A letter from our dear old doctor, my best friend. He wants to hear how

I am getting on, how I feel, and how the climate agrees with me. He

reproaches himself for not having hidden the hopeless truth from me; at

the same time he praises my courage and firmness; he does not try to

change or put another construction on his former words; he knows it

would be useless. "Remember, dear Mary," he adds, "that miracles still

happen every day, and that all our science and knowledge only teach us

to marvel at everything or nothing. He is aware that my best comfort is

to know the truth, and to live in the truth as long as life is granted

me."

Several days later. I have lost the date.

Beautiful autumnal evening.

Here was so much wind in the forenoon that I had to remain in-doors. I

was busy altering my dresses for my chest becomes more and more

delicate and they oppress me. In the afternoon the wind subsided, and I

walked out, down the broad street called Rennweg. Numbers of cows and

goats were driven through it--not a pleasant circumstance attending the

walks here. I tremble every time I see one of those clumsy horned heads

approach me though I know that they are not so stupid as they appear,

and have not such strong prejudices against a lonely female, as my wise

fellow-creatures. It is my bodily weakness which in case of need could

not find shelter behind a stout heart, which leaves me defenceless. So

I kept close to the houses, and arrived safely at the Western gate of

the town from whence the road leads on to the beautiful and sunny

Vintschgau. A path which passes at the foot of the Kuechelberg and then

winds through the vineyards tempted me and I slowly walked in that

direction. It pleased me to see the heavy bunches of purple grapes

hanging from the trellis above me, the huge yellow pumpkins, the ripe

maize in short all the riches of a southern autumn. Now and then I

met peasants at work; tubs filled with grapes and carts laden with

vine-leaves passed me. It seemed strange to me that the work was done

so quietly, without music or singing, for I had always fancied the

vintage to be one of the most noisy and brilliant of festivals. The

people of the country are of a lazy pensive disposition and never sing

at their work. If one now and then hears a song it is owing to there

being many Italians here, who are easily recognized by their fiery and

lively gestures.

A hundred paces distant from the gate, close under the mountain, lies a

solitary farm. My landlady had told me that there one could get milk

fresh from the cow. As I am not a good walker, I entered the little

garden and ordered some milk and bread. Only a few strangers occupied

the benches, but just beside the door underneath a large orange-tree,

sat the pale young man, whilst his servant further, off, was refreshing

himself with a glass of wine. He had not touched the glass of milk

which stood before him, and as I was going to pass, he rose, bowed, and

offered me a seat at his table, saying that it was the most sheltered

spot. It was the first time I had heard him speak several sentences

together without stopping. His deep sad voice was very pleasing. I

gladly accepted his offer and when he begged me to take his untouched

glass, as he was not thirsty, I could not refuse without giving

offence. Finally we began a conversation, though much broken by pauses,

during which he relapsed into his melancholy dreaming. Only once he

smiled slightly, but it made him look still more sad when his pale lips

parted over the bluish white teeth. We had been talking of the dull

monotony in the life of the patients here; of the tiresome sitting

about in the winter garden. I said it reminded me of the caterpillars

and cocoons which my little brother keeps in glass boxes. These also

crawled about indolent and depressed amongst their food, satisfying

their gaoler by feeding greedily, and eyeing each other curiously when

they accidentally met; then they proceeded to their winter sleep, if by

chance they did not find the air too oppressive for them, and died. He

laughed, and said: "your comparison is much too flattering; do you

think that our fellow-worms ever feel as light and free as _they_

become, unless in a purer atmosphere than this terrestrial one?" "That

depends," replied I, "on whether, when they proceed safe and sound from

their cocoons, they find their glass cage open. Otherwise they may be

reserved for a still more cruel fate. Few enjoy the liberty of their

wings; they are generally caught again, and struggle on a pin till

their bright colours turn to dust."

He remained silent, and I was half sorry for having led the

conversation to so strange a theme; to divert his thoughts, I spoke to

him of the stiff, foolish narrow minded views of my native town, where

in the style of the so-called good old times, every one embitters the

life of his neighbour in the most amicable and ceremonious way. I then

told him how free and released I felt since I knew I was doomed to die.

My fetters had been loosened like the fetters of those who are

sentenced to death. He listened with interest but looked incredulous.

When I had done speaking....

The next day.

Yesterday I could not have been interrupted in a more unwelcome manner.

My door suddenly opened and the life-preserver, the sister of charity,

the lady without nerves, rushed into the room with a particularly stern

and solemn countenance which boded no good. Without taking breath after

running up the stairs, she sat down, spread her skirts over my sofa,

and without any circumlocution began to lecture me. Possibly she may be

of use where bodily nursing is required, but for spiritual care she

certainly has no vocation. A more clumsy way of touching on delicate

subjects I have not yet met with, and I have certainly not been spoiled

in that respect. I was informed that I had been guilty of great sins,

and could only make atonement for them by deep contrition. The

unaccountable whims of a sick person might, perhaps, excuse the

highflown manner with which I had received the friendly advances of

many estimable ladies, and the way in which I had withdrawn from their

company. But I had dared too in the face of all society to make

advances to a young man, and yesterday had gone so far as to accept his

glass of milk, and his company on my way home. She had never heard of

such a thing. A girl without the least education but with a sense of

decency and a proper regard for her reputation would never have thought

of doing so. After these occurrences she would certainly never have set

foot over my threshold again, had not conscience, and her good nature

bidden her warn me. I was alone here, and had no one to look after me

if I went astray. That young man did not enjoy a good reputation; his

illness was the consequence of a dissipated and reckless life which he

had now to expiate by an early death. If so near to the grave, he was

still so unscrupulous as to compromise a young creature like myself,

then all persons who had any regard for morality must condemn his

outrageous conduct, and endeavour to save his victim.

During this speech I remained petrified, and my heart beat so violently

that I could not utter a word; but when she stopped and cast a severe

look at me, the convicted sinner, I rallied all my remaining spirit and

answered that I thanked her for her solicitude, and did not at all

doubt her good intentions, but that I did not think I had committed any

impropriety--still less had gone astray--that I did not believe my

reputation to be in any danger. I knew what I could, or could not do,

and would be responsible for it. I did not see why the fact of having

one foot in the grave obliged one to give an account to the world of

every free but innocent action, particularly as even that would not

protect one against its malignant judgments. I had not come to Meran, I

continued, in order to ingratiate myself with a society entirely

strange to me, but to spend my last days in the manner most agreeable

to me, and most in accordance with my nature. You must allow me, my

dear Madam, I concluded, not to be led by considerations which,

perhaps, may be useful to others. When I had delivered this speech I

felt quite startled at my own boldness yet I was pleased with myself.

This I thought will at all events make an end of it; and so it was; at

least, I hope so, for my protectress rose with a dignified look which

sat oddly on, her round face adorned with the little ringlets and said:

"Good-bye, Mademoiselle, you are so independent that it would be

indiscreet in me to prolong my visit," and with these words she sailed

out of the room. So I had at last got rid of her, but not of her

sayings, nor of my thoughts. Oh, the sad cold littleness of the world!

Is there no spot on earth where a poor human being may be permitted to

die after its own fashion? Is one to go tightly laced even to one's

last breath? No, they shall not get the better of me; I do not love

them, then why should I not despise them; or at least not notice them

when they cross my path? Possibly I may have been thoughtless, but

thoughtfulness requires time, and I have not much to spare. Certainly

if I had to live with these people for an immeasurable time, it might

be prudent not to exasperate them, and to bow before them--prudent, but

annoying, and in my opinion, hardly worth the while. What harm could

they do to me; at the worst they would leave me alone, and could they

do me a greater favour? She said that he had caused his own sufferings.

Is he for that less worthy of compassion? Perhaps, the remorse he feels

is the cause of his melancholy, as the consciousness of my undeserved

fate is the cause of my gaiety. Each of us has lived a different life,

and has now to resign it. I have nothing to repent of, and nothing to

regret; he does both, and so each of us dies a different death.

Why should it be a crime to exchange a few unconstrained words? Do not

people who have set out together on a long journey fraternize, and

become friends at the first station? Are they then to be blamed if they

exchange a few words before starting.

Monday, the 21st October.

I spent my Sunday at home in writing, and reading the letters of

Mendelssohn's youth, which in my opinion show his character to much

greater advantage than his other writings. They convince me still more

that even a complete and free man of genius can work earnestly at his

own improvement. If I were a man, I should only care to be an artist.

This seems an extravagant idea; for those not endowed with talents

perceive only the outward freedom of the existence of a genius, and not

the anxieties and labours of his vocation. But in some of the

attributes of an artist's nature, in the power of desiring freedom, and

of maintaining it, in enthusiasm for noble deeds, and in admiration for

all that is beautiful, I should not be found wanting, and armed with

these weapons could pass a lifetime in waging war against petty

formalists and pedants.

But of what use are all these to me, a girl, with death before me.

Well, at all events they will teach me to die calmly.

Mendelssohn's letters have awakened in me a longing for music. I hope I

have not been extravagant in hiring a small piano. This morning it was

brought to me, and now stands in my room. I have not played for a long

time, and after reading Mendelssohn's letters felt quite ashamed of

stumbling through his songs without words. I must purchase some sonatas

and study them. I confess that at the first notes of music I burst into

tears. The last conversation has left in me a wound which bled afresh,

as the first sound of music reached my heart after so many weeks

privation. I let my tears flow freely, and played on till I grew calm

again.

"The 22nd."

I have seen him again. I had avoided him those last days. Though I am

quite determined to go my own way; still they have succeeded in robbing

me of my first unconstraint. But to-day I met him at the bookseller's

shop, where I was looking out some music. He asked me if I had felt

unwell, as I had not appeared on the Wassermauer. I blushed and

replied, "no, but I had not felt inclined to walk there." Then we

talked about music which he greatly likes. "Once I was in possession of

a voice," he said, smiling; "but it has departed this life before me."

As we came out of the shop I at first wished to bid him adieu, and walk

home alone. Then I felt ashamed of my cowardice, and walked on with him

to the gate which leads on to the Wassermauer. The day was lovely, and

the promenaders walked about with their cloaks on their arms. Only a

few yellow leaves reminded one of October. As we followed the course of

the Passer and passed the benches occupied by the so-called good

society, I was pleased, and happy to feel so much at ease. I tried to

cheer him up and when I had succeeded in making him laugh I applauded

my own spirit which was not to be daunted. I said to myself, "Does it

please you my good people to put on disdainful looks, and to wrap

yourselves up in your own virtue, as much as it does me to see this

pale face, on which death has already cast its shadow, light up with

the serenity of an evening sky." We walked up and down for a whole hour,

and I did not feel in the least tired. This time I closely examined his

countenance. Whatever lies behind him, it can be nothing base or mean.

His features are neither regular nor can they be called expressive, but

when he speaks there is something refined and thoughtful about his face

which becomes him well. He cannot be more than twenty-six years old.

His manners are easy, and natural, and plainly show that he has mixed

in the best society. I, with my provincial style of dress, and little

knowledge of the world, must contrast strangely with him.

I have looked over the book of strangers trying to find out his name;

_before_, I only knew where he lived; I have now discovered that he can

be none other than a Mr. Morrik _Particulier_ from Vienna. What an odd

position! probably it means independent. Then I am a _Particuliere_

with more right to be so than he has. He is dependent on many things;

on his fortune, on his melancholy thoughts--on his servant, who carries

his cloak and furs for him.

The 23rd.

Last night I dreamt much, and very reflective dreams. In one of them, I

again met Halding, who for years has never troubled my thoughts. I

spoke to him as indifferently as ever, and asked after his wife and

children. I was glad to hear that they were very well. Then still in my

dream, I considered what would have been my lot, had I accepted his

hand. I should now be established in America, in a fine house, and have

riches and health, for I should not have passed through the sufferings

of the last years, in my father's house--I should not be thinking of

dying. I thought over all this, as I saw the red cheeked wife, who had

so soon consoled him after my refusal--I shuddered at the idea of such

happiness. This may appear foolish, full of pretension, and

ingratitude. What fault could I find in him except that I did not love

him. Many people found him most amiable, and I thought him even too

much so, for a man. As a woman he would have made the best, most

docile, and virtuous of wives, but just for that reason would, as a

husband have made me most wretched. More than once I have been given to

understand that my character was too determined and energetic for a

girl. Did not the long lecture of the life preserver tend to show me

how deficient I was in feminine timidity and reserve. If this be true

the fault lies with my destiny, which threw me early in life on my own

resources, and made me independent. One to whom the world and life

makes advances may well await its approach but one who must confront

its struggles, cannot do without reliance on God, and on himself. If I

required any proof that no unwomanly boldness, no desire of dominating

lies in my character, I would find it in my dislike to womanish men,

who must lean for support on a wife; and towards manly women who only

find their happiness in ruling.

The 26th.

A few quiet and uniform days have passed. I felt very languid and

disinclined to everything and I remained at home, as the change from

the hot sunshine to the dark arcades always hurts me. I read, and

played a few sonatas, and felt that even solitude brings many heavy

hours with it.

To-day I walked out and the first person I met was Mr. Morrik, as he

really is called--I heard an acquaintance address him by that name. We

sat for a long time together on a bench amidst the evergreen shrubs in

the winter garden for underneath the poplars the air is now getting too

sharp. Society seems to have reconciled itself to the unpardonable and

unheard of crime, committed by two candidates for death, in talking to

each other, and no longer disturbs us. So to-day we had a remarkable

conversation. It began, instead of ending, as such conversations when

they are earnest and agitated are apt to do, by the utterance of the

most hidden thoughts which are usually kept back, till, after having

turned over different questions, they suddenly break forth in the

ardour of the contest. It was not the first time that I experienced in

myself a habit of thinking aloud. To my own great astonishment I, this

time suddenly took heart, and poured forth my most hidden and unavowed

thoughts and feelings; so that when the words, I was uttering struck my

ear I felt quite frightened at my audacity in harbouring such strange

ideas, and still more in delivering them to a stranger. It sometimes

really appears to me as if I had two characters within me--the one

spirited, out spoken, and clever, and this one seldom shews itself--the

other, silly and girlishly shy, which sits by in fear and trembling

when the other speaks, and cannot muster courage to interrupt it. I

forget what gave rise to this conversation. I only remember that before

I knew what I was saying I found myself in the midst of an eager, and

passionate sermon. The subject I treated was "the fear of death," which

is so plainly written in many faces around us, and also in his pale

quiet features. I have now forgotten the greatest part of my lecture,

though as the words flowed from my tongue it pleased me much and seemed

to me impossible to be refuted. I only remember that the text of my

sermon were the words of Goethe: "For I was made man, and that means,

that I have striven"--etc. "Why then if we are all combatants," I

began, "Who sooner or later must perish beside their colours, why

should it be a disgrace to those only who bear arms by profession to

meet death with cowardice; why should it not also be considered

repugnant to the esprit de corps, and the honour of humanity in

general, to cling to life with groanings and lamentations when danger

approaches. Soldiers who slink away on the eve of a battle are brought

back dishonoured and disgraced, and are thought too despicable to be

allowed to fight in the ranks of the brave. Why should a dying man who

prays for a respite of days, and hours, and even minutes, not forfeit

our sympathy and obtain only a little pity for his weakness?" So it was

I spoke. I felt like an old trooper who exhorts his men before they

commence the assault on an entrenchment. I believe that at that moment,

if the whole of the society had gathered around me to listen, my ardour

would only have increased. In the midst of my harangue, I cast a look

over the beautiful landscape which lay bathed in sunshine and it seemed

to inquire of me whether it were so very contemptible not to close

ones' eyes readily on all we have learnt to love, when we do not know,

when and how they will open again or whether they will like the change.

But this mute interrogation did not disconcert me; I had an answer all

ready; so I continued: "What you have once enjoyed is yours for ever.

What has time to do with our immortal soul? and if the soul be

immortal, will not the best part of our life, our love, all that we

have striven, and yearned for be purified and increased, and remain

ours for ever. And how few really happy sensations do we owe to that

which we shall leave here below. How many delusions cling to our

dearest friendships, must cling to them for in the midst of our

enjoyment we feel restless, and dissatisfied! Then why not leave with a

serene countenance this dreary world, where the brightest light throws

the darkest shade?"--I could have talked on for ever, had not a

vehement fit of coughing cut short my power of speech. Then only did I

consider what effect all this might have on my silent and melancholy

companion and whether it would not have been better to wait till our

acquaintance had ripened somewhat, before I displayed my small

knowledge of life and death. That which was a specific for me, his

nature might not be strong enough to bear, and then what good would it

do him? Should I not appear to him as hard and obtrusive as the lady

without nerves had appeared to me. Had I the least right to force my

aid and advice on him? However the words had been said and could not be

recalled. He remained buried in thought for full ten minutes, and left

me time to reproach myself bitterly. Then he began in a grave and

affectionate tone to dispel my fears. He said that he agreed to every

word I had spoken, and that as he took a great interest in me, it

pleased him to see me meet my fate so well armed, and with so much

fortitude; but that human destinies were different. "It is unjust," he

continued, "to expect from the sick the same strength and courage,

which we justly demand in a troop of active and healthy men. Do you not

believe that in a soldier who camps in the snow and marches twelve

hours a day, the body and blood which he stakes when he hazards his

life, and limbs must be of a more vigorous nature than those of the

poor wounded man who from the hospital hears the report of the cannon

and shudders. And is he for that to be despised? But there is another

difference which a girl cannot well understand. A man who has any

knowledge of life must perceive that his destiny is not merely to enjoy

himself, but that he has a task to perform, duties to fulfil. Do not

you think that it must be painful to have to leave the world without

having even begun this task? You must not forget this difference

Mademoiselle: The soldier fulfils his duty in dying: every other man in

living except his death be a sacrifice or an example to others. How can

he who has hitherto only lived to neglect his duty die without feeling

his death to be a new fault, a new faithlessness. We have exchanged so

many confessions," he went on, "that it would be foolish to keep back,

one, which to be sure is wholly personal and may not interest you. To

judge from the opinions you have expressed you seem to think that my

gloomy and unhappy humour is the consequence of an unmanly despair at

the prospect of certain death. Perhaps you will be inclined to think

more favourably of me when I tell you that my illness has taught me to

look upon a life of vain amusements, caring and cared for by nobody, a

life of pure selfishness as unworthy of the exercise of great medical

skill, and of the benefit of this much lauded climate. The past would

not hinder me from dying calmly--it was an empty life nothing worse. It

is the future which I had hoped to conquer just when it was too late;

wisdom came but strength left me. It is that gnaws at my heart and

makes it impossible for me to leave life with the same cheerfulness

that you do. Believe me I was not worse than the best of my equals. I

spent my youth in idleness, gambling, travelling and such trifles and

fancied as long as my father lived that it was a life suitable to my

station, and this was also his opinion. I took great pleasure in the

intellectual amusements as they are called. I was present at the debut

of every actor singer and musical composer. I collected fine pictures,

cultivated music and took a part in any amateur quartett, and that not

badly either. Suddenly my father died and his property, his fortune,

his political obligations, and connections were left without a head.

Nobody had dreamt of so sudden an end. Now it was my turn, now I had to

advance to the front and to take an oar, and just at that time

strength, and power to act were taken from me. How this happened and

how much or how little the fault lies with me is not to the purpose.

Let us suppose that this misfortune was not caused by any fault of

mine, but that it came upon me as the stone falls from the roof. Do you

not allow that my feelings on looking at the past may well be different

from yours? and so are the feelings with which I view the future." I

was on the point of answering, _what_, I hardly know, probably it was

to ask his pardon for my hasty condemnation, when I was prevented by an

old woman who offered roses for sale. He took a bunch and gave her a

florin in silver which she held in her hand, and looked at with

astonishment, as here one only meets with dirty torn paper money. He

made a sign to her, that it was all right and laid the bouquet on the

bench between us. A gentleman then approached, and spoke to him. He

rose without taking leave, but did not return to me. Soon after I

walked away leaving the bouquet on the bench. Now I regret it. What

crime have these poor roses committed that I should grudge them even a

short reprieve in a glass of water.

Evening.

I went out again, and as I must confess, only to fetch the roses. It

seemed to me like a wrong towards living beings, to leave them to

wither on the bench. I found them untouched, and now they stand fresh

and flagrant outside my window. I had to place them there, for the

nights are now so cool, that I dare not leave the window open. I will

now read to quiet my agitated thoughts. The roses have brought back to

my mind the epitaph on the tombstone:

So the early fading of the rose

Is to be envied: it is repose?

This sign of interrogation has slipped from my pen and I cannot make up

my mind to strike it out. Truly, it is a question, whether a poor human

creature has a right to envy his fellow men for anything, even for

death.

The 29th

To-day is my birthday; I formerly never took any notice of it, and did

not expect others to do so. This one however as it is my last one on

earth, I resolved to honour and solemnize as much as I could. Quite

early in the morning I summoned the little girls of my landlord and

gave each of them a dress I had made for them, a cake and a kiss. Then

I walked out though the day was chilly and without sunshine.

On the stairs I met Mr. Morrik's servant, who came to ask if I were

unwell, as I had not appeared on the Wassermauer for several days. I

felt pleased that some one inquired for me. After the recent

conversation in the wintergarden I appeared to myself so unamiable,

that I did not think it possible that any one should care whether I

lived or died.

I walked up and down for some time underneath the arcades, for the rain

swept through the narrow streets, and it was disagreeable to be out

there, as a piercing wind which they call here the Jaufenwind had

arisen, and though the Kuechelberg kept it off in some degree still it

now and then blew in gusts round the corner. I felt so dull and

unemployed, so dreary, that by way of pastime, I bought some figs and

peaches and ate them. I soon felt, that in this cold weather, I had not

done wisely, but made bad worse by sitting down beside a woman who was

roasting chesnuts, and eating some of these to warm me, and thereby

only succeeded in nearly making myself ill.

So this is my holiday! It serves me quite right; How can an unemployed

person think of holiday making. "Sour workdays, sweet holidays," that

is a different thing. More and more clearly I see that he was right,

and that I was not only wrong, but have wronged him. It is only the

heartless and selfish who would not feel regret at being called away

from this life without having done any good in it. He was very kind and

forbearing in trying to find a difference between his position and

mine. Have we not all of us duties? Did not my mother fulfil hers till

her last breath? And here am I happy in my unprofitable solitude, and

joyful as a child who has shirked school.

Here are letters from my father, and little Ernest. Birthday

congratulations. I will read them out of doors. The Jaufenwind has

cleared the sky, and the sun shines so warmly that I can no longer

stand the heat of the stove, and have to open both windows.

In the Afternoon.

This day has after all been celebrated; by a reconciliation which

consisted in a second dispute. As the unexpected sunshine brought every

living creature out into the wintergrounds, I walked on from the

Wassermauer towards the west, till I reached the spot where the Passer

flows into the Adige. There I saw at a distance Mr. Morrik sitting on

the trunk of a tree in the sunshine, with his servant at his side. He

observed me also, and rose to meet me. I was much embarrassed, for it

seemed as if I had come in search of him; however it was too late to

turn back; and why should I have done so? Was it not true that I was

pleased to see him, and wished to speak to him. I owed him the

satisfaction of telling him that he had converted me, and that all my

death defying wisdom appeared to me now like the delirium of fever. I

could hardly wait till an opportunity presented itself of confessing

this to him, and so I almost started when he anticipated me by calling

out: "How happy I am to see you! You will wonder at the miracle you

have performed on me. During your heartfelt speech I felt what a deep

impression it made on me; but like the rest of the world though I saw I

was wrong I did not like to acknowledge it, and so I supported my cause

as well as I could. We have not met since then, and in the meanwhile I

had time to recall it to my thoughts, and after a few hours

consideration, I felt I was completely changed and could have sworn

never to desert the colours you carried so valiantly before me."

"What will you say," I replied despondingly, "when you hear that I

myself have turned traitor?" "Impossible," he exclaimed, laughing--and

it was the first time I had seen him, not only smile, but laugh

heartily--"and so even you are affected by human weaknesses; but beware

of me, for I will bring back the deserter, willing or unwilling; not to

pass sentence on him, but to entrust to him again the standard under

which I will conquer or die."

There now arose an absurd contest between us, each defending the very

point he had vehemently disputed a few days ago, and trying to

depreciate his former opinion as much as possible, "You must confess,"

he at last exclaimed, "that in whichever way the wisdom of a Daniel

might theoretically settle our dispute, _my_ opinion, I mean your

former one, is by far the most advantageous. Since my conversion to it,

I feel reconciled to Providence, to the world, and even to myself, as--

yes, as you were before you were led astray by me. Now, although my

position, my sufferings and the few pleasures left to me are the same,

they appear to me tinged with fresh and glowing hues, instead of the

dull grey which shrouded them before. I look on the past as I did then;

but can I win back what I have lost by losing also that which remains

to me? You were so right in saying: in every minute, we can live a

whole life. How many minutes, nay days, weeks, perhaps months still lie

before me, and shall I not employ them? That which I had intended to do

is not of such great importance after all. Humanity will not be much

affected by its failure; but even had it been of the utmost importance,

nothing can now be altered. I cannot go back. I can only advance and

should there be some task for me to perform in the next world, I shall

be better prepared for it by courage and confidence than by the useless

despair of which I now feel heartily ashamed, before you, and should be

still more so if you had not left your position, high above the rest of

mankind, and had shown no human weakness."

I can only write down dryly all that I remember of what he said; but

when he himself utters his thoughts there is so much cleverness,

originality and wit in them that they refresh the mind, like the

inhaling of vivifying salt, and never leave a bitter taste behind.

It was a delightful hour. Had we been two men, or two women, we would

have shaken hands at parting and have fraternized on the spot. We have

now agreed to meet daily on the Wassermauer; we still think differently

on several points and have not much time to decide them.

The letters from home have also pleased me. Ernest is quite impatient

at not seeing me for so long. The poor little fellow does not know how

long it will be before we meet. Meanwhile it has grown dark. I will

have some music and so close the day harmoniously.

The 3rd November.

Pleasant days are rare guests in this world. Since I last wrote we have

only met twice. The day before yesterday the weather was damp and

foggy. I walked in the wintergarden, but he was nowhere to be seen, I

only perceived the malicious inquisitive face of the young lady who

always takes a seat close to Mr. Morrik and me, hoping to hear some of

our conversation. The life preserver also arrived, and looked at me

severely from head to foot, as I passed before and I heard her say to a

lady who sat beside her, intending it for me: "That poor young man; how

he has to suffer for talking so much." I shuddered and was very nearly

going up to the uncharitable sister, in spite of what had passed

between us, to ask her for news of him. Fortunately he sent his servant

in the afternoon, to tell me that he was confined to his room by the

cold weather--it had snowed during the night--and that I ought to take

great care of myself as the transition from autumn to winter was very

dangerous. In spite of this I went out both yesterday and to-day with

the hope of seeing him, but in vain. When two people are isolated among

the rest, how soon they grow accustomed to each other's society! He has

no acquaintances here except the doctor, whom he greatly likes. I

sometimes feel inclined to consult this doctor--not to hear anything

about myself, I know enough of that; but to hear if he really is doomed

or only fancies himself so.

The 5th--Evening.

The wind has changed and now a scirocco is blowing. The whole country

of the Adige is covered with fog, a warm soft rain drizzles against the

window panes. The poplars have lost so much of their foliage that I can

easily trace the outline of the beautiful peak of the Mendola. The

vineyards are autumnally bare, the cattle are now sheltered in the

stables, everything is prepared for winter, and I am heartily glad of a

warm nook. My father writes of much snow and cold, whilst here the

southern wind still brings an Italian warmth with it, and in the little

garden below my windows, the roses bloom as gaily as if they were quite

certain that the snow would never descend from the top of the Muth to

the village of Tirol--still less reside on the Wassermauer.

The 6th--Morning.

The roses really seem to be right. The most beautiful sunshine awoke

me; the stove shall enjoy a holiday. The green meadows in the lower

part of the country are as bright as in May. Half an hour ago I

received a note from Morrik saying that he wished to take advantage of

the fine day, and enjoy a ride over the nearest hills as walking was

forbidden him and he asked me if I would accept his company, and join

him. In that case he would fetch me at ten o'clock with the mules. I

wrote to him without much deliberation that I would be very happy to do

so. Now when I think of it....

In the Evening.

Fortunately I had no time to think over it, or I should probably have

thought many foolish and superfluous things. My landlady came to

announce that the gentleman was waiting for me below, and at the same

moment his servant entered to carry down my plaid and bag, so I had to

hurry away. He had dismounted when I came down, and the pleasure of

seeing him again, after so long a time, looking tolerably well and

cheerful, the mild clear day, the view, and the prospect of a pleasant

ride helped me to overcome my childish embarrassment. Society had at

last got accustomed to see us talk together whilst walking, why should

we not also do so on mules. So we rode gaily through the Laubengasse,

and over the bridge, where to be sure the whole company of strangers

rushed to the railings of the wintergarden, and followed us with their

kind looks and remarks. On the other side of the bridge, the road turns

to the left and ascends the hilly streets of the cheerful village of

Obermais. We soon found ourselves among the leafless vineyards, and in

trotting past the houses, saw the grapes pressed in large tubs, and

barrels filled with their juice, and under the bare trellises,

preparations for next year's harvest. One can hardly imagine anything

more picturesque looking than one of those tall fine looking young

peasants ploughing underneath these bowers with their strong grey oxen,

or as in that beautiful picture of Robert's, resting his cattle while

he leans on the pole between them. The whole surrounded by a frame of

trellis work, which here supports the vine in the form of a vaulted

arcade. They all left their work when we passed--I rode in front on a

very quiet animal, led by the guide; Morrik just behind me, so that we

could exchange the expressions of our delight at all these beauties of

nature, and his servant brought up the rear.

When we had mounted somewhat higher, I involuntarily stopped; the view

was so wonderfully beautiful. The entire valley of the Adige lay far

beneath us, the river glittered between meadows and sands, and the more

distant mountains encircled the whole with their clear and beautiful

outline. But how can words describe a scene which the brush of the most

able painter could not do justice to. Neither of us spoke, we remained

in silent awe, and could only marvel. Had not the mules become

impatient, who can say whether we should not be on the same spot still.

My docile bay who was more sagacious than he looked, pondered, and

shook his head with the conspicuous ears, over the folly of mankind in

stopping where no fodder was to be seen: so he moved on slowly to

supply our want of judgement, and the others followed. We left to our

right a beautiful castle belonging to Count Trautmannsdorf, and the

little church of St. Valentine, which stands quite isolated in a

sheltered valley. Our way then again turned to the north over a hill

which rises at the foot of the Ifinger, whose snowy summit towered in

the clear autumnal sky. The whole ridge of the hill is covered with

solitary farms, intermingled with old castles that are now chiefly

inhabited by rich wine growing peasants who, during the summer months,

lodge invalid strangers. I have forgotten the names of most of them,

only one of them I remember, the castle of Rubein. There in front of

the old battlements stand tall slender cypresses, like guardians round

an old sarcophagus and contrast by their sombre hue with the green and

yellow foliage of the vine. We took a hasty survey of the courtyard.

The small open gallery supported by pillars, the steep stairs, which

lead up to it, and in the corner the old, and now nearly bare

walnut-tree round which myriads of birds were fluttering and singing,

so that it seemed as if they had enjoyed too much of their grape

harvest and were now intoxicated and overmerry. I could fill pages with

a description of the beauties of these heights. Further on, towards the

valley of Passeir, the road gently ascends underneath noble chesnut and

walnut-trees, and the view opens out to the Kuechelberg, and my dear old

Zenoburg, till it rests on the high projecting village of Schoenna with

its old castle.

When we arrived it was just noon. We were both tired by our long ride,

hungry and silent. The sights in which we had revelled still occupied

our thoughts, and here again our eyes hardly sufficed to enjoy the view

which extended far and near from every window. I entered the tap-room,

whilst Morrik talked to the landlord outside, and sat quietly in the

dusk for a while with closed eyes endeavouring to recover my calmness.

The room had a projecting bay window which formed a sort of recess,

where sat, as a hasty glance when I entered had shown me, a young

peasant, and a girl with their dinner and wine before them. They seemed

to notice me as little as I did them. Morrik then came in, and sat down

at a table beside me. He appeared more cheerful than usual, but also

looked paler, as if the air had fatigued him. We talked about

indifferent subjects. Suddenly the young peasant rose from his seat in

the window, and with a full glass of wine in his hand, approached our

table. "With your permission," he said, "the gentleman won't object to

my drinking the health of this lady, as we are old acquaintances." Then

he took a sip, looked at me over the edge of his glass, and gave it to

me to drink from. I took the glass, but looked at him rather puzzled.

He seemed quite unknown to me, and appeared to be flushed with wine,

and in a waggish humour, so that I was really frightened.

"Well, well," he said, as I was silent, and Morrik gave him no

encouragement; the hat of a Saltner, and a beard of three months'

standing certainly give a fellow somewhat more of a diabolical look

than his holiday clothes. But if I did not seem appalling to her then,

there is still less danger of it now, particularly as her brother, or

her sweetheart....

"Natz," the girl interrupted, "what nonsense you are talking. The young

lady does not look as if she felt a great horror of you, but to drink

wine is forbidden to those who are ill; is it not so your honour?

Ignatzius has a notion that no one can live without wine. Oh what a

wild-fellow he is! I have been begging and entreating him for a whole

hour to come away. We are going down to Meran for our pledge, you

understand, our betrothal; but there he will sit, sit till night comes

on, and when the wine is well up, forsooth, a pretty figure we shall

make before the deacon. Do persuade him to come away my lady----"

"Heigh-ho what's this!" exclaimed the young fellow, whom I at last

recognized as my friend of the Zenoburg, "don't you see Liesi that this

gentleman and lady are in no hurry either? What do you say to that,

sir? she already takes the reins; the women are always in a hurry to

get the men into their power. A smart fellow often pauses on this road

and drinks his last bachelor's bottle with all the more relish. In

other respects," he continued, casting a proud and merry glance at

her, "I cannot complain; she is a tightly built lass, and has her

senses about her; and certainly she has not been picked up on the

highways--Only this setting down, and domineering, that is an

affliction to be sure; but even the strongest and most determined

fellow must submit to it--How have you fared?" turning to Morrik, the

lady here is very nice, and I would not mind changing with you, but

then there would be an end of playing the master of the house, "well

every one has some burden to carry."

"Ignatz," I said, for Morrik still continued silent, and I feared he

would set the young fellow down, whose tongue the wine had loosened,

somewhat ungently, "this gentleman is neither my sweetheart nor my

brother. We are both of us strangers here; who only had agreed to make

this excursion together. You talk about commanding but that demands

strength. A poor woman who will be buried before the spring arrives,

neither has spirit nor inclination for it. And now go with your Liesi

to Meran to the priest, and don't let it be said of you that you did

not know what you were doing when you gave her your promise."

The girl who was fresh and blooming, and had a frank and intelligent

countenance, now also rose and took the young man by the arm.

"Thank you, young lady," she said, "for helping me to get off with this

fellow. Say God speed, to the gentleman and lady, Natzi, and then come

along; and I hope ma'am that you will change your mind about dying. I

was a servant girl in one of the lodging-houses down at Meran during

two winters, and know many a one who quite recovered after having

ordered his coffin, and many a one who thought he was breathing his

last breath, afterwards climbed to the top of the Muth. The air of

Meran is so fine that I should not wonder if it woke up the dead. But

now goodbye your honours, or this one here, will go to sleep on the

spot where he is standing."

There really seemed some danger of this for he stood leaning against

the table, and vacantly stared at the floor. He nodded dreamily towards

us, and willingly let himself be led out.

I cannot deny that the whole scene had made a painful impression on me.

It did not exactly show the young fellow to disadvantage, but his talk

of which I have given the main part without his strong expressions had

vexed me. Morrik did not seem much edified either by this encounter.

The landlady who brought in our dinner, also asked importunate

questions, and so did not improve our humour. Moreover the air was

heavy in the low room and the smoke from the kitchen penetrated into

it. The cooking too was bad, so we were glad to have done with it and

to breathe again the fresh air. We walked slowly along the narrow paths

among the picturesque farms, talking little. My cheerfulness however

soon returned. "Are you not well?" I asked, as he pensively walked

beside me. "I cannot complain," he said, "I should feel neither care

nor grief if thoughts did not oppress me."

"Perhaps it would relieve you, if you could express your thoughts."

"Perhaps it would make it worse. My thoughts would hardly please you."

"Your confidence at least would please me."

"Even if I should confide to you, that after all, I fear you have too

much confidence in me?" I looked at him enquiringly.

"Look here," he continued, "the little you know of me, is perhaps the

best part of me; thence I am persuaded that you think much too highly

of me, and would be disappointed if you heard the judgement which other

people, who to be sure know me still less than you do, have passed upon

me."

"Is it not the same with every one of us," I replied, "either we are

judged too highly or undervalued by our fellow creatures. Even our

nearest friends do not always see us in our true light. But shall I for

that lose my faith in the durability of our friendly intercourse, the

term of which is so very short."

He smiled sadly. "I have a sure presentiment that you will outlive me;

perhaps for many years. Since I have known you, your health has visibly

improved, and who can tell whether the sentence pronounced on you by

your doctor may not one day be laid aside with the rest of the sayings

which false prophets have recklessly uttered. You shake your head. Well

we will leave the future to decide this question, I carry the sure

tokens of death too plainly within me to mistake them. So it causes me

much deliberation whether I am not wronging you, in enjoying your

society, your conversation, may I say your friendship? without heeding

the injury your kindness may do you. You are so far above many things,

which, in spite of their meanness, are all powerful in this world; how

strong and cruel that power is, I myself have painfully experienced.

Lest you should feel hurt at a man's reminding you of the prejudices

and opinions which usually have more influence with women, and which

hitherto, in our friendly intercourse, we have despised, you must know

that I should not be here, not be ill, not be dying if I had been more

careful of the judgement of others and of the light, or rather shade

which I throw on all with whom I associate."

We had seated ourselves on a stone, close by the roadside, and covered

with moss and ivy from whence we could see the beautiful mountain peaks

and the sloping heights of the Passer through the branches of the

chesnut-trees.

Children on their way to school surrounded us at some distance,

peasants passed, and cows were led to the fountain. He did not heed

them, but continued in a low voice: "Perhaps you do not know, dear

Marie, how much an independent position influences our nature for good

or for evil. It is now useless to moralize on the subject, but one

thing to be observed, is, that a man who is not restrained by any tie

is very apt to despise those who are bound by considerations, or

prejudices. I have already told you that I was better than my

reputation. As I could easily dispense with the assistance, protection,

and good-will of my fellow-creatures, I thought I could also dispense

with their good opinion, and only laughed when the _home-made_ people,

as I used to call them, painted my character in darker colours than it

really deserved. They envy me my freedom, I often said. As I am not

dependent on them for anything, they want me at least to bow down

before their moral tribunal. What would freedom be worth if it did not

teach us to depend on ourselves and the voice of our conscience alone?

So I went my way, and let them talk. Every path in life leads past

human habitations, and whoever seeks admission into these must steady

his steps that he may not be suspected of being a vagabond or a

drunkard, and no peaceful citizen will let such a one cross his

threshold. I will not give you a long history--to be brief; I made the

acquaintance of a most amiable girl--perhaps, it was for the first

time, that I felt warm friendship, and inspired it. The young lady had

been engaged for several months to an officer whom I had formerly met

in rather light society. At that time he was absent on duty. I am

convinced that I would never have entered the house again, had I felt

anything like love for his betrothed. But as matters stood, I gave

myself up to the charm of this harmless and cordial intercourse, the

more so, that her brother saw no objection to it. The family was

wealthy and much esteemed. Small parties were given in the house, where

dancing, comedies and tableaux-vivants went on, so that many young men

were always assembled there even during the absence of the betrothed,

and his future bride gaily joined in every amusement. Suddenly I

remarked that her brother treated me with coldness and reserve; I was

on the point of asking him the reason of this, when he anticipated me

by writing a polite letter in which he expressed his positive desire

that I should never again enter his parents' house. Of course, we had

an explanation in which I was informed that the officer to whom his

sister was engaged had charged her to break off all intercourse with

me, as I was a man of no principle. Several other circumstances added

to the irritation caused by this unfortunate affair, and though I did

my best to spare my fair friend every sorrow, yet the affair took a

serious turn. The conversation ended in a duel. I shot into a tree, but

the brother whose blood was hotter than mine, grazed my side with his

bullet. It was not much to speak of, but the agitation which I with

difficulty repressed, the cold of the winter morning in which I drove

for several hours in my carriage back to town, and the pain and rage I

felt at seeing this pure and charming tie so foolishly rent asunder,

all this laid me prostrate. I only rose from an inflammatory fever to

be sent here as incurable. And now, dear Marie, you will understand why

I can no longer make light of your innocently walking by the side of a

man supposed to be without principles. I who, at least, have always

adhered firmly to one thing, and that is not to seek my own happiness

at the cost of another's."

I had long made up my mind how I should answer him. "If you have

confided all this to me, with the hope of changing my opinion," I said,

"you little know me. It can only confirm me in the belief that I do

well in availing myself of the right of speaking the truth to you. A

right which, is only granted to the dying.

"All the good I have enjoyed in this life I have had to struggle for. I

so truly prize our mutual friendship that I will not renounce it so

easily. What would friendship be worth, if one had not the courage to

acknowledge, and defend it when attacked. How mean and false, should I

not appear in my own eyes, and in yours, if I changed in my conduct

towards you because bad or silly people accuse you of things which I

know to be untrue. I too depend on no one, in consideration of whom, I

being a girl should subject my feelings, against my convictions.

"If my father should ever hear that in my last days I had formed a firm

friendship with a stranger, he will only think highly of the stranger

in whom his daughter confided.

"So no more of these reflections which ought never to have troubled

you, and we will remain what we were before, good comrades. Is it not

so, my friend?"

"Till death," he said, and pressed my hand, greatly agitated. I soon,

succeeded in cheering him again, and this happy day would have closed

harmoniously, but for an event which to be sure troubled only me. We

rode home early, as the sun so soon sets behind the mountains. Morrik

was very merry, and talked to his mule, jestingly giving it credit for

a sense of the beautiful; he stopped at the farms, and spoke to the

children and their mothers, and as we rode past a white bearded old man

whom we met panting up the hill, he stuck a paper florin in the old

peasant's hat, and was delighted with the thought of what he would say

when a passing acquaintance told him of the strange ornament. So we

reached the bridge by a shorter road, there I saw on a bench a young

Pole whom I had several times noticed, and not in the favourable sense

of the word. I had now and then met him alone, and then he had stared

at me with such a fierce look in his dark eyes that I always hurried

past him. He is evidently one of the most suffering of the strangers

here, and his passionate temper seems constantly to be in revolt

against his fate, and this inward conflict distorts his otherwise

handsome and attractive features. His strange costume, all black, with

high boots, and a fur-cap with white feathers in it, gives him a

striking appearance, which sometimes has haunted me in troubled dreams,

always menacing me with terrible looks. To-day he sat quite quietly,

and did not appear to see me. Morrik was in front as the bridge is so

narrow that two riders cannot cross it side by side, and I had to pass

close to the bench on which he was reclining apparently asleep.

Suddenly he jumped up seized the bridle of my mule, and looked at me

fixedly with piercing eyes; he wanted to speak, but only burst out in a

frantic laugh, so that my mule shied and gave such a start that it

nearly sent me flying over the parapet of the bridge. Before I had

recovered from my astonishment, he had disappeared round a turning of

the road. The guide in a fury sent a curse after him, and I had hardly

time to enforce silence on him, before we reached Morrik, to whom I

would on no account mention this singular adventure until I ascertain

whether there is any mystery concealed under it. I have written too

much, and my pulse is beating feverishly. This night I shall have to

pay for the pleasures of the day. Good night.

The 8th November--rain and sirocco.

This the second day we have had of this unwholesome air in which no

patient dares to go out. It is a pity. I had anticipated the pleasure

of discussing different subjects with my newly acquired friend, which I

had refrained from doing before we had so cordially shaken hands as

comrades. Now, I must wait patiently. Strange that the solitude which

formerly seemed to me as life itself becomes only the resort of

necessity now that I have associated with a genial and intellectual

mind. I must content myself with my books and music. Every morning he

sends his servant to enquire how I feel. The ride seems to have done

him good, I still feel it in my limbs. I will write home and tell my

father of my new friend; I know it will please him.

The 11th November.

Now, at last, the southern winter has commenced its mild reign, and

people say that this will continue. Yesterday I again remained out of

doors from two o'clock till sunset with Morrik on the Wassermauer, not

always conversing, as he in compliance with my request brought a book

with him. The poems of Edgar Allen Poe, he showed them to me with a

smile, saying that these were the true expositors of his own feelings

before his regeneration, as he called it. I have taken the book away

with me and have lent him instead "The wisdom of the Brahmins" by my

dear Rueckert, of which, however, one can only take in finger-tips at a

time, but every pinch of this snuff, to continue the clumsy simile,

freshens the mind and dispels congestions.

"You really have given me a spiritual medicine," Morrik jestingly said,

"I must beg of you to go on prescribing for me, for that desperate

American had quite unsettled me."

He told me that people had talked a great deal about our excursion to

Schoenna, and looked at me to see if that annoyed me. "Do not let us

please them by noticing it," I answered, "just as we enjoyed the

sunshine without allowing the gnats and flies that buzzed about us, to

spoil our pleasure." We have tacitly agreed never to talk about our

illness, as most people here do, and either make themselves unhappy by

it or find consolation in it, according to the warmth or coldness of

their hearts. But I often perceive that he fancies erroneously that my

health is improving, instead of which I distinctly feel the contrary.

The momentary relief which I experience is just what characterises the

approaching end in this disease. I fancy that I breathe more easily and

move with less effort. I also eat more and sleep well, probably owing

to exhaustion, which increases, though I have the illusive feeling

of more vigour and ease. As I walked home to-day--I dine at three

o'clock--I really felt hungry, but I know how it is with me.

To-day there is at Meran besides the usual market one of those large

meat ones that take place in the autumn when the Lauben are transformed

into long rows of butcher's stalls, and butchering goes on in all the

court-yards. On every peg, there hangs the half of a pig or a calf

which is sold to the peasants, who come in great multitudes from the

Vintschgau, Passeier, and Ultner valleys, and from the different farms

in the neighbourhood. Other booths are filled with various merchandize:

iron-ware, clothes images of saints and numberless trifles. Between

these boothes the people push, press, and jostle, so that if one is not

in danger of one's life, one is at all events nearly suffocated as the

smell of the meat mingles with the fumes of bad tobacco. I have even

seen boys of ten years old walk about with short pipes in their mouths,

and the smoke hangs over the market-place like a heavy fog; the lungs

that can stand it must really be strong as healthy. I nearly fainted.

Those great strong fellows would not stir a step out of my way.

Fortunately my friend of the Kuechelberg and his Liese came to my

rescue, just when I most needed it. By plenty of vigorous elbowing he

at last got me safely through those human walls. He was again somewhat

flushed with wine, but he nevertheless appeared to me like a guardian

angel and I easily forgave him the question he jokingly asked me about

my brother or sweetheart. I could not make him understand that the

gentleman was neither the one or the other, though very dear to me.

My landlady has just brought me in my afternoon meal. My hunger has

grown so morbid that I cannot wait till supper time. Probably these are

the last figs of this year. Thank heaven that ham and bread are not

restricted to any particular season. What if I played our old doctor

the trick of dying before the spring, and that of starvation!

The 19th November.

I can hardly hold my pen, I tremble so with the agitation of this last

hour. How rashly I hoped that the weeks would glide on peaceful, and

full of sunshine like the last one; one day resembling the other. In

the forenoon, those happy hours on the Wassermauer with Morrik; the

remainder of the day, my books, and letters, or my work and my piano,

which I fancy sounds more and more melodious every time I play on it.

And now this occurrence! Moreover I cannot speak of it to any one, and

above all before my friend, before Morrik, I must appear as if nothing

had happened. Is it not all some fearful dream! Has that poor man, I

may say that madman, though he vehemently protested against the

suspicion, really spoken words to me that I could not understand,

accompanied by looks that I shudder to think of, for they seem to me to

have been more expressive than his words. I ought to have listened to

the secret misgivings which warned me against the solitary road on the

Kuechelberg, since that scene on the bridge. But I knew that Morrik was

not on the Wassermauer, and did not like to be there without him,

particularly as the band was to play on that day.

I had walked on so totally absorbed in my own thoughts that I had

passed through the gate towards Vintschgau before I knew what I was

doing: it is still as warm there as summer is at home, and one may

saunter on through the leafless vineyards and find every now and then a

bench inviting to rest. Where my thoughts were I know not, when

suddenly he seemed to emerge from the ground, and stood by my side

holding my hand. My fright was so great that I could not utter a sound

but I fixed my eyes firmly on his face and saw that he opened his lips

with an effort. He began first in broken German, and then fluently and

vehemently in French, to excuse himself for the scene on the bridge. He

had been blinded by pain and jealousy, and would willingly cut off the

hand that had seized the bridle of my mule, if by so doing he could

obtain my forgiveness. While he spoke I vainly tried to free my hand

from his grasp. I looked around but no one was to be seen, the road was

deserted. This roused my pride, and my courage; I drew back my hand,

and could at last ask him what authorized him to speak in that way to a

stranger. He was silent for some time, and a violent conflict seemed to

rage within him. Every nerve of his face twitched convulsively. What he

at last said I _will_ forget, I listened to it as if it were not

addressed to me. _Could_ it be addressed to _me_, whom he did not know,

with whom he had never exchanged a word? Is a passion that is roused by

a figure gliding past like a shadow, by one who is inwardly dead, and

only outwardly has a semblance of life; is not that passion but a freak

of madness; and is a madman responsible for the words he utters? Only

when he threatened Morrik, I began to think such an insanity dangerous,

and not merely to be pitied. I do not know what I said to him, but I

saw that it made a deep impression on him. Suddenly he took off his

high black cap with the feathers in it, and stood humbly before me;

"Vous avez raison, Madame," he said in a deep thrilling voice which

before had had a harsh hoarse tone in it. "Pardonnez-moi, j'ai perdu la

tete." Then he bowed and walked across the fields towards the level

part of the country, where I could for some time distinguish his dark

figure moving among the willows.

After having written all this, it seems to me that I look upon what has

passed with more calmness; and compassion gets the better of my

indignation. I looked at myself in the glass and could still less

understand it. It will also always remain a mystery to me how such a

scene could take place between two natures one of whom did not feel the

slightest inclination for the other, who on his part made impetuous

attempts to draw near. I know that not only affinities draw characters

towards each other but also contraries; but can indifference also have

that power? The longer I think of it the more clearly I perceive that

his mind must be deranged. I will, after all, mention it to Morrik, for

who can say to what I may not expose myself if I should a second time

encounter this madman, defenceless, and fright should paralyze the

self-possession which I need to subdue him.

Several days later.

The pain of mentioning this dreadful encounter to my friend has been

spared me. It would certainly have agitated him, the more so, that he

has been much less cheerful lately, and often walks quite absently

beside me.

The poor young man whom I dreaded will never again cross my path. His

clouded mind is now brightened by the light of heaven. This morning

when my landlady came to me, she told me that a young Pole had died in

the night. The description she gave me of his person is exactly that of

the poor madman. A hemorrage had carried him off in the night and he

was found dead in the morning. I now reproach myself with having spoken

too harshly to him, but I had no other weapon than my words. If they

were too sharp and wounded him more deeply than the offence demanded,

the alarm of that moment may excuse me, and the fact that I did not

immediately perceive the state of his mind.

Evening.

Tired, agitated, and in conflict with myself.

To-day when I met Morrik, I welcomed my dear friend with particular

pleasure, after these last painful days. He told me without laying much

stress on it--for here one is accustomed to the disappearance of some

known face--of the sudden death, and asked me if I remembered the

handsome young man. I said: no, and then felt heavy at heart as though

I had committed some crime. In vain I tried to persuade myself that by

this untruth, I had cut short any further conversation on the subject,

and perhaps the necessity of telling other falsehoods, I cannot get rid

of the painful feeling that I have wronged my friend who has so much

right to hear the truth. I shall again have a bad night, and shall not

be able to rest till I have confessed all to him, and begged his

pardon.

The next day--I believe it to be the 23rd,

cold and foggy.--

I am severely punished. The cold prevents his walking out. Now I must

wait patiently till to-morrow comes, or perhaps till the day after. It

has become quite a necessity with me, not to let the least breath of

untruth, or misunderstanding come between us.

Edgar Allan Poe with his morbid discontents; his bitter and hopeless

sarcasms, is now congenial to me. There is a frame of mind when wisdom

is repugnant to us, as a bowl of sweet milk is to a man in a fever.

Only that....

Two hours later.

Are calm and peace really only words void of meaning in this troubled

world? Cannot even those retain them inwardly who had won them. I begin

to think that I should not be secure from the events, and storms, which

harass my last moments, even were I shut up in a walled in tower, where

the ravens brought me my food through the barred windows. If no other

catastrophe were possible, an earthquake would root up my place of

concealment, and break through the walls, and I should be again cast

out into the world among strangers, whose affection would distress me,

when I had ceased to care for their aversion.

A visitor disturbed me this morning; the last person in Meran whom I

should have expected to see in my room! No less a personage than the

Burghermeister of the town. He came to spare me the disagreeable

surprise of a solemn summons, and disclosed to me that he had been

entrusted with a letter for me, and with the testament of the writer,

who names me his sole heiress.

I looked helplessly at the Burghermeister. The thought of my father's

death did not occur to me. If this dreadful event were to happen; if I

should lose him before my hour had arrived, at least the pain of

inheriting from him would be spared me. But who in the whole world--?

I glanced at the letter which the Burghermeister had with some

hesitation laid on the table, and saw a handwriting that was quite

unknown to me. "I don't know this handwriting," I said wonderingly,

though a sudden misgiving seized me, as I remarked that the direction

was in French. My evident astonishment seemed to relieve him. He

probably had supposed that a more intimate acquaintance had existed

between me, and the writer of the letter, and was prepared for a

painful scene. "Do you wish to read the letter now or later?" he asked.

I opened it at once, and read it with a beating heart but without any

outward show of emotion, at least I believe so. The letter was filled

with the rhapsodies which I had before spurned from me with horror.

They were hardly subdued by the approach of death, though the

unfortunate man must have felt it coming. I have not as yet deciphered

much of it. The indistinct French hand seems to have trembled at every

stroke with violent emotion.

But not a word of the legacy; only wretchedness and accusations against

fate which had rent asunder the fetters of passion, instead of

loosening them; confused tumultuous words, and ideas, written in order

to lighten the burden of one heart, and to weigh down the other with

it.

When I had laid down the letter, the kindly old gentleman turned to me,

and seemed to ask for an explanation which I could not give. When I had

told him that I was just as much astonished as he was, he departed,

leaving me a copy of the will for further consideration, but he

seriously advised me not to refuse so considerable a property in the

first moment of excitement, though I was of age, and need not consult

the wishes of my father. He would call again in a few days.

I will take a walk, I feel as if I could no longer remain in the room

with those papers; as if they impregnated the air with the fever heat

from whence they proceeded. I did not even require to read them a

second time to come to a decision; I--, or the poor of Meran--can there

be a doubt which of us will outlive the other, and will need the

fortune most.

In the Afternoon.

Truly this is a disastrous day. I wish it were past. Who can tell what

the evening may bring!

I went out with the foolish hope of meeting Morrik, instead of whom, I

encountered all the strange though well known faces in the winter

garden. I can generally now pass them with indifference, but they were

this day again to wound me deeply.

I perceived that they laid their heads together and whispered as I went

by. On one of the benches sat the young _chronique scandaleuse_ whom I

have long ceased to bow to, as she tosses her head whenever I come near

her. The place beside her was the only unoccupied one, but hardly had I

sat down, when up she started and moved towards another bench, begging

two ladies to make room for her. The blood rushed to my face but I was

not conquered. At last the life preserver, who had not deigned to

address a word to me for weeks past, rustled into the arbour. This time

her heart was too full; she came up to me and said, so loudly that

every one could hear her, "Well my dear, I suppose we are to

congratulate you. The young Pole has bequeathed to you, his large

fortune. Poor young man! To be sure you always kept _him_ at a great

distance. It is no wonder that he soon died. It is really quite

touching that even after his death he offered his broken heart to you."

"You are mistaken," I said. "I have not accepted the legacy which was

only left to me by the error of an unsound mind. But even if it had

been clearly the intention of the deceased to appoint me his heiress, I

would not have accepted it. I am not moved, either by the kindness, or

the malevolence of strangers, but generally turn my back on both." Then

I quietly read on. There was a great silence in the arbour, and I could

hear the quicker breathing of the fat old lady without nerves, as well

as that of the little lady who hates me. I did not take any further

notice of what they whispered and tittered around me, only I several

times distinguished the name of Morrik, purposely pronounced very

distinctly. Even that cannot hurt me. But as I walked home, shivering

in the damp foggy air, and feeling inwardly as sunless and gloomy as

the sky was outwardly. I should have liked a good hearty cry. I feel so

weary, that not even tears will flow. Life, happiness, sorrow,

everything, seems stagnant within me.

The 25th November.

And now this! this verily is the last drop in the cup of bitterness.

This blow strikes at the very roots, and no storm is needed to level to

the ground the falling tree a child could overturn it. And that this

blow should come from the hand, from which I least expected it. That

just where I had hoped to ease my heart, I have brought it back more

heavy still. To-day I at last found him on the Wassermauer. The sun

shone brightly; I felt revived and hoped to gain peace and relief from

the conversation I had so long wished for. I thought I could easily

explain to him this last occurrence, and I was not disappointed; he

smiled when I told him how sorry I was for my want of truth towards

him. He took my hand and before releasing it he pressed it to his lips.

I felt strangely moved. He had heard of the legacy of the young Pole

but had never doubted that I would refuse it. Everything now I thought

was smoothed and settled, and I cast a grateful look at the sun as if

his kindly beams had cleared it all.

How came it that we again turned to that unlucky theme? Alas it was my

fault. I wished to convince him more fully still that my feelings for

the poor madman had always been cool, and indifferent; so I began again

by saying, how the bare thought of that meeting filled me with horror;

how inexcusable it was to let people who were so evidently deranged

walk about unwatched. He looked straight before him, and said: "You are

mistaken dear Marie, he was not more deranged than I am who sit beside

you, and I hope I do not inspire you with fear. He even has the

advantage over me, for he has eased his heart of the burden which still

oppresses mine."

"I do not understand you," I replied, and I spoke the truth.

"Then I will continue silent;" what good could speaking do me?

After a pause: "But no, why should I remain silent you might then only

fancy something worse. Is it so contemptible, if a few steps from the

grave we once more look back on life, and there perceive a happiness

which would render it loveable and worth having if only it were not too

late, and if then one grows distracted with misery and longing, and

with rage against fate? If though dying one longs to press to one's

heart the dear one who is denied to us, and breathe our last breath on

her lips? That is what happened to the poor lad who now sleeps a

dreamless sleep--and so...." He paused and looked at me. There was not

a soul to be seen underneath the poplars and he again took my hand.

"You tremble! before me too," he said. "Forget my words."

I could not speak. I felt that my last and best happiness was

destroyed; the harmless confidence, the warm cheerful intercourse to

which my heart clung. Again I was alone, I felt it must be so, if I

would not add remorse to my other sufferings. "I will go home," I said,

"I feel unwell; you must remain here, and enjoy the sunshine which

makes my head ache to-day, I will write a few lines to you in the

afternoon to tell you, if I feel better." Then I rose, gave him my hand

for the last time; entreated him by a look to say no more, and left

him.

I will see if I can collect my thoughts sufficiently to write to him.

In the Evening.

I lay the copy of my letter to him between these leaves, and feel

relieved now that it is over; physically relieved, but the weight on my

heart still oppresses me. This is the letter:

"Meran, the 25th November.

"My dear friend!

"Let me to-day, bid you farewell for the last time in this world, and

express my hope of a happy meeting in the next, towards which we are

tending. It will be easier for both of us to take leave of each other

now, while we are still under the impression of a pure and friendly

intercourse, than it would be later when we should have felt that we do

not agree in higher matters, and this I fear would sooner, or later

have been the case, for your last words still sadden and dishearten me,

as I never thought words spoken by my dear friend could have done.

"How I wish we still lived in the past; then I was happy and hoped that

you were so. Why did you speak, why could we not calmly have awaited

our destiny, and stood firmly by each other as true comrades till the

end came.

"I hope that this calm and premature farewell, though it may cause you

a momentary pain, will in time soften your thoughts, and give you back

the clear-sightedness with which we a short time ago looked on the

past, and hoped for the future. We cannot avoid meeting now and then;

let us pass one another with a silent bow, as if already we were

shadows moving in a higher sphere.

"I need not tell you that I shall always retain the warmest friendship

for you, and I beg you to keep yours for me, though at one time it

seemed overshadowed by darker passions.

"Farewell my dear friend; show me that these words, which come from the

heart, are understood, by not answering them."

"Marie."

The last of November.

I long for snow and ice for the cold winter air of my home. This sun

that shines day after day in the clear blue November sky makes my eyes

and my heart ache. This morning I woke with a pleasant surprise; it had

snowed in the night and the soft snow still lay unsullied, and pure on

the roofs and on the road. Now it has melted away, and only a few

traces of it are left. People again walk about in light cloaks, and

with dry feet under the leafless poplars.

My father wrote yesterday that he fully approves of my decision

regarding the legacy. I immediately informed the Burghermeister of

this, and have already received a vote of thanks from the

administration of the poorhouse funds, which I would willingly have

dispensed with. I now write rarely in this journal. One day resembles

the other; they are like the leaves of a tree in the late autumn; all

of them are brown, only one falls to the earth sooner than another.

The 1st of December--at Night.

A shooting festival has taken place and enlivened the quiet town of

Meran. Early in the morning I was awakened by the band of music which

accompanied the shooters from the Sandplatz in front of the Post to the

targets. Then the whole day long the report of the rifles was heard and

made me feel quite nervous, and later the shouts and jodles of the

peasants who arrived rather the worse for wine. In the evening

fireworks were displayed on the left bank of the Passer, and it was

very pretty to see the population of the town, and the strangers

walking up and down, and enjoying the mild air by the light of torches

which were placed along the Wassermauer. Then a strong sirocco arose,

and wildly swept the rockets across the water, made the torches

flicker, and drove the spectators into their houses by bringing on the

rain. I saw the spectacle from my window, and remained there till the

last spark had died out in the dark starless night.

How long it is now since I have spoken to any one except to the people

of the house where I lodge. The wish that my lips might be closed for

ever grows stronger every day. Oh for an hour of the cheerful,

confidential talk I once enjoyed with Morrik, and then to go to sleep

and dream that same dream on to Eternity! But I must endure till my

time comes.

The 4th December.

When my time has come, shall I find courage to resist my longing to see

him once more, and in spite of my resolve, bid adieu to life with my

eyes fixed on his. I think he too would wish it, whatever his present

thoughts may be regarding my sudden rupture with him. Sometimes the

idea torments me that he may have possibly misunderstood my letter and

think that I drew back because I feared gossip. I should like to tell

him once more that this is not the case; that I only did it for his

sake, for his peace of mind, and indeed for mine also.

How is he now? Can he walk out? Who will help him to bear the long

solitude of the day. I am truly grateful to him for having granted my

wish in not having answered my letter. Still something seems missing in

my life, now that I no longer see him, and cannot judge for myself

whether he is cheerful or melancholy; how he bears his sufferings, what

he reads, what he thinks--his thoughts even, I could once read in his

face, his countenance is so clear and open.

Yesterday I met his servant. The faithful creature bowed to me; I

should have liked to ask him how his master was; however it is better

not.

The 11th.

Took a walk to the Zenoburg; that dear walk of former days, but not

with my former spirits. As I passed by the house where he lodges, he

was just coming out; he perceived me and stood still and motionless to

let me pass. I dared not look at him, but the first glance told me that

he had become pale and grave--nearly as much so as when I first saw

him. He did not bow, but remained in the shade of the doorway as if

fearing to frighten me; so I passed him with my eyes fixed on the

pavement.

The hill seemed much steeper to me than when I walked up the first

time--probably I have grown weaker--and _then_ I was happy. What is it

that hinders me from being so again, in spite of all my efforts and

self-command. Is it merely compassion for him, and the want of that

intercourse which had become a necessity to me. No, it is not that

alone; it is as if I had been infringing on some duty. But how could I

have acted differently? Can one trifle with the hopes and happiness of

this life, when death is so near.

The 16th December--Evening.

A trying but pleasant day has passed. I have packed a small

Christmasbox which I intend to send home. When all the trifles I had

worked for my father, Ernest, and my step-mother were laid together;

the pretty wood carvings, the picture of Meran, and the figure of a

Saltner which I had dressed up for Ernest as like the real ones as

possible, I was as happy as a child with its own Christmas presents.

And then the packing of it all; as the box was not quite filled, I

crammed in all I could get hold of; some pomegranates, a box filled

with dried figs, another one with chesnuts, and one of those sweet

Christmas-cakes made of honey and raisins. The box will tell its own

tale of Meran.

My landlord's apprentice carried the box to the post. Then for the

first time for several weeks, I walked on the Wassermauer. The

strangers sat on the benches as they had always done, only foot-rugs

had become more general. Morrik arrived soon after me. This time we

silently exchanged salutations as had been agreed between us. He looked

kindly and calmly at me probably to see whether I appeared well and

cheerful. I was much heated by my Christmas packing. When I got home I

looked at myself in the glass and perceived that it was only a

transient flush of agitation, perhaps of pleasure. Now that we have

again met so unconstrainedly I fancy that the future will seem easier

to me. I need only imagine that I never exchanged a word with him but

that I have simply read a story in which one of the characters had

attracted me--that I now meet a stranger whose face recalls my idea of

this character, and therefore that I take great interest in him. We did

not sit down beside each other. I walked several times up and down the

Wassermauer with a lady who was very kind to me, inquired why I had so

persistently remained at home, and then told me all about herself and

her children, from whom she had been separated for the sake of

tranquillity. Tears started to her eyes as she said. "To be separated

from those dear to us in order to enjoy quiet and peace of mind!" Oh

you good doctors! what bad physicians for the soul you are.

Christmas Eve.

What am I to think of this! An hour ago a Christmas-tree beautifully

decorated with oranges, pomegranites, and sweet meats, and covered with

wax-lights was brought into the room by my landlady. The tree is so

high that I was obliged to place it on the floor and yet it nearly

reaches the ceiling. A strange maidservant brought it, my landlady

tells me, and would on no account say from whom it came. I have now lit

all the tapers and am writing by their light, after having given my

landlady's children some Christmas-presents, for the people here never

have Christmas-trees.

Now that I am again alone, I ransack my brain to find out who could

have sent the tree. The kind lady who may also feel the want of

Christmas joys, and Christmas lights? But surely she would have written

a letter to say so, and then our acquaintance is so short. Many other

kind faces have passed by me in my daily walks, but to whom of these

would it have occurred to brighten my Christmas eve. I must confess

that in my first irritation, I wronged many of them, and might

certainly have found some pleasing acquaintances among them, if my

first longing for solitude had not expressed itself so repellantly. Now

no one would willingly speak to me.

Can the tree have come from _him_? but that would be contrary to our

agreement. One who must and will keep silence cannot offer presents. It

is easier to give than to receive silently, and yet how is it possible

to express one's thanks after having already bid farewell.

The more I think of it the more uneasy I become. It is not all as it

should be; something unnatural and indefinable seems to have come

between us; something pernicious that would revenge itself on us.

Here come letters from my dear ones, from home! But I must first put

out the tapers and light my little lamp. Some of the twigs are already

crackling and glimmering. The last spark has died out on my last

Christmas-tree. The church bells are ringing while I am writing these

lines by the light of the moon which is now keeping me company, my lamp

having died out.

December the 28th.

We have met again, our hands have touched, and our eyes have

encountered each other; but what a sorrowful meeting. The vengeance I

expected has come.

The program of a concert was brought to my lodgings. A player on the

cither was going to perform in the Assembly rooms at the Post. I am no

longer displeased at being roused from my own thoughts; so I went, as I

very much like the cither, and have always wished to hear a virtuoso

perform on it. When I arrived the first piece had begun, and only three

seats in the front row were unoccupied; they seemed to have been kept

for some expected personage of distinction: I found myself compelled to

take one of these seats of honour, and did not do so, unwillingly for

the tone of the instrument was rather low, and there too, I could

observe the movement of the performer's hands. The air soon became

oppressive; the heat of the stove, the crowded room and its low ceiling

all combined to make it so. I was much flurried at first, but I soon

grew calm, and listened with delight to the charming and touching

sounds. Suddenly the door was opened softly and quietly, and Morrik

entered. He stopped when he saw the room filled, but did not like to

turn back. Some gentlemen near the door pointed out to him the empty

seat beside me. He slowly moved up the room, and arriving at my side,

sat down with a slight inclination of the head. My breath stopped and I

feared he would perceive the trembling which seized me, as the arm of

his chair touched mine; however he appeared to be much calmer than I

was, and to listen to the music with more attention; so after a time I

mastered my agitation, and listened too, absorbed in an exquisite and

sweet reverie. I felt as if the melody were a celestial atmosphere in

which our mutual thoughts and feelings rose and intermingled; a

harmonious communion of soul with soul banishing all that had hitherto

divided estranged and tormented us. I cannot describe how this sort of

visionary dream comforted me. I felt persuaded that the same thoughts

touched him also. Our eyes were fixed on the cither, and yet it seemed

as if they met in one long book.

Even the applause and shouts of bravo! hardly roused us from this

ecstasy. The pauses between the pieces only lasted for a few minutes,

and at the end of one of them the cither-player put by his cither, and

brought out an enormous instrument which he called the divine Kikilira,

explaining in a few words that it was an instrument peculiar to the

Tyrol, and had been constructed by a simple peasant. It is a sort of

wooden harmonium--the notes are formed of very hard wood, and the tones

are produced from them, by the sharp and rapid blows of two small

hammers. It has a harsh shrill sound, and one could hardly have found

an instrument more opposite to the cither. It rudely put to flight all

my exalted thoughts and feelings, and seemed to outrage my very soul. I

would willingly have left the room, had I not been afraid of offending

the performer. I feared for Morrik, for I knew how exceedingly

sensitive he was with regard to every noise. I slightly glanced at him.

He sat with closed eyes his head reclining on his right arm, as if

trying to shield himself from this sudden attack.

All at once I perceived that his lips grew still paler, his eyes opened

partially and lost all expression; then his head sank heavily against

the back of his chair.

Several of the audience also observed this, yet no one moved to assist

the fainting man. I fancied, judging by the scornful expression on

their faces, that they with malicious pleasure, purposely left this

benevolent charge to me. I got up and begged the performer to stop, as

a gentleman was unwell. I sprinkled his forehead with eau de cologne

which I always carry with me, and let him inhale the vivifying perfume.

Part of the company had risen, but none of them left their places:

it was only to observe the spectacle more at their case. Only the

cither-player came to me, and helped me to support Morrik, when his

senses had returned; and to lead him the few steps to the door. Once

out of the room, where the fresh December-wind blew across his face, he

recovered completely. He looked inquiringly at me, then remembered what

had occurred and leant slightly on my arm as I led him down stairs. "I

thank you;" was all he said, and we walked on together as his servant

was nowhere to be found. I accompanied him up the _kleine_ Lauben, as

the street leading past the Post is called, and as far as the church

from whence we could see his lodgings. "Do you feel better?" I asked.

He bowed his head and made a movement as though he now wished to walk

alone. Ere we parted he pressed my hand endeavoured to repress a sigh,

and silently turned towards the house. I watched him till he had

reached the door; he walked with firm slow steps, and did not once look

back. When he had disappeared, I too went home.

I feel so overcome by this event that I must lie down; my head is

nearly bursting with pain, and when I close my eyes the harsh hammering

sound of that wooden instrument, which surely has received the name of

"divine" in derision, rushes wildly into my ears, and I feel feverish

and exhausted from the heat and oppressive air of the room.

The 11th January.

A fortnight of sickness and suffering, during which I did not open a

book or play a note on the piano--It was only a slight influenza, sleep

and diet have pulled me through--though one night when the fever

tormented me with horrible visions, I was on the point of calling in a

doctor, as my landlady constantly urged me to do. The people here have

great faith in medicines. I am glad that I can now again stand on my

feet, and owe it to no one but myself. I will venture on my first walk

to-day. The air is cold, but still, and the sun is so powerful that I

can boldly open my casement. I long to hear something about Morrik; but

whom can I ask.

The same day.

My presentiment was right; the visions in my feverish dreams spoke the

truth. He is seriously ill with typhus fever. He has been laid up ever

since that concert and sometimes the fever is so bad that he lies

unconscious for hours. I met his doctor just at the gate of the town,

and mustered courage to ask him for news of Morrik; and what good would

restraint do me; it would only be ridiculous for does not everyone

already know that I led him out of the concert-room, and across the

streets and is not my show of interest very innocent, though

unfortunately it may seem improper. The doctor looked very grave and I

should have liked to detain him, and extract from him a decided answer

to my question as to whether there was any immediate danger, but just

then one of his patients accosted him, and our conversation was broken

off. With what feelings I sat down on the sunny bench, and gazed at the

water, watching the logs of wood floating down the stream, and swept

away by the force of the current every time they tried to cling to a

stone. And is it not so with us poor human creatures; do we not float

down the stream of life! and are the happy moments we enjoy anything

better than a short rest on a cliff from which we are severed by the

first passing wave.--Oh, come peace, come! My heart will break with its

stormy throbbing. How shall I be able every morning to endure the pain

of imagining him dying, and of not being able to watch for his every

breath! Oh heavens! and has it come to this, that I must see him leave

this world before me; I who never dreamt of such a possibility.

January, the 12th--Evening.

At last I have gained my point; and the calm I now feel amply

compensates me for the struggle I have had to endure. I have just come

from his lodgings where I have passed the day with him, and shall do so

again to-morrow, and all the days that are yet granted to him.

How I passed this night, God to whom I prayed in my calmer moments

alone knows. In those dark hours, when sorrow and hopelessness took

away all feeling of _His_ presence, and of my own strength, life, time,

eternity whirled about in my giddy brain just like the helpless logs of

wood tossed by the waves.

In the morning I begged the landlady to go to his lodgings and enquire

how he had passed the night. She told me that a stout elderly lady with

fair ringlets had opened the door of Mr. Morrik's sitting-room--He lay

in the adjoining room and talked so loud in his fever that one could

hear him distinctly from the outside. The lady asked who had sent her,

and on hearing who it was, had made a wry face, and sent her away with

the information that there was no change.

This was a terrible blow to me. I knew what he thought of the

professional philanthropy of the life preserver, and that he had always

purposely avoided her. And now there was she listening to his feverish

talk, and plaguing him with her officiousness in his lucid intervals. I

could not bear the thought.

It was early in the morning when I ascended the stairs of his lodgings,

fully determined not to let any consideration, except what was

necessary for his welfare and tranquillity, prevail over me. My courage

only deserted me for a moment when on knocking at the door a shrill

hard voice called out, "Come in." All my coolness and presence of mind

returned however, when I felt the cold lustreless eyes resting on me,

with a severe rebuking expression; and with a quiet voice I said that I

had come myself to have news of him, as the information of my landlady

did not suffice me. Before she had time to answer Morrik called out my

name from the inner room. "I will go myself," I said, "and ask the

sufferer how he feels. He seems to have recovered his senses."

"Mr. Morrik receives no one," she said, "and your visit would be

against all propriety, a reason, to be sure, which is of little

importance to you?" "At the death-bed of a friend, certainly not," I

replied. He called a second time "Marie;" so opening the folding that

led to his bedroom, I entered without a moment's hesitation.

The small room looked dark, as the only window opened on the narrow,

gloomy street, and was partly covered by a curtain; still it was light

enough for me to see that his pale face was brightened by a ray of

pleasure when I entered. He stretched out his hot hand, and tried to

lift his head. "You have come!" he whispered, "I cannot tell you how

your presence relieves me. Do not go away again, Marie, I cannot spare

you, my time is so short. The lady out there, you know whom I mean, her

very voice pains me; her presence seems like a nightmare to me, but I

cannot bring myself to tell her so. I tried to hint to her that I

preferred remaining alone, but she answered that: patients were not

allowed to have a will of their own. Please remain with me, when you

are here I shall see and hear no one but you, and I promise never to

annoy you again."

He talked on in this strain in so low and hurried a voice, that the

tears sprang to my eyes. I pressed his hand warmly and promised to do

all he wished. His face brightened in a moment. Then he lay quite still

and closed his eyes, so that I believed him to be asleep but when I

tried to draw away my hand, he glanced at me with a sad and pleading

look. At the end of half an hour, he really slept. I returned again to

the sitting-room where the lady sat on the sofa. She was knitting in

great wrath, and the poor meshes had to suffer for my offence. I

perceived that there was no time to be lost, so I told her with as much

consideration for her feelings as I could, that the patient was very

grateful to her for her kindness, but that he would not trouble her any

longer as I was going to nurse him with the help of his servant and of

the people who lodged him. "_You_, my dear?" she slowly asked, casting

an annihilating look at me.

"Certainly," I replied quietly; "among all the visitors here I am the

nearest acquaintance Mr. Morrik has, and so we should both think it

strange if I left the duty of nursing him to an entire stranger, who

moreover has so many other charitable duties to fulfil."

She stared at me as though my mind were wandering.

"Is it possible," she at last said, "that you do not feel, that by this

step you will for ever ruin your already so much damaged reputation.

Are you related to him? Are you an old woman, who is above suspicion;

or are you in need of a nurse for yourself, my dear?"

"I am perfectly aware of what I can do, and what I can answer for," I

said, "I regret that our opinions on the subject differ, but I cannot

change mine. I shall remain here; and certainly I cannot hinder you

from doing the same. Do not be uneasy about my reputation; I believe I

told you once before that I have closed with this world, and submitting

the case to a higher judge, I hope to be acquitted." She arose, took

her bonnet and said: "You will not expect me to remain in the same room

with a young lady whose moral principles so widely differ from mine,

and to sanction by my presence an intimacy which in every respect I

hold to be most reprehensible. Nothing remains for me but to hear from

the patient's own lips whether he desires my departure. If the doctor

should sanction this continual emotion for a patient suffering from

typhus fever, it is no business of mine."

With these words, she moved towards the folding doors, but I quietly

stopped her and said: "Mr. Morrik sleeps, so I beg of you not to

disturb him; and from this sleep you may gain the tranquillizing

assurance, that my presence is rather beneficial to him than

otherwise."

After these words we only exchanged a silent and formal curtsey, the

door closed on the deeply offended lady and a load fell from my heart.

I opened the door of the balcony which also leads into the garden, to

let out the odour of acetic ether which the lady without nerves had

brought here too. Then I looked round my new domain, and it pleased me

much. What a difference between this elegant, handsomely furnished, and

lofty apartment, and my own small room with its scanty furniture. Here,

his writing-table loaded with all the luxury of portfolios, inkstands,

and different trinkets; there, the shelves with his finely bound books;

the comfortable arm-chair, and above all the pleasure of breathing the

fresh air merely by stepping out on the balcony shaded by awnings from

whence a few steps lead into the garden. How sunny, sheltered, and

secluded it looked down there; only the splash of the fountain was

heard, and the lullaby song of a nurse who sat on a bench with a pretty

baby in her arms.

I was so charmed with the peace of this abode that I actually forgot

who was lying in the next room in a feverish slumber. I was shocked at

having been led for a moment into this obliviousness. I stepped to the

door and listened. He called "Marie" in a low voice. When I looked in,

he said: "I heard all; you are my guardian angel; I owe you the first

refreshing slumber I have had for a fortnight."--"Sleep on," I replied,

"you are not to speak. Cheer up, and dream pleasantly." He nodded

faintly, and again closed his eyes.

In the afternoon the doctor came. Him, at least, I must exempt from the

accusation I recently brought against all doctors; that of being bad

physicians for the soul. When I told him why I had remained, he smiled.

Has Morrik spoken to him of me? I do not think so. But what pleased him

more even than the departure of the life preserver, whose beneficial

influence on the nerves, he evidently doubts, was the fact that Morrik

had slept for three hours and that his pulse was calmer.

When I accompanied him to the door, and ventured to ask him what he

thought would be the end of this illness, he shrugged his shoulders.

"The danger has not yet passed," was all he said. I had thought so.

At seven o'clock I walked home; the servant watches by him during the

night. He slept when I went away, and did not even feel my hand when I

touched his before leaving. I will sleep now; I want to be at my post

early in the morning. For a long time I have not felt so peaceful and

calm as this evening. Now nothing can again estrange us.

The 13th.

He woke in the night, and immediately asked for me. The servant could

hardly quiet him with the assurance that I would certainly return in

the morning. I found him much agitated; only after a long explanation,

in which he followed me with difficulty, did I succeed in convincing

him, that it must be so, that it was necessary that the day and night

watches should be relieved. "But if I should die in the night?" he

asked. "Then you will send for me, and I will come to you instantly."

When I had promised this, he went to sleep again. He does not eat a

morsel and his hands are fearfully thin.

I am more convinced than ever that my presence tranquillizes him. The

afternoon passed very quietly. We did not speak to each other, but the

door between the two rooms was left open, so that he could see the

light of my lamp, and watch my shadow on the wall; he had expressly

desired this.

I read for a long time, and listened to his breathing. No other sound

reached me. Only when I had to give him his medicines I went to him.

Then he always had some gay and affectionate words to say to me, but

without any tone of passion in them.

"She is a fairy," he said to the doctor, "she makes even death appear a

festival to me. Formerly, doctor, I always felt inclined to say to you:

'That thou doest, do quickly.' But now it is of great moment to me that

you should prolong my life for a few days. I can never have enough,

even of your horrid potions, now that a good spirit gives them to me."

The 15th.

Yesterday I could not write. He was much worse. To-day he is, at least,

not worse still; what a sad consolation! The hard frost continues. The

fountain in the garden is covered with ice, and not a flake of snow to

soften the piercing air, and to relieve the chest. I long for snow, for

I am convinced that he will not be better till the air softens. To-day

I stood for hours at his bedside, and he did not recognize me. In his

delirium, he talked of people and countries unknown to me, and then I

saw how little we really know of each other; and yet a moment later

when he called me by name, I felt how near and dear I was to him, and

that we do know of each other our best feelings and thoughts. All that

is really worth knowing.

The 19th January, 5 o'clock in the morning.

I have just come home after four and twenty sleepless hours, and yet I

feel that no sleep is possible for me till my feelings are more calm

and collected, and I have expressed them in these leaves. I feel like

one who has been blind, and who struck by the first ray of light,

is made aware of his happiness by a dazzling pain. I will try to

speak connectedly, though what is the meaning of beginning, middle,

end--what is the significance of these words, when eternity has mingled

with time; when dying, one awakens to a new life, which is subject to

time, yet still bears the impress of eternity.

These are but weak and unconnected words, and I wished to speak

clearly.

The days which have passed since I last wrote have been so sad that I

could not speak of them. Yesterday evening when the doctor came quite

late, I had sent for him as my anxiety increased every hour, he did not

conceal his fears. "We must bring on a crisis," he said, "or he is

lost." They put him in a tepid bath and dashed cold water over him.

This excited him to such a degree that even through the closed doors, I

heard his groans and his loud and unintelligible exclamations. When he

had been again laid in his bed the doctor came to me. "I will remain

with him during the night," said the excellent man; "any blunder about

applications of ice might be of fatal consequence. You must go home and

rest, the day has been too fatiguing for you," I told him that even at

home I should find no rest, and would rather remain and watch with him.

He did not press me further as he saw that I was quite decided. Had I

not given my promise to Morrik that I would not be absent when his end

was approaching. So I sat down in an arm-chair at his writing-table and

took up a book only for the sake of holding on to something--to read

was impossible; for that a clear mind is required, and mine was clouded

over with a dark shadow, and all my attention was rivetted on the

sick-room where the doctor sat by his bed changing the compresses

himself, and only now and then giving the servant some order in a low

voice. The moans and the rambling indistinct words which broke from

those feverish lips cut me to the heart; this is still his voice I

thought, and these are, perhaps, the last words that he will ever speak

to me. I cannot understand their meaning, nor does he himself. Oh, what

a leave taking!

I will not dwell on this scene; the remembrance, even, of that dreadful

time makes me shudder. We heard the hours strike from the church-tower;

ten, eleven o'clock, midnight.--In the next room stillness now

prevailed. I kept in my breath and listened anxiously, questioning

myself if this were a good or a bad sign. I tried to rise and creep to

the door to hear if he yet breathed, but I found that the agony of the

last hours had nearly paralyzed me, and I could not move. Or was it

only that I could not muster courage and nerve myself sufficiently to

face the dreadful certainty.

Strange! I had thought myself quite familiarized with death, even if it

should approach the bedside of my dearest friend. And now, instead of

calmly facing it, I shivered with fear like a child in the dark.

I know not if I could have endured these feelings much longer without

fainting, especially as I had not swallowed a morsel the whole of that

day. At last, just as my strength was giving way the bedroom door

opened, and the doctor came out quietly. "He is saved."

The shock these words gave me was so great that I burst into a fit of

hysterical tears. The doctor sat down opposite me and said: "You weep,

Mademoiselle, and perhaps the word 'saved,' seems to you only as a

bitter mockery, when coupled with the name of a patient whose life was

despaired of before this last illness seized him. But it is just on

this illness that I found my hope of saving him. Nature has risked a

bold experiment and has succeeded. It is not the first time that I have

observed her employ this admirable device by which she first kindles a

conflict in the nervous and blood systems; and then summoning the last

vital powers, she combines all her forces to drive away the enemy who

had taken entire possession of the citadel. Now you will see that our

friend, if his convalescence after this fever proceeds without any

disturbance, will make rapid progress towards the full recovery of his

former health, which was once with reason despaired of. Now I can

safely send him to Venice in March, without any fear of his catching

the typhus there, as this fever seldom seizes the same person twice.

The soft sea air will be most beneficial to his lungs; and though I

never meddle with prophecies, I can say, almost with certainty, that

in this case--taking it for granted that no outward disturbance

occurs--our patient will in less than a year be as strong and healthy

as ever."

A slight noise in the inner room, called the doctor again to his post.

He stayed away only a few minutes, but at least I had time to become

more collected before he returned. Can I acknowledge even to myself

that this great revolution in all my ideas startled me more than it

pleased me? So he was to live, and I firmly believing that he was to

follow me into another world had as fully taken possession of his soul

as if it were written that we should only be separated for a short

time, and would part with the mutual wish of: A happy death to you!

instead of a happy life to you!

Fortunately this selfish regret only lasted till the doctor returned,

and I could say with a heart full of pure joy and gratitude, Thank God,

he will live! He will once more enjoy his youth, his strength, his

plans, and his hopes! When the doctor was again beside me he said,

"They are both asleep: both master and servant. I settled the poor

fellow, who certainly has been greatly fatigued, more comfortably in

his armchair and he did not awake. It seems as if he knew that he is no

longer wanted, now that the crisis has passed, and nature herself has

taken charge of nursing the patient. I advise you to follow his example

Mademoiselle and to lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. I have kept a

cup of tea for myself and do not mind in the least remaining here till

morning, and will feast meantime on our friend's looks. I cannot let

you walk home in this cold winter night, you would by so doing risk all

the benefit you have obtained by your stay here," "Benefit!" I

exclaimed; "you must know that I have no illusions whatever with regard

to the state of my health. I am perfectly aware how little I have to

risk. If I have gained anything by my stay here it is only a reprieve

of a few days or weeks."

"Pardon me," he said with a smile, "if I do not share your opinion. To

be sure we professional men are often worse prophets than the

uninitiated. At least we are less confident."

As during the last few days I had written some letters at Morrik's

writing-table, I had brought with me the portfolio, in which I keep our

old doctor's drawing, I drew it from the portfolio, and handed it to

him. "Now you can convince yourself that I am only repeating the

prediction of one of your colleagues," and I told him how I had come to

Meran.

The drawing appeared to make some impression on him. He shook his head

after looking at it, and then said, "I generally examine the patient by

auscultation myself before I give any opinion. You say that you have

spent the winter without any medical assistance or advice, and perhaps

you were right in doing so, for truly our power is very limited. Far be

it from me to force my opinion on you, but it would interest me greatly

to discover whether your looks, your movements, your voice, and your

pulse are only deceiving, or whether this drawing is to be relied on.

Would you let me ascertain this?"

"I have no objection to it," I replied, "but you must permit me,

whatever the result may be, to have more faith in our old doctor than

in you."

After auscultating me, he sat down for about ten minutes in front of

me, and after taking a long draught of tea, he answered my question as

to whether the drawing was not right after all. "I will not venture any

opinion on that subject; all I can say is, that if your lungs really

were in that state, then the Meran climate has worked wonders. We have

had several cases here, in which the patients sent to us had been given

up and were supposed to be in a hopeless state, yet those very patients

are enjoying life to this day, to their own and their doctor's

astonishment. The time you have staid here is however much too short to

have operated such a marvellous recovery, and so I have my doubts about

this drawing. I would even venture to say, if the assertion be not too

bold, that you have never had any inclination to disease of the lungs,

but that your illness is simply caused by great exhaustion of the

nervous system. You say that your doctor is an old practitioner, but

auscultation is a recent discovery and if Hippocrates and Galen, had to

speak on the subject they would certainly commit themselves deeply. You

look incredulous dear Mademoiselle. Next year we will again speak of

this, for it will be most beneficial to your nervous system, which is

in a very irritable state, if you spend another winter here and only

visit your relations during the summer."

Could he have assured me positively of all this and proved it by a

hundred scientific arguments it would have been in vain. I feel only

too well that it is impossible. We had a long dispute about it, and his

smilingly sarcastic tone, and confident manner made me at last lose all

patience, and I uttered all the invectives I had ever heard against his

profession, only exempting our dear old doctor from this sweeping

condemnation. It was rather curious to hear a patient quarreling with

his doctor for awarding life to him. But if life were again given back

to me, could I receive it thankfully as a blessing, would it not appear

only as a renewal of bondage after this short dream of freedom?

I could not rest till I had then and there in the presence of the

doctor written to my old friend and besought him to come to my rescue;

and save me from this return to life into which they wished to delude

me. The day had not yet dawned, when the doctor and I left the house.

Morrik's servant was now awake, and his master slept, to awaken to a

renewed life. The doctor insisted on my ordering a sedan chair; but I

refused decidedly, and went to post my letter myself. I then begged the

doctor not to mention what had passed between us to any one, and above

all not to Morrik till I had received an answer. He promised it, and

smilingly took leave of me, after seeing me to the door of my lodgings.

As I toiled up the steep stairs, I again felt convinced that ere long I

should ascend them for the last time.

The mountain tops are not yet red with the rising sun, the air is

foggy, and flakes of snow begin to fall. My room is comfortable and

warm, as the small stove does its duty. If I could but find sleep. This

mounting guard has been too heavy a service for the poor invalid. A

great battle has been won without him, and he himself has been deluded

with the hope of a victory the fruit of which he would not care to

enjoy.

January 30th.