O! were it thus! had we, indeed, the gift,
Though human, our humanity to chain;
Could we in truth our restless spirits lift,
And never feel the weight of earth again,
Then would I leave the sorrows I bewail,
To clasp the cross, the cloister, and the veil.
Some weeks previous to the time at which my last chapter terminates, I
had received a letter from an old friend, requesting me to inform him
if any dwelling in our vicinity was for sale, as he was anxious to
leave the city, and bring his family to a quieter home. I answered his
inquiries satisfactorily, and now daily expected him to arrive, and
make final arrangements for his removal.
He came at last, bringing with him his only son, a boy somewhat older
than Theresa. Gerald Brandon was pale and feeble from recent illness,
and I persuaded his father to leave him with me, until his new
residence was prepared to receive its inmates. He gladly assented, and
accordingly returned to town, while Gerald remained at the parsonage.
The next two months were among the happiest my memory recalls; and
they were the last untroubled ones Theresa passed in her secluded
home. From their threshold she glided to a new life--to that conflict
of will and purpose, that tempest of impulse and disappointment which
finally subdued her spirit and wearied out her existence. But as yet
all was serene and full of promise; and the golden hues of her sunny
dreams invested our simple pleasures with varied and poetic interest.
My young guest was a gentle, reflective boy of more than ordinary
capabilities, but enfeebled by ill-health, and a victim to the
lassitude which frequently follows protracted bodily suffering. He was
too placid and pensive for his age, and his mind, though refined and
harmonious, had nothing of that restless, energetic brilliancy which
sparkled through Theresa's thoughts. He, however, eagerly participated
in her accustomed studies, and contributed his share to our literary
recreations. I sometimes looked on the two with that involuntary wish
for the power of prophecy which so often rises upon us, and which in
great mercy we are denied, and would frequently strive to shadow forth
the destiny of beings who were now reveling in the brief, bright
interval between childhood and the world. Beautiful era! time of star
and flower, when the "young moon is on the horizon's verge," and the
young heart, lovelier still, seems on the brink of rapture, and
hallows existence with its own unshadowed and seraphic light. We have
cause to be grateful that this episode is transient, that reality
contradicts its hopes, for could its illusions last, who would pause
to think of heaven, with so much of enchanting fulfillment around us
here.
It was with instinctive pride that I felt my favorite's mental
superiority to her companion, and noticed the genuine admiration with
which Gerald acknowledged it. He was astonished at her variety of
acquirement, her daring originality of opinion, and her unstudied
readiness of expression. He was gratified, and it may be, flattered,
by the disinterested solicitude she evinced for his enjoyment, and the
readiness with which she discarded any scheme of amusement in which
his health prevented his participation. There is a period in youth
when the affections feel as a strong necessity, the desire for
sympathy, when love is yet a stranger, and friendship is as intense as
passion. Dearer than any after friend, is the one who first fills this
yearning vacancy; and though as time wears on, and separation follows,
that tie may be broken never to be re-knit, there is a halo around it
still, and it is made almost holy by the blended tints of hope and
trust, and tenderness, that, with reflected light, shine back upon its
memory.
It was the evening before Theresa's departure, and we were all
assembled at the cottage. It was impossible to feel very sad, where
the majority were so eager and fraught with hope, and yet the mother's
countenance was full of anxiety for her child. Little Amy sat on her
sister's knee, and Theresa, in her graphic language, was relating some
romantic history of her own invention, while Mrs. Germaine and myself
spoke of her. The parent's solicitude was altogether physical; she
feared only that Theresa would be sick, or that she would encounter
some of the thousand accidents and evils, whose spectres haunt us upon
the eve of a first separation. I thought it kinder to be silent as to
my own very different misgivings, and to dwell only on the encouraging
part of the prospect. There might be nothing to dread, after all, and
it was possibly only our unwillingness to part with Theresa, that thus
assumed to itself the tormenting shape of inquietude.
During our conversation, which was carried on in an under tone, little
Amy had fallen asleep, and after carefully placing her on the couch,
and kissing the fair face of the slumberer, that shone like a
faultless picture from its frame of golden curls, Theresa adjourned
with Gerald to the porch. It was a perfect evening, and the rays of
the full moon illumined the little portico, throwing on its floor, in
fanciful mosaic, the fantastic shadows of the vines which draperied
the pillars, and lighting up with its spiritual radiance, the earnest
countenances of the youthful friends. Gerald looked more than usually
pale in the blanching beams, and Theresa's gaze was sad and tearful.
"You will forget us all, Theresa," said the boy; "you will find
elsewhere gayer and dearer companions; you will be praised and
flattered, and it will be several years before you will be stationary
here again."
"Do you remember the book we read together but a few days since?" she
answered, "and which says there is no such thing as forgetting
possible to the mind?"
"Well, but at least you may grow indifferent," persisted Gerald,
already betraying manhood's perverseness in suspicion, "at least you
may grow indifferent, and that is even worse than forgetfulness."
"Far worse," answered Theresa, "I would rather a thousand times be
wholly forgotten, than know that the heart which loved me had grown
cold and careless. But, Gerald, you are my first friend, the only one
of my own age I have ever known, and how can I lose the recollection
of all we have thought and hoped together? And then I shall be too
constantly occupied to form other ties, for I intend to study
incessantly, and to return here all, mentally, that my friends can
wish me."
"Are you not that already; I, for one, do not desire you to change."
"You will alter your flattering opinion, _mon ami_, if I can by
application realize the bright pictures my ambition paints. I shall be
so much happier when I have tested myself; for now, all is untried,
the present is restless, and the future perplexing. It is so difficult
for me to curb my impatience, to remember that our progressive path
must be trodden step by step, it may be, through thorns and
temptations. Patience is the golden rule of talent, the indispensable
companion of success; for the 'worm may patiently creep to the height
where the mountain-eagle has rested.' The hardest task for genius to
learn is, through toiling, to hope on, and though baffled, never to
despond."
Her face flushed with her own eagerness as she spoke, and Gerald
looked on her with mingled admiration and want of comprehension, and
something of that pity with which boyhood is prone to regard the
wildness of girlish aspirations. It was with hopes and tears united,
that Theresa bade me farewell; and as I turned away to seek my quiet
home, the old feeling of desolation and loneliness, which interest in
my favorite had long dissipated, returned upon me with its depressing
weight. Our walk to the parsonage was taken in unbroken silence, for
Gerald, like myself, was busy with the future--to him a smiling world
of compensation and promise, to me, the silent land of fears and
shadows. A whole year was to elapse before Theresa's return to us, and
in the interval she engaged to write every week, either to her mother
or myself.
For more than an hour that evening I sat beside my window, looking on
the serene prospect around me, and endeavoring to lay something of
that external stillness to the restlessness of my disturbing fancies.
All around was spiritualized by the moonlight; the trees on the lawn
threw long shadows on the grass, and far away, in their mysterious and
majestic silence, stood the eternal mountains; like gigantic watchers,
they kept their vigil over the placid scene beneath--the vigil of
untold centuries. Cloudless, unsympathizing, changeless, they had no
part in the busy drama of human experience their loftiness overlooked,
and now they loomed with shadowy outline, through the sanctifying
light, habitants alike of earth and sky.
I anticipated tidings from Theresa with that interest which slight
occurrences lend a life whose stirring events are few.
To me, she engaged to record her thoughts and impressions as they
came, and to be to me what, under similar circumstances _she_ would
have been, whose sweet face for a few years brightened my life, and
who now sleeps, in her childish beauty, by her mother's side.
THERESA'S FIRST LETTER.
"You will have learned from my letter to my mother, my
kind friend, all the little details of my journey and
safe arrival at my destination. I felt as if some of my
visions of romance were realized, when this beautifully
adorned place, in its strange and solemn stillness,
stood before me. All the grounds surrounding the
convent-buildings are highly cultivated and tastefully
improved, presenting a vivid contrast between the wild
luxuriance of nature, and the formal, artificial life
within these cold, stern walls. Several of the nuns,
with downcast eyes and thoughtful steps, were taking
their monotonous exercise in the paths through the
shrubbery; and shall I confess that I looked with
mingled doubt and envy upon those dark-robed
figures--doubt, if the restlessness of humanity _can_
thus be curbed into repose, and envy of that
uninterrupted peace, if, indeed, it may be gained.
Strange seem this existence of sacrifice, this
voluntary abandonment of life's aims and more extended
duties, this repelling, crushing routine of penance and
ceremony, with which, in the very midst of activity,
and in the bloom of energy, vain mortals strive to put
off the inevitable fetters of mortality. Doubtless,
many, from long habit, have grown familiar with this
vegetative, unbroken seclusion, and accustomed to
struggle with tenderness, and conquer impulse, have
ceased to feel affection, and rarely recall the friends
of their busier days--sad consummation of womanhood's
least enviable lot.
"But I believe it is, in all sincerity, from
self-delusion, not from deception, that these women,
many of them in the freshness of youth, separate
themselves from the wide privileges of their sex, and
contract their hearts into the exclusive and narrow
bounds of a convent's charities. What mental conflicts
must have been theirs, before, from the alluring gloss
of expectation, they could turn to embrace a career
like this. Some, perhaps, believed the possibility of
winning tranquillity by shutting out the temptation of
the world, believed that dust might be spiritualized,
and the mind, debarred from its natural tendencies,
taught to dream only of heaven. Others have sought the
cloister as a refuge for hearts that loved too well,
and memories all too faithful. God help such!--for this
is no place to forget. And it may be, that after years
of painful self-control and depressing experience, some
here have gradually attained the conviction that their
efforts are vain, their yearnings not here to be
fulfilled--what, then, must solitude be to them but an
enduring sorrow? It is too late to retrieve the
past--the fatal vows have been spoken--those frowning
walls are impassable--and the dark folds of that solemn
veil are evermore between the penitents and human
sympathy. Never may their footsteps tread the free
earth again, save within those still and mocking
limits; never will the bright, rewarding world of
social ties dawn upon their languid gaze, though, alas!
its beauty will flash upon their thoughts, through the
loneliness of the silent cell, perhaps even amid
penance and prayer. I look with profound, inexpressible
interest on these sisters, in their ungraceful, but
romance-hallowed costume, and wish, as I watch them,
that I could read something of what the past has been
to each, and trace the various motives that led to this
irrevocable fate. This monotonous life has all the glow
of novelty for me; and I ponder with inexhaustible
interest, and blended reverence and pity on the hidden
moral conflict, continually occurring among beings who
strive to taste angels' pleasures while escaping human
duties, and are reminded of the folly of such attempts,
by the perpetual presence of temptation, and all the
self-reproach, regret, and disappointment which, Heaven
be thanked! the angels never feel. I can scarcely tell,
as yet, how I shall like learning here. My studies have
always been such a pleasure to me, with you, that it
appears strange to associate them with strangers. I am
resolved to devote much time to drawing and miniature
painting, for which you know I had always a _penchant_,
and in the course of a month or two I shall commence
the study of German. What a world of pleasure is before
me. Will you not love me better, if I return to you an
artist, brim full of German legends? All that I hope
and aspire to, leads to that question--will these
acquisitions render me more beloved?"
"Theresa is too ambitious, too restless," said Gerald, as he finished
the perusal of this letter, "she will only render herself discontented
and conspicuous by this wild, idle desire for superiority."
I felt somewhat provoked at his querulous words, for in my partial
eyes Theresa seldom erred, and I knew this solicitude for mental
progress, though as yet vague and undirected, was inseparable from her
active and energetic intellect. But Gerald's opinions were common ones
with his sex, and he coldly censured when away from their attractions,
the very traits of character which, when present, involuntarily
fascinated his imagination. And this is an ingratitude which almost
inevitably falls to the share of a gifted woman. Unfortunately, genius
does not shield its possessor from defects of character; and her very
superiority in raising her above the level of the many, renders her
failings more evident, and those who are forced mentally to admire,
are frequently the first morally to condemn. The following are
extracts from Theresa's letters, written at various intervals during
the first year of her residence at the convent; and they will perhaps
serve to reveal something of the rapid development of her mind, with
the self-forgetfulness and ambition so peculiarly blended in her
nature. She is the only one I have ever seen who possessed extreme
enthusiasm without selfishness, and the strong desire to excel,
without envy. There was a harmony in her being as rare as it was
winning; and while many instances of her childish generosity and
spontaneous disinterestedness rise on my memory, I feel almost
bitterness at the recollection of how unworthily her pure heart was
appreciated, and how sad was the recompense of all she suffered.
"I am happy, my kind friend, happier than I believed it possible for
me to be, when away from those I love. But I study incessantly, and in
acquiring and hoping, I have no time left for regret. When I recall
you, it is not repiningly, but with a thousand desires for your
approval, and increased anxiety to become all you can wish. You will,
perhaps, consider this vanity; but, indeed, that would be unjust, for
it is in all humility, with a painful consciousness of my own
deficiencies that I strive so eagerly to grow wiser and better. Surely
it is not vanity, to yearn to merit tenderness! . . . . . You ask if I
have made any new friends. No; and I can scarcely tell why. There are
several here whose appearance has interested me--and you know how
rapturously I admire personal attractions; but I feel a reserve I can
neither conquer nor explain. Friendship seems to me too holy and
enduring to be lightly bestowed, and yet I desire with inexpressible
earnestness, to find some one of my own age who would love and
comprehend me--some mind in whose mirror I could trace an image of my
own. I have gained something like a fulfillment of this wish in
Gerald; but he is naturally less enthusiastic than I am, and of course
cannot enter into the fervor of my expectations. He thinks them vain
an idle--and so, in truth, they may be; but only their irrevocable
disappointment will ever convince _me_ of their folly. . . . . . I
have been painting a great deal, beside my regular exercises, for my
own amusement; I take such delight in testing my power to reflect the
visible charm of beauty, and in endeavoring, however faintly, to
idealize humanity. Among other efforts, I have finished a miniature of
one of the young sisters here, whose sad, placid face, seemed to
sketch itself upon my memory. Of course, the likeness was drawn
without her knowledge--she has put away from her thoughts all such
vanities. I often look on the picture, which is scarcely more tranquil
than the original; and I wish I could speak a word of welcome sympathy
to one who is so young, and yet so sorrowful. I was much touched, a
few days since, by accidentally witnessing an interview between this
nun, whose convent name is Cecelia, and her sister. It seems that she
had taken the vows in opposition to the wishes and counsel of all her
friends, having forsaken a widowed mother and an only sister for
spiritual solitude and the cloister. I was copying an exquisite
engraving of the Madonna, which adorns the apartment allotted to
visiters, when a young lady entered, and desired to see her sister.
The nun came, but not beyond the grating which bounds one side of the
room. Those bars--signs of the heart's prison--were between beings who
from infancy had been undivided, whose pleasures and pains through
life had been inseparable, and who were now severed by a barrier
impassable as the grave. They contrasted strongly, these two sisters,
so nearly the same age, so different in their hopes for the future.
The guest wept constantly, and her words, spoken in a loud tone, were
broken by bursts of grief; but the other was composed, almost to
coldness--there was no evidence of distress on her marble cheek, and
her large, gray eyes, were quiet in their gaze. She had evidently
learned to curb emotion and regret--the past for her was a sealed
book, with all its remembrances; she was a woman without her sex's
loveliest impulses--a sister without tenderness, a daughter without
gratitude. They parted, as they had met, each unconvinced, each
grieving for the other--the visiter returned to her holy filial
duties, the devotee to her loneliness. My friend, on which of these
sisters do the angels in heaven look down most rejoicingly? This scene
made me sorrowful, as every thing does which destroys an illusion. I
had entertained such romantic ideas of life in the cloister, it seemed
so tempting to me in its rest, its spirituality; and now I realize
that we have no right to such rest, that it is not ours to shrink from
the duties, to shun the penalties, to crush the affections of
humanity--and my visions of lonely happiness have passed away _pour
toujours_. If ever I could be induced to forsake a world that now
appears to me so rich in promise; if ever I am numbered among the
tried in spirit, and broken in heart, some active solace must be mine,
not this fearful leisure for thought and remembrance. My lot is to be
a restless one; and whatever else the future may hold for me, I know,
in the spirit of prophecy, it will bestow nothing of repose. . . . .
You tell me my little sister grows every day more lovely. I can
readily believe it. There is something very fascinating in the style
of her childish beauty, something that appeals to tenderness and seeks
for love--and she is always the reality that prompts my dreams of
angels. Is it not unwise, my friend, to hold the gift of personal
beauty of little value, when it thus involuntarily commands affection,
and can win the world's charity for many faults?"
I know not if these disjointed scraps have interest for others, but I
have recorded them, because to me they recall the young writer's
glowing enthusiasm, and evince the confident hopefulness which is one
of the most common traits of mental excellence. Without being vain,
she had yet no fears for herself, no doubt of the successful exercise
of the powers whose stirring presence she felt. All that seemed
necessary to her was opportunity; and she possessed the faith our good
God gives to youth, and whose passing away is one of the sorrows of
age.
The time appointed for her return home had now arrived, and her
mother's anxiety to see her was scarcely greater than my own. In the
meanwhile, Mr. Brandon's new residence--the handsomest in our
vicinity--had been completed, and his family was permanently located
among us. His domestic circle consisted of Gerald, a daughter, about
Theresa's age, and a maiden lady, the sister of his wife, who, since
Mrs. Brandon's death, had done the household honors. Gerald had been,
from the first, a constant visiter at the parsonage, and he now
participated in our solicitude to welcome our darling back. About
sunset, on the day of Theresa's return, I directed my steps toward the
cottage, and I was but halfway to my destination, when I saw her
coming to meet me. I could never be mistaken in her light, rapid walk,
whose movements were full of grace. Not for many a long, sad year, had
a reception so affectionate as hers been given me; and her greeting
brought tears to my old eyes, and called up painful memories to my
heart. In appearance she had greatly improved; her slight figure had
rounded into more womanly proportions, and her motions were full of
the wild, unstudied gracefulness that had always characterized her.
There was about her a fascination I cannot explain, a something
independent of externals--a witchery to be felt but not defined.
Perhaps it was the visible influence of mental gifts, the reflection
of that purity of heart and mind which impressed itself on all her
words and actions.
Let it not, however, be imagined, that because in my fond remembrance
I have lingered long upon Theresa's many virtues, I was ignorant of
her faults. They were those inseparable from her temperament; an
impetuosity which frequently misled her judgment, and a confidence in
her own beliefs, a reliance on her own will, that nothing but an
appeal to her affections could ever subdue. She was an instance of
that sad truth, that our defects shape our destinies; that one failing
may exert over our lot a more potent influence than many excellencies,
and may mar the brilliancy of our moral picture by a single shadow,
that shall darken it all. In after life, when trial and suffering
pressed wearily upon her, all her griefs might have been traced back
to the influence of faults, which in her childhood were not
sufficiently developed to seem of consequence, or to merit rebuke. To
us she was so loving and complying, that the less favorable traits of
her nature were lost to our eyes in the brightness of her better
endowments. Like all poetic persons, she had various fancies and
caprices; but hers were all pure in purpose, and imparted a charm to
her restless being. Even her tenderness had its fantasies, and
lavished itself wastefully without thought or reason. Her attachment
to her sister was remarkable in its tone, blending anxiety with its
profound and impassioned tide. She would speak to me of Amy, of her
childish loveliness, her gentle disposition, her appealing
trustfulness, until tears would start to her eyes, and the future
seemed painfully distant to one whose onward gaze had painted it with
fulfillments. There was nothing sweet and lovable in life that she did
not connect with Amy's hereafter. Alas! it was well for her she could
not foresee that future happiness was to be won by the sacrifice of
her own.
During Theresa's stay in our village, the young Brandons and herself
were often together--and Gerald's admiration had evidently lost
nothing from separation. His health had improved, though he still
looked pale and delicate; but this physical languor lent refinement to
his appearance, and excited Theresa's warmest sympathy. It would have
been strange, were not the occurrence so common, that we should not
have anticipated the probable consequences of such intercourse between
Gerald and Theresa, but always accustomed to consider them in contrast
with ourselves, as mere children, we forgot theirs was the very age
for enduring impressions, the era in existence whose memories live
longest. It was not until long afterward that I realized our error,
and then, alas! it was too late to save the repose of a heart which
possessed in fatal strength, woman's sad faculty of loving. The period
soon came round for Theresa to return to her studies; and, to my
surprise, her grief at the second separation was much more violent
than at the first. I did not note, in my simplicity, the cause of this
vehemence; I never suspected that a new tie, undefined, but powerful,
was binding her being, that in the depths of a spirit whose
earnestness I have never seen equaled, there had sprung up an
affection never to pass away, and one dangerously enhanced by the
imaginative tendency of her nature. That she had won over Gerald a
profound and fascinating influence, was evident; she was to him a
dream of intellectual beauty, and her presence idealized his life. He
connected her instinctively with all his high hopes, his visionary
schemes; but I feel, in recalling his admiration, that, from its very
character, it was not likely to be permanent. There was too little in
it of the actual world, too much of the mental; it was more the homage
of mind, than the tribute of affection; rather the irrepressible
appreciation of genius, than the spontaneous effusion of love. His
expressions of regret at separation were warm and tender; but it is
probable the young friends were both ignorant of the nature of their
feelings. They parted tearfully, as a brother and sister would have
said farewell; and the next few months, with their throng of sweet
remembrances, fostered the growth of emotions very unlike, in truth,
but equally kind and hopeful. And now there came a long interval of
melancholy tranquillity in my life, for it was not until two years
afterward that our darling returned. Her letters during the interval
were frequent, and her ambition to excel deepened daily in intensity.
"One year more," she wrote, "and this routine of application will be
over, I shall come to you no longer a child, but fitted, I trust, for
a congenial companion. What bright pictures my fancy draws for that
time! Surely the future is a land of surpassing beauty, if but one
half its radiant hopes be realized."
"I have no patience with Theresa's visionary fancies," said Gerald,
petulently, as he glanced over this letter, "I really believe she
prizes books and pictures, and her idle dreams, more than the hearts
that love her."
I have lingered long over this recording of a childhood that lent my
loneliness many pleasures; and I must trace more rapidly and briefly
the sadder portion of my recollections. Over the next two years let us
pass in silence; they saw the last shining of pleasure upon Theresa's
experience; they were the resting-place between her young hopefulness
and the perplexing cares and disappointments of her energetic and
unsatisfied womanhood. Never afterward did life appear to her so
rapturous a gift, and intellectual superiority so enchanting, but the
hereafter grew silent with its promises, and her spirit weary with its
cares.
It was not until some months afterward that the journal I am about to
quote fell into my hands; but I copy some of its fragments, to portray
its writer's feelings. Ah, me! such trustful hearts as hers are those
experience depresses soonest.
"How happy I have been this summer! I believe those who have spent
their childhood in seclusion, and formed their first associations from
the lovely creations of nature, love home better than persons _can_
do, who have been always encompassed by the excitements and artificial
enjoyments of society. These lose individual consciousness amid the
throng of recollections; they cannot trace the progress of their
being, nor retain the self-portraying vividness of memory. I am sure
that no dweller in cities can feel as I do, when I return to this
tranquil village; I can almost imagine I have stepped back into my
childhood. Yet, loving this place as I do, I am still anxious to leave
it; home, and especially a quiet one, is no place for great successes.
Too much of the childish past hangs over it, and discourages exertion,
and those who have loved us best and earliest, know least of what we
are capable. Every day intercourse fetters judgment, and thought lives
in the domestic circle with sealed lips. My kind friends do not
comprehend my wishes or emotions; my mother deems them folly, and
Gerald, instead of sympathy, tenders me only doubts and fears. But I
repel silently such depressing influence; surely the motto of youth
should be, _aide-toi_, _et Dieu t'aidera_. . . . . I have been reading
that tearful book, the Diary of an Ennuye. What a vivid picture it
presents of mental and physical suffering, too intense to be wholly
conquered, yet half subdued by the strong power of a thoughtful will.
Such depictings of sorrow must be exaggerated, there cannot be so much
of grief in a world where hope still liveth. . . . . I have been
amusing myself this morning by scribbling verses, and as I gradually
became absorbed in my employment, I felt I would willingly relinquish
half the future in store for me, could I win a poet's fame. I have
been endeavoring to determine which is the most desirable, the
celebrity of a poet or a painter. Perhaps the distinction an artist
obtains satisfies the mind more wholly, and it must be a more
universal thing, than that of a writer. He appeals to the senses; his
work is the visible presence of what is immaterial, the palpable
creation of a thought. He gazes on his production, until his being
revels in the witchery of his own reality; and the ideal that had
haunted his spirit so long, smiles and blesses him from that glowing
canvas. But the poet, he who from the well of thought hath drawn forth
such golden truths; who heareth within his heart the echo of whatever
is beautiful around him; he who is the interpreter of nature, and
translateth into burning words whatsoever things are pure and lovely,
ah! he liveth alone with his glorious images, and from his brilliant
world of dream and vision, he walks abroad uncomprehended, a solitary
being. Yet he, too, has his reward, though seldom the present one of
popular approval; time is requisite for the appreciation of his
imaginings; he would not, if he could, profane them by the breath of
popular criticism. _His_ place is far away from common sight--a
dwelling in pleasant thoughts; he is enthroned amid happy memories and
early hopes; he is associated in our minds with forms of grace, and
faces of beauty--with the light of stars, and the fragrance of
flowers; with the pale hours of gloom his enchantments have chased
away, and the green graves his heavenward words have hallowed. Which
fame would I choose? Alas! for my craving nature, neither--but both!"
Two years had glided by, and Theresa had returned to us. Her studies
were completed, and she seemed to our fond hearts more than we ever
hoped for, or dared to anticipate. She had certainly improved to the
utmost the period of her absence; she was an admirable linguist, a
good musician, and her talent for painting was pronounced by
_connoisseurs_ to be extraordinary. She possessed in a rare degree
perfect consciousness of her powers, without a tinge of vanity; and
she spoke of her acquirements and performances simply and candidly, as
she would have dwelt on those of a stranger. Gerald was evidently
surprised at her mental progress, and perhaps he felt it almost
painfully, for he certainly was not in her presence as natural and
familiar as of yore. He would gaze on her long and fixedly, as if in
being forced to admire, he hesitated how to love. I do not know
whether Theresa perceived this change, and allowed it to influence her
manner, or whether the natural timidity of one "on the eve of
womanhood," rendered her also gentler and quieter than of old, but
certain it is, that while to others they were the same as ever, for
each other, they felt something they knew was not friendship, yet
dared not think was love.
In the meantime Amy had grown into girlhood, and was, in truth, as
beautiful as a poet's dream. She was timid, gentle, and silent; no
strength of mind was enshrined in that faultless casket; and her
transparent, maidenly brow, was never shadowed by the conflict of
thought. Her words were few and commonplace, but they were spoken by a
voice exquisitely musical, and her surpassing personal loveliness
disarmed mental criticism. Theresa would regard her in unutterable
admiration, blending a sister's tenderness with all an artist's
ecstasy. There was no repaying enthusiasm; Amy's affections were not
impulsive, and she shared nothing of her sister's spontaneous,
effervescing warmth. She was, however, kind and graceful, with that
charm of manner common even in childhood to those on whom the gods
have smiled, and who, from the consciousness of beauty, possess the
certainty of pleasing. Like all visionaries, Theresa had many fancies,
and strongest among them was her boundless admiration for loveliness.
Living as she did in perpetual study of the beautiful, it appealed to
her with that enchantment it only wears for the painter and the poet;
and for her, who, in her dangerously endowed being, blended both,
there was inexpressible fascination in all that reflected externally
her radiant ideal. Gerald was a constant visiter at the cottage, and
his undisguised admiration for Theresa's gifts deepened into lasting
sentiment, what had hitherto been vague emotion. He sought her
approval, solicited her opinions, and there was a tone of romantic
reverence in his conduct toward her, which could not fail to interest
one so young and sensitive. In many respects his character was far
from equaling hers; ill-health had given peculiar fastidiousness to
his tastes, and selfishness to his temper; but he was invested with
the charms of pleasant memories, and that drapery which ever surrounds
with grace those the heart loves first. I believe he never for an
instant reflected on the effect his devoted attentions might produce,
and, absorbed in the magic of his own rapturous thoughts, he had no
time for calmer reasoning. Love is proverbially credulous; and
although neither promise nor protestation had been spoken, Theresa
never doubled what she hoped, and, perhaps, in her girlish faith,
believed his feelings the deeper from their silence.
Thus the days wended on, and I had woven in my lonely simplicity many
a bright tissue for future years to wear, when already the "cloud no
bigger than a man's hand" had gathered on my favorite's horizon.
Gerald and herself had walked one evening to the parsonage, and were
seated on one of the shaded seats in the old-fashioned garden attached
to my home.
"Theresa, you have always been to me a sympathizing listener, and I
have something to tell you now of more than ordinary interest--will
you hear me patiently?" and as Gerald spoke, he looked up smilingly
into his companion's face.
Why did Theresa's cheek flush at these simple words? I know not; I
only know that it grew pale and ashy as Gerald proceeded to relate the
story whose hearing he had solicited, and in the impassioned words of
love to paint his devotion--not to her who sat beside him, but to the
sister whose outward beauty had won more than all _her_ gifts. He
spoke of time to come, of being to her as a brother, of a home in
common, and then he dwelt with a lover's rapture on the attractions of
his promised bride, those charms she had often extolled to him with a
poet's appreciation, and now heard praised in breathless agony. The
bitterness, not of jealousy, but of despair, was in her soul--a pang
for which there was no expression and no relief. Never more might she
return to the hope his words had shattered, the trust she had indulged
too long. All that had scattered her path with flowers, and thrown
around her life's sweetest illusions was lost to her now; the
confessions she had heard, raised a barrier not to be passed between
herself and those she held dearest, and the sister for whom she would
have laid down her life, claimed a sadder sacrifice, and glided a
rival between her heart and its reliance. But to all his confidings
she listened silently, and when he ceased to speak, she answered him
kindly and gently. Love is selfish, and in the egotism of his own
feelings, Gerald heeded not that his companion's voice faltered; and
they parted without a suspicion in his mind of the suffering he had
occasioned. Alas! such brief tragedies are acting every day in our
household circles, and we note them not; bright eyes become tranquil,
glowing cheeks look pale, and young hearts, once high with hope and
energy, grow weary and listless; and we talk of illness, and call in
science to name the disease, which is nothing but sorrow. There are,
without doubt, solitary hours in human experience which do the work of
years, forcing suspicion to dawn, and tempting despondency to deepen.
Life should be measured by such hours, and they who feel most keenly
are the ones who, in truth, live longest.
Certain it is that Theresa passed in those few moments to a new
existence--to a being wholly different from her former self. The
rainbow tints had faded from her sky, and the stars in her futurity
had ceased to shine. What to her were all her mental gifts, when they
had failed to win the love she valued? And now the nature so impulsive
and ingenuous was impelled by the instinct of woman's pride to assume
the mantle of concealment, to learn its task of suffering and silence.
She could not, without betraying her true feelings, seem depressed,
when all about her was happier than ever, and not a shadow rested on
the hearts around her. Her mother was constitutionally tranquil; and
Amy, in the relying gladness of her early youth, saw nothing to fear,
and all things to hope. It was a trying effort for Theresa to bury the
conflict of her impetuous emotions in the stillness of her own
bosom--the more trying because she had never before known cause for
reserve; but the power of endurance in womanhood is mighty, and she
did conceal even from my watchful eyes, the triumph of certainty over
hope. I knew not then that the silver chord was already severed, and
the veil lifted from the pale face of grief, never again in mercy to
lend its secrecy.
The extreme youth of Amy alone delayed her marriage, and the following
year was appointed as the time of its celebration. In the meanwhile
the lovers would meet almost daily, and there seemed nothing but
happiness before them. And she, the highly endowed, the richly gifted,
what was to be her lot? Even now the mists were gathering around her;
her faith in the hereafter was lessened; disappointment haunted her
onward steps, and memory darkened to regret. Poor Theresa! there was
many a pang in her experience then proudly hidden from all human gaze;
and her suffering was not the less because she felt that it arose in
part from self-deception, and from its very character was beyond the
solace of sympathy.
A few evenings afterward, I was sitting alone, when, with her light
and eager step, Theresa entered my little study at the parsonage. Her
cheek was flushed by her rapid walk, and her eyes sparkled as she laid
before me a letter she had just received. I did not then comprehend
the eagerness with which she grasped the refuge of excitement and
change, but my heart sunk within me as I read the lines before me, for
too well I foresaw the endless links of perplexity and misconstruction
which would drag themselves, a dreary chain through the years to come.
The letter was from the painter with whom she had studied his art, and
was written with the kind feeling of one who, from the memory of his
own aspirations, could sympathize with hers. He reminded her of a wish
she had often expressed to practice her powers as a painter, and he
said if that desire still continued, he could offer her a home in his
household, and promise her success. His own professional attainments
were great and popular, but his health was failing; and he declared it
would be a pleasure and pride to him to direct her talents if she
still wished to brave the perplexities of an artist's life. He dwelt
on the subject with the fervor of a mind whose best faculties had been
spent in the service of his art; but while he extolled its attractions
and rewards, he concealed nothing of its cares and penalties. He
concluded thus: "For me, the exercise of my glorious profession has
been in all respects singularly fortunate; and in addition to the
inexpressible gratifications attending its pursuit, it has won for me
both popularity and wealth. But I would not mislead you, Theresa, nor
conceal the difficulties which must inevitably, in such an attempt,
harass a young and an enthusiastic woman. It is an unusual thing for
womanhood to worship art; you will have ignorance and prejudice
against you, and I need not remind you that these are the most
perplexing of obstacles. But still there are rewards they cannot
touch, pleasures beyond their influence--and these I proffer you. The
artist bears within his own soul the recompense for many sorrows; and
if you can summon the moral fortitude to wait in patience, and toil in
hope, I candidly believe that, with your endowments, success will be a
certainty. You will be to us as a daughter; and our childless old age
will be gladdened by the presence in our home of your bright young
face." Theresa had scanned my countenance eagerly while I perused this
letter, as if to gather my impressions of the scheme; and she looked
not a little disappointed when I gravely and silently refolded and
returned the paper.
"I can divine your opinion," she said at last; "you disapprove of my
plan."
"I do," was my reply. "I can discern no reason for your forsaking a
tranquil home to brave so many certain annoyances."
"But, my friend," she answered, "you forget now the lesson you have
often taught me, that we have no right to bury our talents, nor to
shrink from the exercise of powers which were doubtless bestowed to be
improved and employed. You will, perhaps, deem that my duty to my
mother demands my presence here; but she has grown accustomed to my
absence, and depends on me for none of her social comforts. Amy is far
better fitted to be her companion, and I am sure that if I were to
remain here, with the desponding conviction that my resources were
useless, my acquirements thrown away; that knowledge would render me
unhappy and throw a shadow over my home. Let me try this experiment
for one year; if I fail, I will return satisfied that I have done my
utmost; if I succeed, I can win for myself fame, and it may be peace."
She had spoken rapidly and earnestly, though I now know that her most
powerful reasons for wishing to leave us, were left unuttered, and as
she concluded her voice was tremulous. She impatiently awaited my
answer; and I, with the folly of a fond old man, could not bear to
dash away the cup that foamed so temptingly to her lips. Though
fearful and unconvinced, I ceased to remonstrate. Many times since
have I marveled at my own weakness, and lamented that I did not more
decidedly condemn the young enthusiast's views; and yet what could I
do? Had I more strenuously and successfully opposed the scheme, could
I have borne to see my darling pine in the weariness of powers buried,
and endowments wasted? Could I have recklessly sullied in their purple
light the day-dreams of her yearning youth, have watched her,
dispirited and dejected, ever turning from the gloom of the present to
ponder on the radiant, haunting mystery of what she might have been?
To my surprise, Mrs. Germaine evinced none of the repugnance to the
removal which I had anticipated; and, won over by Theresa's eagerness,
and accustomed to be separated from her, she exerted no parental
authority in the case. Her acquiescence, of course, silenced my
objections, and I could only grieve where I would have counseled.
Gerald alone violently opposed her departure; but she replied to him
with a firmness I did not expect, and which surprised me not a little.
But the decision was made, and even while tenderly and anxiously
beloved, the wayward and gifted one went forth alone into the world.