered so low
that she could not understand him, but felt he must be making promises
of eternal love and tenderness, while his hot breath bewildered her
like the fumes of opium. Then a word fell upon her ear more distinctly,
causing a thrill never felt before. He had called her his "wife."
Overwhelmed with happiness she closed her eyes, her head sank upon his
shoulder, and tears of unspeakable delight stole from beneath her long
lashes. In this name, for which she knew but one meaning, he had
expressed the fulfillment of her fairest hopes. She remained in this
blissful confidence a moment longer. _Henri's_ voice grew still more
persuasive, fell still more distinctly upon Cornelia's ear. Suddenly
the veil which had surrounded her soul was torn away; she was forced to
hear, forced to understand, what she had never been willing to believe.
Springing up, she stood before _Henri_ as if frozen into a statue;
there was neither life nor color in the face blanched to the pallor of
marble, save in the eyes, which rested with increasing firmness and
brilliancy upon his startled countenance.
_Henri_ had prepared himself for an outburst of indignation or grief;
this speechless amazement, this frozen horror, first revealed to him
how deep her trust had been, and how he had ascribed many things to
levity, or believed them a triumph of love, which had been rooted
wholly in the security of this unshaken confidence. He perceived he had
prepared Cornelia badly for his plans; but it was too late: he could
not unsay what had been said. At last her lips moved, and word after
word began to struggle through them.
"So this is the meaning you give to the sacred words 'my wife,'--in
this way I shall not be denied the privilege of becoming yours? This
relation does not dishonor--the--minister!"
"Cornelia," cried _Henri_, with a slight shudder, "not this scorn! I
cannot bear it. Do you not understand that I have inviolable duties
towards my position and the dignity with which my prince trustfully
invested me? that there are barriers far more difficult for a man to
overleap than for a woman to pass the bounds prescribed by what we call
morality? Speak, Cornelia: could you expect me, the representative of
the highest aristocracy in the country, the supporter of the most rigid
despotic principles of government, to suddenly present to the
astonished world as my wife the daughter of a fugitive traitor, who has
herself hitherto moved exclusively in plebeian and democratic circles?
Would not your pure brow flush beneath the contemptuous glances which
would see only your origin, not yourself? I could not present you at
court; and would it not be far more humiliating if, as my lawful wife,
you were excluded from the circles to which I belong, if you were
always compelled to conceal yourself in the darkness of obscurity, like
one proscribed, while feeling that the lofty name you bore was a
burning-glass to draw upon you the fiery rays of public curiosity?"
Cornelia pressed her hand upon her heart as if she felt the stroke of a
dagger.
"Could you bear this ignominy?--could you suffer your husband to bear
it with you? You know that to me you are a queen; but the world in
which I live would never weary of preparing humiliations for you that
even I, as your husband, could not always prevent, and which would
perhaps lower my proud, noble love in my own eyes. All this you can
avoid if you will remain outside the sphere into which our marriage
would bring you, if you will live in seclusion as the sweet wife of my
heart, unknown and unnoticed, but surrounded by the glory with which a
great self-sacrificing love invests a woman. That I would be a faithful
husband to you, my Cornelia, I swear by every solemn oath. No other
shall ever stand at my side; no one shall bear the name which, before
God, belongs to you, and which I dare not give you before the world. I
will open a heaven of bliss to you, and at the end of our days you
shall tell me whether, in the true, real sense of the word, you have
not been my wife, whether I have not deserved the sublime confidence
with which, without the customary guarantees, you placed the happiness
of your life in my hands. Come, Cornelia, come to my heart." And, as he
uttered the words, he threw himself on his knees before her, extending
his arms imploringly.
Cornelia still stood motionless. She saw him at her feet, looking so
noble with that mute entreaty on his lips, gazed at him for a second,
then, like a despairing cry of agony, the words burst forth,--
"Oh, Heinrich, why, why must it come to this?"
"Why? How can it be otherwise?" cried _Henri_, starting up. "Cornelia,
be more merciful than the fate that denies you to me. Could I reject my
prince's call to the aid of the throne, withdraw my powers from the
service of the state at the moment they were most needed? Ought I to
have made such a sacrifice to my love when I was sure you would
joyfully offer the lesser one, which is necessary to our happiness?
What have you to fear? You are living in exceptional circumstances,
have no one's permission to ask, have told me a hundred times that you
despised the judgment of the world, that you felt within your own heart
a higher power, which justified you in taking your own course. If I had
believed any woman capable of a love which had sufficient morality in
self to be able to cast aside all laws without degenerating, it would
have been yourself; and you are such a woman, you alone. In your lofty
breast human nature has developed free and unfettered, as it came from
the hand of the Creator; it does not judge according to the ordinances
of the church-police, or so-called moral tradition, but, pure and
undefiled, unquestioningly follows the guidance of the love which
pervades all creation, and which mankind first disfigured and chained
by arbitrary laws."
"Indeed!" said Cornelia. "And our ideas of virtue, of the sacredness of
marriage, they would lack all firm foundation had not God placed a
guard upon our passions in our own breasts."
"Cornelia, can _you_ ask such questions? They are a protection to the
weak, of course. Marriage, as a sacrament, is a great institution,
which the infirmities of human nature rendered necessary; but for those
strong exceptional natures that feel themselves nearer the deity it is
an empty form."
"So would be morality, honor, family happiness,--all would be mere
illusions, and our most immediate aim nothing more than to become
thinking animals. This would bring us nearest to our divine origin."
"Do not scorn me thus, Cornelia; I do not deserve it, for I am in
solemn earnest. Is marriage, then, merely a civil union formed under
the eyes of the church-police? Is it not rooted in those who truly love
each other? Cannot they, without marriage-certificate or altar, found a
true, peaceful family life apart from society, and therefore the more
untroubled? If they have become truly one in spirit, do they need the
compulsion of the world and the church to remain faithful to each
other? Is not marriage a mere superfluous ceremony to such beings? and
is not a relation that depends upon the most profound mental and
physical sympathy, and endures through its own power, more moral than a
so-called legal marriage, which exists only in form where two persons
are united that are repulsive to each other,--two souls that do not
understand each other,--where people seek refuge from despair in crime,
and, after committing infidelities, play the old falsehood to
themselves and the world until loathing and constraint stupefy their
souls and the individual sinks into a mere animal? Is this more moral,
Cornelia? Could the church consecrate what was commonplace, disunited,
separated? Is not such an alliance a greater blasphemy than if two
beings, with the loftiest feelings, give themselves to each other for a
life of free love and voluntary faithfulness?"
"And would it be blasphemy if two such beings sanctioned their alliance
before the world by a marriage, if they made that which is hallowed in
itself saved in the eyes of society?" asked Cornelia.
_Henri's_ eyes fell before her glance. "It would not be blasphemy; and
any one whom circumstances permitted to do so would be very wrong not
to avail himself of the beautiful form, with its many benefits. But
where it would disturb a whole life, natures like ours have a right to
dispense with it."
"And wherein does this disturbance of the whole life consist? In the
possible loss of the portfolio! This is the lofty object to which
everything else must yield, even the feeling whose 'divine power,'
according to your views, might dispense with the sanction of the law."
"Oh, no, my angel! Shall I love you less if you are mine of your own
free choice? On the contrary, I shall but hold you the more tenderly in
my heart. You are too noble, too unselfish, to compel me to sacrifice
either the proud goal of my efforts, or the happiness of my love, when
it is in your power to afford me both."
"But if I do not possess this unselfishness,--if I asked your hand as a
proof of your integrity,--then I must yield to the interests of your
ambition, and the statesman would conquer the lover."
"Cornelia, I no longer know you. Is this the self-sacrificing woman who
has always cared only for others, never for herself? and could you now
suddenly transform yourself into a calculating egotist, who bargains
and higgles for a price, and demands the sacrifice of a whole career in
return for her love? Cornelia, an unconditional sacrifice, a complete
forgetfulness of self, might have won me to anything, but this is not
the way to obtain my hand."
He looked up and recoiled a step in horror, for before him stood the
gorgon he had once imagined in those eyes. The disheveled hair seemed
to move; her gaze rested upon _Henri_ with petrifying power. At last
the tension of the nerves relaxed, the blood surged into her face, and
her noble indignation flushed her cheek with as deep a crimson as it
had before been pale. "Heinrich!" she cried, "I have borne your
fiendish dialectics long enough! I wished to know you thoroughly, and
therefore forced myself to be calm. Now this must cease; the measure is
full! Do you really believe I would so far humiliate myself as to
bargain and beg for your hand? Do you really suppose the sacrifice you
ask would be too great for me, if I could justify it before God and my
own conscience,--if you were worthy of it? That you are not you have
now shown me. I was obliged to hear the answer you gave me with my own
ears, or I should not have believed it; therefore I asked the question.
I was forced to learn your falsehood from your own lips, to be able to
offer you the only thing you deserve, my scorn. Yes, my nature is so
healthful that I have strength to thrust evil from me, though my very
life should cleave to it. Oh, Heinrich, that it must come to this! You
have stripped the bloom from my existence, stolen the most sacred
emotions of a young, trusting heart, wished to take from me honor,
faith, all that affords support and protection to a woman, torn the
wings from my soul to chain me, and then, when you wished to disown me,
to say 'fly away.' Oh, treacherous soul-murderer, beautiful and winning
as no other can ever be, for whose creation an angel must have mated
with a fiend, I love and hate you with equal fervor! I would gladly
ennoble you, yet feel already how you have corrupted me. Yes, I
understand that no one resisted you,--that you conquered wherever you
went; but here, proud man, is the limit of your victory. The shame you
destined for me does not humiliate me, for I am conscious I have not
deserved it. See, it rouses every hostile power within me. I feel, with
a shudder, how they are taking possession of my heart, calling
mockingly in my ears, 'Count Ottmar's mistress,' and painting
scenes,--scenes which might well drive me to madness. And there stands
the man who loves me, and from pure affection dooms me to such
tortures; who will not suffer me to stand by his side before the world;
will not give me his name in return for the life he demands: and all
this is from pure love; and I,--why do I not from pure love thrust a
knife into his false breast to avenge the law he derides?"
"So that is it? Because I will not make you Countess Ottmar! That is
what causes you such bitter grief? Oh, Cornelia, you are far more
haughty than virtuous!"
"Oh, my God, how have I deserved this?" cried Cornelia. "Heinrich,
Heinrich, vengeance will come upon you! You will some day be compelled
to answer before God for the heart you have crushed! You wish by your
sophisms to drive me to sacrifice my virtue, merely to prove that I am
noble and unselfish, that I love the man and not the count. Oh, it is a
clever calculation, and may already have led many a gentle heart
astray! But it recoils from my firm reason, for the supposition is
false, Heinrich. If your love and esteem are only to be obtained by
sin, you are so evil that you are not worth the trouble of winning.
Believe that I am more haughty than virtuous; believe that my anger is
only roused because I am not to become Countess Ottmar; I cannot
convince you to the contrary, for God and his commands are higher than
you, and God sees my heart and knows how it bleeds and quivers!"
"Do not be so violent, Cornelia; you cannot leave me. You are mine; own
that you are. You have inhaled the sweet poison from my lips, and your
soul absorbed in full draughts the fiery language of my passion. You
have foreseen all the joys of love; womanhood has unfolded its perfect
flower. You cannot go back. Come, my dove, you are fluttering timidly,
and yet feel that you are bound. Come, my angel, demand my vows; I will
give them all to you as if before the altar. Does not Christ himself,
to whom you pray, say, 'Where two are gathered together in my name,
there am I in the midst of them'?"
"Hold, blasphemer, to whom nothing is sacred!" cried Cornelia,
releasing herself from his arms in mortal terror; and with sudden
resolution she rushed to the door, along the passage, down the
staircase,--heard him following her, and hurried through the dark
streets. She did not know herself what she wanted, or where she was
going; "away, away from him" was her only thought. A door stood ajar,
and a faint light streamed through the opening. It was the church of
the Jesuits. She fled into it. The house of God was empty, only
a priest was praying at the altar beneath the red glow of the
ever-burning lamp. _Henri's_ steps echoed behind her. She rushed up to
the dark figure, and sank senseless before him.
"Heaven has apparently chosen me to be your good spirit, Count Ottmar,
since I always stand in your way when you are in the act of doing
things you might afterwards regret," said the Jesuit, bending over
Cornelia.
In the haste of the pursuit _Henri_ had recognized Father Severinus too
late. Now he stood before him in amazement, and beheld his precious
treasure lying senseless in the arms of his mortal enemy. _Henri_ was
painfully embarrassed. "Severinus," said he, "I assure you this whole
scene is the result of the folly of an innocent, enthusiastic girl, and
that you may safely trust me to escort her home."
Severinus gazed with increasing admiration at Cornelia's pure, pale
features, as he aided her to rise. "It depends on the decision of the
lady herself whether she will go with you, or place herself under my
protection."
"Cornelia!" cried _Henri_, in tones so loud, so full of agony, that she
opened her heavy eyes. "Cornelia, angel of my life, do not abandon me!
Come with me, and forgive me for having alarmed you. Give me your dear
hand, and let me take you home. Cornelia, have you no longer a single
glance for your Heinrich?"
She stood trembling before him with downcast eyes, and did not move.
"If this reverend gentleman will take me, I will ask him to accompany
me. With you, Heinrich, I shall go no more."
"Come, my daughter," said Severinus, with inexpressible gentleness.
Deep grief, such as he had never felt before, overmastered _Henri_. He
tried to kiss her hand, but she withdrew it. "Will you act in
opposition to the dictates of your own heart, Cornelia?" he exclaimed.
"My love, do not cause yourself so much pain. See, you are pitying me
almost more than I pity myself. Be more womanly, Cornelia; you cannot
treat the man in whom your life is rooted thus. This is not the place
for such discussions. I will forgive your want of confidence and your
having exposed me to this gentleman in such a manner. To-morrow, my
Cornelia, I shall hope to find you more reasonable."
"More reasonable? You will never find me again."
"Cornelia!"
"I think you will feel yourself that between us no reconciliation is
possible. We are parted!"
"Cornelia! and you have loved me!"
"Because I have loved, still love--I fear you," she breathed almost
inaudibly. "Should I need to fly from you if I hated you as I ought?"
She fixed her eyes once more on the wondrously beautiful features, now
ennobled by pain; tear after tear rolled slowly down her cheeks; she
shivered violently, and sank sobbing at the feet of a life-size figure
of Christ, resting her burning head against the cold stone.
"Oh, Cornelia," whispered _Henri_, his voice trembling with emotion;
"unhappy child, why do you lacerate your own heart and mine so cruelly?
Tell me, wherefore do you now suffer all this? wherefore do you
renounce me, do you bear this anguish?"
"Wherefore?" she said, looking up to the Christ to which she still
clung. "Ask Him. He will teach you."
Severinus had stood a little apart, watching Cornelia as if in a dream;
he was deeply moved. With a manner more tender than _Henri_ had ever
seen in him, he now approached and offered her his arm. She obeyed him
almost unconsciously, and passed slowly by Ottmar. The latter threw
himself before her, and pressed her dress to his lips.
"Girl, girl, I will not leave you! It is not possible that you can cast
me off,--it is unnatural! Cornelia, am I to lose you? can it be? will
you take all the joy and happiness from my life?"
Cornelia stood with her hands pressed upon her bosom, struggling for
breath.
"Have you no longer a word, a glance, for me? can you see the head you
have so often cradled an your bosom at your feet, and not bend and
raise it forgivingly to your heart? will you not look smilingly into my
eyes, and say, 'Enough of punishment, I am appeased'? Draw your arm
from that stranger's and place it around my neck, and I will bear you
through the world as lovingly, as watchfully, as a god. See, I kiss the
spot where your heart is beating, and it does not burst; its blood does
not gush forth upon my breast with infinite sorrow at the thought of a
separation. You do not stir; you let me plead, let me extend my arms
despairingly to you, and will not throw yourself into them,--say no
word of compassion to the man whom you have called a thousand times by
every fond name love could utter."
"Heinrich! Heinrich!" cried Cornelia, throwing her arms around him and
pressing her lips to his, "this is more than human nature can bear!"
"Oh, my Cornelia! Do you then feel you are mine?--that all your
purposes are false?--that nothing is true and eternal except our love?"
"My daughter," said Severinus, gently, "be steadfast as you were just
now."
Cornelia looked up and brushed the tears from her face. "I thank you; I
am steadfast," she replied, with firm resolution. "Good-night,
Heinrich, _for the last time_."
She turned to leave the church with Severinus.
_Henri_ started up like a wounded tiger; all tenderness was transformed
into fury. "Go, then!" he shouted, trembling with rage; "you are no
woman,--you are a fiend! You have deserted _me_, not I _you_; now we
are quits."
The young girl tottered out of the church with Severinus without
casting another glance behind.
Both reached Cornelia's house in silence. Severinus paused. "Command
me, Fraeulein. Shall I leave you alone, or can I be of any further
service to you? A young girl doubtless needs protection against such a
man as Ottmar."
"Do you know him?" asked Cornelia.
"I do."
"May I ask you to come in with me?"
"Most joyfully."
The servants, on their return, had found the house open, and were in
the greatest anxiety about Cornelia. Her maid came to meet her, crying,
"Oh, heavens, how you look!"
They entered the drawing-room, the apartment so short a time ago the
scene of peace and joy; whose atmosphere was still pervaded with
_Henri's_ glowing breath. There lay the gloves he had forgotten in his
haste. Her tears burst forth afresh. It seemed as if she had just come
from his funeral, and could not part from these last sad tokens of
his life. She mutely motioned Severinus to be seated; she could not
speak,--could not express her emotions in words. Severinus understood
her thoroughly, and watched her in silence. She sat with bowed bead,
speechless and pale; her hands resting on her lap; her loosened tresses
falling around her, wet with tears. She still saw the impression made
on the soft carpet where he had knelt before her; there lay a velvet
ribbon he had torn from her arm; with a deep blush she looked up at the
priest, as if he could read her thoughts. Now, for the first time, she
noticed his delicate features, the melancholy expression of his large
dark eyes, and gazed at him more earnestly. With an involuntary motion
he pushed the hair from his brow, and a broad scar became visible.
"You are Severinus!" she exclaimed, starting up and seizing both his
hands.
"Did you not know it?" he asked, in astonishment.
"No, I did not hear your name just now; but I think I once saw you in a
brighter hour than this."
"In the churchyard a few months ago."
"Yes. Ah, it was a fleeting happiness!" she murmured. "It is strange
that we should meet. Oh, I salute you: the only person of whom Heinrich
always spoke with reverence, whom God has sent to be my preserver!"
"May the Almighty grant that I shall prove so! But what can I do for
you? Will you raise me to the rank of your friend, that as such I may
console you, since I am not permitted to bestow the blessings of my
ecclesiastical office upon a Protestant?"
"How do you know I am of the Lutheran faith?"
"Because I have long known you, long watched your quiet labors in the
prison; and of late, since the report of your relations with Ottmar
went abroad, prayed that the Almighty might save the honor of a being
whom he had created or his glory, if at any time she was in danger."
"A report? Oh, God! had matters already gone so far with me? Ah, this
despicable world!"
"Calm yourself, my daughter. Do not accuse the world: you yourself are
not wholly blameless. Had you submitted more to the laws of womanly
custom, everything might now be very different."
Cornelia covered her face. "Alas, I believed all men as pure as
myself!"
"You are right. If you had been less innocent, you would have paid more
attention to appearances. Yet you now see yourself where it leads when
a woman breaks down the barriers that protect her. If you had belonged
to our church, and had a confessor whom you trusted, he would have
called your attention betimes to the dangers that threatened you, and
spared you many a bitter pang."
"Alas, many faithful friends warned me, but I would not listen: I had
no thought for anything except this man. I was bound by a magic spell,
which permitted me only to breathe with his breath, live in his life. I
had forgotten God and the world for him; and therefore I am now
punished."
"You recognize the hand of God, my child. Ah, yes! I know it rests
heavily upon those he loves. You had suffered yourself to become
absorbed too thoughtlessly in the passions of earth, and therefore he
tore you away to the purer sphere of self-sacrifice and sorrow. Many an
earthly happiness can still bloom for you, but you will be purified and
enjoy it with grateful consciousness. This is the blessing of your
sorrow."
"Oh, how nobly you speak! Go on," pleaded Cornelia, clasping her hands
and kneeling like a little child beside the arm-chair which Severinus
was seated.
"You have conquered, my daughter, and your heart bleeds from honorable
wounds; yet do not imagine that the contest is ended with this one
victory: it will not save you. In the languor into which the soul falls
after great moral efforts, it is all the more defenseless against a
fresh assault. You must leave here, must withdraw into solitude, where,
as your days form the links of a continuous chain of self-sacrifice,
you will obtain a quiet, unassuming victory over your passions. In the
stillness of a magnificent, lonely region, you will once more hear the
gentle voices in which God speaks to mankind. Beneath shady trees, and
beside cool brooks, the tumult of the blood will be allayed, the life
and labors of millions of innocent creatures will employ your fancy,
lead you back to simplicity and childlike faith, and with devout
reverence you will receive the duty that takes up its abode in every
purified soul."
"Yes, reverend sir, you are right: I need repentance and rest; and balm
for all sorrows can be found only in beautiful nature. I must leave
here; but where shall I go? I have traveled very little; know not
whither to turn; and since my engagement to Ottmar have become so much
estranged from all my friends that I could not now ask any one to
accompany me; besides, I know of no one whom I would suffer to look
into my heart. You are the only person whom a strange accident has made
my confidant, you understand, and in these few moments have become so
necessary to me that it would be very difficult for me to part with
you. Help, counsel me."
"You still have a faithful maid?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, promote her to be a 'companion,' and take me for your
fatherly guide, if you believe I know how to judge and treat you in the
present state of your soul."
"What! would you devote your precious time to me?"
"If you need me, yes."
"If I need you? Oh, reverend sir, how can I thank you, how can I reward
you for a sympathy of which I am so unworthy?"
"To save your immortal soul, to reconcile you with God, is the only
reward and gratitude I ask. I am only doing my duty if I aid your
erring spirit to find its home again."
"Oh, my friend, you arouse an emotion never felt before! I never knew
my parents. Let me find in you that of which I have so long been
deprived: a father on whose heart I can weep out my sorrows. Alas, I
have never enjoyed this blessing I know not what it is when a child,
overwhelmed with remorse, falls at its father's feet, and the latter,
kindly absolving it from its guilt, says, 'Come, you are forgiven!' I
have sinned deeply; yet if I had had my parents, everything would have
been different. Father Severinus, can you enter into an orphan's
feelings? Ah, one who, clasped in the arms of his family, has never
lacked love, cannot know what it is to grow up alone, without that warm
affection, that blissful interchange of parental and filial love, and,
with an overflowing heart, which in its ardor could contain a world,
find only sober friendship and partial understanding! My dear Veronica
was an angel! I owe her all the good qualities I possess: she reared me
lovingly, and treated me like a mother; but she had not a mother's
affection, that rich, gushing tenderness which a warm, childish heart
demands. I did not need an angel, but a noble, mature human being, and
strict discipline. My powers soon carried me beyond her narrow
intellectual sphere; she became more and more beneath me mentally, and
indulged me wonderfully. I remained an obedient child, and loved her
devotedly; but she could not give me what I required. An unfortunate
youthful fancy passed over me like a dream. My aspiring mind knew no
bounds; my thirst for love vainly sought satisfaction, in society, in
toiling for the poor and miserable. Then I met Heinrich, with his
ardor, his winning charm; and all the affection a child has for its
father and mother, all the passion a woman can feel, I had for him. Now
came the result of my education. Always habituated to do as I pleased,
I despised the commands of custom, the warnings of friends. After being
so long deprived of love, it burst over me like a flood: I gave myself
up to it blindly. Perhaps I thereby forfeited my lover's respect, and
apparently justified him in inflicting upon me the humiliation from
which I fled to your protection, sir." She sighed heavily. "Ah, thank
God that I could pour out my heart to you! For the first time in my
life I feel the happiness of confessing a fault with remorseful sorrow,
divesting my soul of its pride, and placing myself in the hands of a
merciful judge! Impose the punishment, and I will bear it; tell me the
penance, and I will perform it; but then, then bend down to me and tell
me as my father would have done, 'Come; you are forgiven'!"
She laid her clasped hands upon the arm of the chair, and looked at
Severinus imploringly. The latter sat absorbed in thought, gazing into
her face.
"My dear child, you give me the right to punish and pardon; I can only
make use of the latter privilege. Your intellectual development, as you
have described it to me, excuses your relations with Ottmar, and your
pathetic submission to this unprincipled man. I, too, was orphaned; I,
too, have wandered through the world with a loving heart, and never
found what I sought. To me also men have seemed cold and empty; they
did not respond either to my ideas or feelings. But what drew you down
raised me; the overmastering impulse led me to a purer sphere. In our
church, Cornelia, reigns the man-born God. I could seize upon him,
throw myself into his arms, and there find the love, the condescension,
I needed. Our church alone is the bridge which unites the Deity with
the earth. The symbols, Cornelia, are the steps by which the clumsy
human mind, so long as it is fettered by temporal ideas, climbs upward
to the supernatural. Even the most sinful man can reach God, if he
makes the symbols his own. While your church requires a purified
spiritual stand-point in order to give consolation and edification,
ours bends down to the man imprisoned in sensuality and leads him
upward, step by step, gradually removing him from his sinful
condition." He paused and looked at Cornelia, then continued: "These
blessings fell to my lot. My heart also bled when it tore itself away
from all the human ties entwined about it; I, too, Cornelia, have
struggled until I resisted the false allurements, and so spiritualized
myself that the world became dead, and the kingdom of God a living
thing to me."
"Oh," exclaimed Cornelia, "I shall never bring myself to that! The
world dead! No longer love this beautiful earth, the master-piece of
God! No, I cannot; it would be ungrateful to him who created it."
"I do not ask that, my child; I am not one of those bigoted priests who
believe that men were made only to pray, that the pious and chaste
alone are the elect, and the others the mere wretched laborers of
creation, destined to propagate the race. Such a thought is far from
me. Whomsoever. God destines to be his servant he calls; and let those
whom he does not rejoice in the world for which they were born, and
serve God by doing good in their own sphere. I will only warn you not
to forget the Giver in the gifts; to remember the Dispenser while you
enjoy his alms, is a duty you children of the world so easily neglect.
This I will teach you to fulfill, and show you that it does not detract
from happiness, but hallows and strengthens it. If you had thought more
of God when he gave you Ottmar's love, you would have been more
discreet, and perhaps matters would never have gone so far."
"Ah, that is terribly true!" sobbed Cornelia.
"Calm yourself, my child; I do not wish to burden your poor heart still
more heavily. You were innocent, and Ottmar's influence was injurious
to you. No mortal has a right to decide whether you would have been
able to avoid this; I least of all, for I know Ottmar's personal power.
I, too, trusted him, and was betrayed, for he is no man's friend, not
even his own!"
"Unhappy man! Created in the image of God, so handsome, so noble, so
capable of giving happiness, and yet a living lie, a deceitful phantom,
which irresistibly allures us, and, as soon as we wish to hold it;
melts into thin air. Do you understand, Severinus, that one may love
him with all the strength of one's life, and when parted from him be
but a broken bough which can do nothing but wither?"
"I understand it, for no other was ever so dear to me. I hoped to make
him an instrument for the advancement of the good cause, thought God
had given me in him a being to whom the heart might still be permitted
to pay the tribute of human feelings, aided with admiration in the
development of his great talents, and nursed him with tender anxiety. I
listened to his breathing while he slept, watched him like a brother,
and saw with delight that his health gradually improved. When he came
up to me with beaming eyes, and said, 'My dear Severinus, how shall I
thank you?' my heart swelled with proud delight, and I clasped him in
my arms." He paused, covered his eyes with his hand, and continued, in
a trembling voice: "And when I was compelled to lose him, such sorrow
seized upon me that I struggled as if the foul fiend had possession of
him and I must wrest Heinrich's soul from his grasp. It was the
punishment that befell me because my love did not still belong
exclusively to Heaven, as it ought. I endeavored to disarm his malice
against the order as much as possible; I had nurtured the serpent, so
it was my duty to deprive it of its venom, and thus I was forced to
pursue as an enemy one who had been the dearest person on earth to me.
Believe me, my daughter, your tears are not the only ones which have
been shed for him."
Cornelia seized Severinus's hand with deep emotion; he rose. "I will
now leave you alone: you need rest. Compose yourself, and pray. I hope
to find you ready to travel early to-morrow morning, and will consider
tonight whither I will guide you."
As Severinus went out into the street he met a brother-priest, who was
just coming from the Jesuit church.
"Father Severinus!" he said, in astonishment. "How did you come here?
what are you doing in Fraeulein Erwing's house?"
"I am gaining a soul for the church!" he answered, proudly, and passed
on.