On the morning after the two friends took their journey to Arcadia,
Julienne, although more troubled on account of the increased illness of
her sick brother, cheered herself by her reliance upon a plan which, in
spite of her assurance, she had sketched for the good fortune of the
_well_ one, and which she was to carry out in Arcadia. She, unlike
others who hide their heads behind the dark, mourning-fan of sorrow and
sensibility, oftener hid her head, with its designs, behind the gay
dress-fan of smiles, which turned to the spectators the painted side;
amidst laughing and weeping she pursued and pondered them. Thus she had
made the request to Albano to join in the visit to Idoine only for
show, and in the certainty that he would refuse, or in case he should
not, that then Idoine would; for she knew, from Idoine's visits in the
previous winter, that she had frequently thought in conversations of
the fair fever-patient who had been restored by her, and that she had
just fled before his arrival, in order not to overshadow his bright,
loving present, which had become known to her in the easiest manner
through the Princess, by coming upon him like a cloud out of the past
full of melancholy resemblances. Julienne had even ascertained that the
Princess had vainly wished to keep and reserve the Princesse longer, in
order, perhaps, by means of her, to remind, terrify, change, or punish
the youth. Julienne's love for the Princesse would perhaps have been
made as warm by that tender flight from Albano, as her love towards
Linda was, had not this very love stood between; at least, this
beautiful flight had given her an unlimited confidence--which is
exactly the true and only kind--in the Princesse.
The day of the journey was a beautiful harvest morning, full of
thickly-peopled cornfields, full of coolness and dew and zest. Linda
expressed a childlike joy in Idoine, and gave the reasons in a glad
tone. "First, because she saved thy brother's life,--and because she
knew, after all, what she wanted, and insisted upon it with spirit, and
did not, like other Princesses, transform herself into a victim to the
Throne,--and because she is the most German Frenchwoman that I know
except Madame Necker. Yes, in my eyes she belongs strictly, with all
her fair youth, among old ladies, and these I have always sought out,
for there is at least something to be learned from them. She loves thee
exceedingly, me, I believe, less. To one who is such a charming medium
between the nun and the married woman, I seem too worldly, though it is
not the case."
The two companions arrived early in the beautiful, enchanted village in
the afternoon before dinner, just as the neat children were already
banding together to go to gleaning, and the wagons were already going
out to meet the gatherers of the sheaves. Idoine's brother, the future
hereditary Prince of Hohenfliess,--the Dwarf of Tivoli,--looked out of
the window, and Julienne almost regretted the journey. Idoine flew to
meet her, and clasped her heartily to her breast. When Julienne had
before and upon her face that great blue eye and every transfigured
feature of the form which once her brother had so blissfully and
painfully loved, she fancied herself, now that she had become his
sister, to receive, as his representative, the love of the
representative of Liana; and she must needs, as she had done every time
since that death at the first reception, weep heartily.
Linda was received by the Princess with such a deep tenderness that
Julienne wondered, since the two generally lived in an alternation of
coldness and love. There stood the Minister's lady, Froulay, so old
with mourning, so cold, still, and courteous, so cold towards the
occasion and the company (except the fac-simile of her daughter),
particularly towards Linda, whose bold, decided, philosophical tone
seemed to her unwomanly, and like a trumpet on two female lips.
The future hereditary Prince of Hohenfliess fortunately withdrew
himself soon from so inconvenient a place, where he navigated a
shipwreck plank instead of a gondola. After inquiring of Julienne with
interest about the state of her brother, his present predecessor, and
reminding her and Linda of her and his Italian tour, he became so
fretful and out of tune at Julienne's frigidity, and at the moral
discourses of the women, and at a certain oppressiveness premonitory of
a moral tempest,--which sensualists experience in the presence of
women, where everything rude, selfishness, arrogance, screams like
discord,--and at the general, plaguy hypocrisy,--which he could not but
immediately take it all to be,--that he was glad to break away, and
relieve this pastoral life of the only wolf who had crept into it.
Voluptuaries can never hold out long among _many_ noble women,
tormented as they are by their many-sided, sharp observations, although
they can more easily with one, because they hope to ensnare her. What
made him feel worst of all was, that he was compelled to pronounce them
all hypocrites. He found no good women, because he had faith in none;
since we must believe in them in order to see them where they are, just
as one must exercise virtue in order to be acquainted with it, though
not the reverse.
With him a black cloud seemed to draw off out of this Eden and ether.
The Minister's lady received a card from her son Roquairol, who had
just arrived, and she went too, to the joy of Julienne, who found in
her a little obstacle to her plan of conversion for Linda, because the
latter looked upon the Minister's lady as a one-sided, narrow, anxious,
unyielding nature. Idoine begged the two maidens to travel over her
little kingdom with her. They went down into the clean, wide village.
On the steps they were met by cheerful, obliging faces. From the
distant apartments of the palace was heard now singing, now blowing
of wind instruments. As on the bird the shining feathers slide swiftly
and smoothly under each other and out again, so did all occupations
move around Idoine; her economical machine was no clumsy, jarring
steeple-clock, but a musical picture-watch, which conceals the hours
behind tones, the wheels behind images.
In a meadow-garden the youngest children were playing wildly with each
other. Moravian and Dutch neatness had scoured and painted the village
to a sleek, bright fancy-shop. New and shiny hung the bucket over the
well; under the linden-rotunda of the village the earth-floor was swept
clean; everywhere were seen clean, whole, fair clothes, and happy eyes;
and Idoine showed, under the unusual gayety, an earnest meaning in the
looks with which she inspected her Arcadia, flower after flower.
She led her friends over the various Sunday dancing-places of the
different ages, along before the house of the steward,--wherein the
Minister's lady resided, and now, to Julienne's fear, her son was,--to
the bright, plain church. Soon came the parson and steward, for whom
her passing by had been a hint, following her into the church, and
received commissions from her. Both were fair young men, with open brow
and a little youthful pride. When the party were out of the church, she
said through these young men she ruled over the place, and them she
guided gently; that only young people were furnished with hatred and
spirit against conventionalism, and with enthusiasm and faith. She
added, jocosely, she governed nothing but a school of girls, upon which
she laid more stress than upon the other, because education was the
formation of habits and manners, and these a girl needed more than a
boy, whom the world, after all, would not allow to have any; and she
had, she said, some inclination to be a _la Bonne_, because she had,
even when a girl, often been obliged to be one with her sisters.
Thereupon she introduced the two to several houses; everywhere
they found well-whitened, neatly-ordered apartments, flowers and
vine-clusters over the windows, fair women and children, and now a
flute, now a violin, and nowhere a spinning child. In all she had
charges to give, and what seemed a mere walk was also business. She
showed a sharp insight through people, and their perverted, crooked
ways, and a talent for business, which possessed and united at once the
universal and the particular. "I should be glad, of course," said she,
"to have only pleasures and amusements about me; but without labor and
seriousness the best good of the world dies: not so much as a real play
is possible without real earnestness." Linda commended her for training
all to music,--that real moonlight in every gloomy night of life.
"Without poesy and art," she added, "the spirit grows mossy and wooden
in this earthly clime." "O what were mine without tones!" said Idoine,
glowingly.
Linda inquired about the right of citizenship in this pleasant state.
"It is mostly possessed by Swiss families," said Idoine, "with whom I
became acquainted at hearth and home on my travels. Immediately after
the French women I rank my Swiss." Julienne replied, "You repeat to me
riddles." She solved them for her; and Linda, who had been in France
shortly after her, confirmed it, that there, among the women of a
certain higher tone, to whom no Crebillon had ever come up, a
development prevailed, unusual in Germany, of the most delicate
morality, almost holiness. "Only," added Linda, "they had in morality,
as in art, prejudices of fine taste, and more delicacy than genius."
They went out through the village, toward the loveliest evening sun;
Alpine horns responded to each other on the mountains, and in the vale
gay old men went to light employments. These Idoine greeted with
peculiar love. "Because," she said, "there was nothing more beautiful
than cheerfulness on an old face; and among country people it was
always the sign of a well-regulated and pious life."
Linda opened her heart to the golden scene before her, and said: "How
must all this delight in a poem! But I know not what I have to object
to the fact that it now exists so in the real reality."
"What has this same reality," said Idoine, playfully, "taken away from
you or done to you? I love it; where then are _you_ to be found for us
except in reality?" "I," said Julienne, "am thinking of something quite
different; one is ashamed here, that one has yet done so little with
all one's willing. From willing to doing is, however, to be sure, a
long step here," she subjoined, while she placed her little finger on
her _heart_, and stretched the fore-finger as if vainly attempting to
span from there to her _head_. "Idoine, tell me, how then can one think
of what is great and what is little at once?" "By thinking of the
greatest first," said she; "when one looks into the sun, the dust and
the midges become most visible. God is, surely, the sun of us all."
The earthly sun stood now looking toward them far down on an
immeasurable plain amid mild roses of Heaven. A distant windmill flung
its arms broadly through the fair purple glow; on the mountain
declivities children sang near the pastured herds, and their smaller
brothers and sisters were playing under their eye; the evening bell,
which in Arcadia was always tolled at the farewell of the sun, rocked
sun and earth to slumber with its vibrations; not only in youthful, but
even in childlike beauty lay the soft little village and its world
round about them. No storm, one said to one's self, can intrude into
this soft land, no winter stalk in in heavy panoply of ice: here, one
thought, only spring winds and rosy clouds come and go: no rains fall,
except early rains, and no leaves, except those of the blossoms: only
dust from the flowers rises here; and the rainbow,--only forget-me-nots
and May-flowers hold it upon their little blue and white leaves; the
landscape and life and all seemed here to be only a continuous morning
twilight, so fresh and new, full of presentiment and contentment,
without glow or glitter, and with a few stars over the morning red.
Children with wreaths of grain in their hands sat on other people's
wagons full of sheaves, and rode proudly in.
Idoine hung with hearty love, as if this evening made it all new, upon
the double groups. "Only the countryman is so fortunate," said she, "as
to live on in all the Arcadian relations of his childhood. The old man
sees nothing around him but implements and labors which as a child he
also saw and plied. At last he goes up into that garden over yonder,
and sleeps it out." She pointed to the churchyard on the hill, which
was a veritable garden, with flower-beds and a wall of fruit-trees.
Julienne looked thither with agitation,--she saw the dark curtain
tremble behind which her sick brother was soon to be borne.
Transparent evening gold-dust was wafted over the garden; the loud
day was muffled, and life peaceful; olive-branches and their blossoms
sank slowly down out of the quiet heavens. "There is the only place,"
said Idoine, "where man concludes an eternal peace with himself and
others, as a French clergyman so beautifully said to me." "Such
Christian-catholic night-thoughts," replied Linda, "are as disagreeable
to me as the clergymen themselves. We can as little experience an
immortality as an annihilation." "I do not understand that," said
Julienne. "Ah, Idoine, if now there were no immortality, what would you
do?" "_J'aimerais_," said she to her, in a low voice.
Suddenly they heard some one singing before them, as at a
great distance: "Taste"--then after some time--"of life's"--at
last--"pleasure."[121] "That is the echo from the churchyard," said
Idoine, and endeavored to persuade the party to return. "Echo and
moonshine and churchyard together," she continued playfully, "may well
be too strong for female hearts." At the same time she touched her eye,
with a hint to Julienne, as much as to say how sorry she was that the
eyes of the Countess could only see through a mist the beautiful
evening coming on afar off. "The singing voice sounds so familiar to
me," said Linda. "It's Roquairol, that's all; shall we go on?" said
Julienne. But Linda begged to stay, and Idoine courteously agreed.
Now did the echo--the moonlight of sound--give back tones like dirges
from the funeral choir; and it was as if the united shades of the
departed sang them over in their holy-week under the ground,--as if the
corpse-veil stirred on the white lip, and out of the last hollows
sounded again a hollow life. The singing ceased; Alpine horns began on
the mountains; then the echo of the concert came over again in
enchanting tones, as if the departed still played behind the breastwork
of the grave-mound, and rehabilitated themselves in echoed tones,[122]
All men bear dead or dying ones in their breast; so did the three
maidens. Tones are the garments of the past fluttering back with a
glimmer, and they excite the heart too much thereby.
They wept, and neither could say whether for sadness or joy. The
hitherto so moderate Idoine grasped Linda's hand, and laid it softly on
her heart, and let it sink again. They turned round silently and with
one accord. Idoine held Linda by the hand. The subterranean waters of
the echoes of the dead and the Alpine horns murmured after them, though
more distantly. It did not escape Julienne how Idoine continually
turned her face, merely in order to withdraw it from _her_, with the
great drops in her large eyes, towards the thickly-veiled Linda; and
she inferred therefrom that Idoine knew and was acquainted with much,
and respected the bride of the youth to whom she had by her fair
resemblance given back a happy life.
"What now do we get from all this?" said Idoine, by and by, and near
the village. "We foresee that we should be too tender, and yet we give
ourselves up. For that very reason men call us weak. They prepare
themselves for their future by mere hardenings, and only we do
it with mere softening processes." "What shall one do, then," said
Julienne,--"leap into rivers, up mountains, on horseback, and so on?"
"No," said Idoine. "For I see it by my peasant-women: they suffer in
their nerves, with all their muscular labor, as well as others. With
the mind, I imagine, we must all do and seek more; but we always let
only the fingers and eyes exercise and stir themselves. The heart
itself knows nothing thereof, and does what it pleases the while: it
dreams, weeps, bleeds, dances. A little philosophizing would be of
service to us; but, as it is, we give ourselves up, bound, to all
feelings, and if we think, it is merely to give them additional aid."
They came back into the village; it was full of busy evening noise.
Children came dancing to meet Idoine; alp-horns sounded in from the
heights, and from the houses flutes and songs. Idoine gave cheerfully
evening commands. "How easily, after all," said she, "outward
tranquillity breaks up the internal. A busied heart is like a vessel of
water swung round; hold it still, and it runs over."
Julienne had already several times, but in vain, snatched at the helm
of the hour and the conversation, to carry out her plan; now, when she
observed Linda's silence, emotion, and dreaminess, she fancied she had
hit upon the long-expected, favorable moment when some words which
Idoine let drop on the subject of marriage would find in Linda a
softened soil for their roots. By the easy turn of a eulogy which she
pronounced upon Idoine for her spirited opposition against launching
into a hated princely marriage, and her gain of a perpetual young life,
she brought the Countess to the point of expressing her heretical
hatred of marriage, and saying that it laid the flower painfully
fastened with a sharp iron ring to its frame; that love without
freedom, and from duty, was nothing but hypocrisy and hatred; and that
acting according to morality, so called, was as much as if one should
choose to think or poetize according to a system of logic which he had
before him, and that the energy, the will, the heart of love, was
something higher than morals and logic.
At this moment came a note from the Minister's lady, wherein she
excused her to-day's absence on the score of the too sad farewell which
her son had this evening so strangely and as if forever bid her.
However many silent thoughts this intelligence left behind in Julienne
and Linda, Idoine was not drawn by it out of the lively emotion into
which the previous discourse had thrown her; but, with a noble
indignation, which made out of the beautiful maiden a beautiful youth,
and put Minerva's helmet on her head, she made to her lofty adversary,
who was less to be roused by others' passions than by opposing
sentiments, this declaration of war: Certainly her aversion to marriage
was chargeable only upon her other aversion to "priests"; for was the
marriage bond anything else than eternal love, and did not every real
love hold itself for an eternal one? A love which thinks to die at some
time or other was already dead, and that which feared to live forever,
feared in vain. If even friends were joined at the altar, as is said to
be somewhere or other the case,[123] they would at most only be more
sacredly attached to each other in love. One might count quite as many
if not more unhappy intrigues than unhappy marriages. One might,
indeed, be a mother, but not a father, without marriage, and the latter
must honor the former and himself by a decent respect for morality. "I
am a German," she concluded, "and respect the old knightly ladies, my
ancestors, highly. Blessed is a woman like Elizabeth and a man like
Götz von Berlichingen, in their holy wedlock." All at once she found
herself surprised by her warmth and her fluency. "I have really," she
added, smiling, "become a pedantic parson's widow. This comes of my
being the highest authority in the village, and from the fact that, as
in almost every cottage a happy refutation of single blessedness
dwells, I do not love to let other sentiments come up here."
"O," said Julienne, pleasantly, because she saw Linda serious, "girls
always talk together about love and marriage a little; they love to
draw flowers for themselves out of a bride's bouquet."
"That, as you know, I could not well do," said Idoine, alluding to the
sworn promise which she had been obliged to give her parents, who were
suspicious of her enthusiastic boldness, never to marry below her
princely rank, which, to her, according to her sharp propensities and
parts, amounted to as much as celibacy. "You were right, however,"
pursued Julienne, and would fain continue in her mirthful mood;
"love without marriage is like a bird of passage, who seats himself
upon a mast, which itself moves along. I praise, for my part, a fine,
green-rooted tree, which stays there and admits a nest."
Contrary to her custom, Linda did not laugh at this, but went alone,
without saying a word, down into the garden and the moonlight.
"The Countess," said Idoine to her friend, troubled about the meaning
of that silent seriousness, "has not, I hope, misunderstood us." "No,"
said Julienne, with glad looks at the thought of having gained her
point so far that the discourse had made an impression on Linda; "she
has the rarest gift to understand, and the most common misfortune not
to be understood." "The two things always go together," said she,
remained a moment in thought, looked at Julienne, and at last said, "I
must be entirely true. I knew the Countess's relation through my
sister. Friend, is he entirely worthy of her?"--a question whose source
the Princesse could seek only in the supposition of revengeful
insinuations on the part of the Princess.
"Entirely!" answered she, strongly. "I gladly believe you," replied
Idoine, with rapidity in her tones, but tranquillity in her looks. She
looked longer and longer upon the sister of Albano; her great, blue
eyes gleamed more and more strongly; Minerva's helmet was removed from
the maidenly head; the soft countenance appeared lovely, tranquil,
clear, not more strongly moved than a prayer to God permits it to be,
and with as little of passionate desire as a glorified saint has, and
yet shining more and more celestially. Julienne's fair heart leaped up;
she saw Liana again, as if she had come from heaven to press the
beloved man with a blessing to a new heart; she said, with tears,
"Thou, thou didst once give him peace." Idoine was surprised; two tears
gushed from her bright eyes; with emphasis she answered, "Gave!" in an
agitated and passionate manner pressed herself to her friend, saying,
"I loved you long ago," and they said nothing further.
Quickly she collected herself, reminded Julienne of Linda's
night-blindness, and begged her to go directly after her as her friend,
although she herself would gladly steal this service from her if she
dared. Julienne hastened into the garden, but remembered with emotion
that Idoine had not reciprocated her _thou_; Idoine avoided the female
_thou_. Unlike the Oriental women, who leave off the veil before
relations, she, like her fair French neighbors, transferred the
delicate laws of _politesse_ into matters of the heart.
Julienne found her friend in the garden in a dark bower, still, with
deep, sunken eyes, buried in dreams. Linda started up: "She loves him!"
said she, with pain and heat. "Hear it, Julienne: she loves him!" The
latter, upon this utterance of a truth with which she had herself come
directly from Idoine's arms, could do nothing but express her terror;
but Linda took it for astonishment, and went on: "By Heaven! my eye has
detected her. O, once she was not by far so lively and earnest and
sensitive and soft. Her deep emotion at beholding me, and her weeping
at Roquairol's voice because it resembles his, and her long and earnest
marriage-sermon, and her soul-like glances at me,--O, did she not see
him in the great, glorious moment when the blooming one knelt weeping,
and lifted his godlike head to heaven, and called down the saint and
peace? O, that she should have so much as ventured to personate either
before him! And can she forget that?"
Julienne at last got the word: "Well, suppose it, then; is not Idoine,
however, noble and good?" "I have nothing to say against her or for
her," answered Linda. "But when he sees her now, when he finds the
saintly one once more like the departed, when his whole first love
returns and triumphs over the second ... By Heaven! No," she added,
proudly and strongly, "no, that I cannot brook; I will not beg, will
not weep nor resign, but I will battle for him. Am not I, too,
beautiful? I am more so, and my spirit is more boldly shaped for his.
What can she give which I cannot offer him three times over? I will
give it to him,--my fortune, my being, even my liberty; I can marry him
as well as she; I will ... O speak, Julienne! But thou art a cold
German, and secretly attached to her from like godliness. O God,
Julienne! am I, then, beautiful? Assure me of it, I pray. Am I not at
all like the glorified one? Should I not look exactly as he would wish!
Why was I not his first love, and his Liana, and even dead too? Good
Julienne, why dost thou not speak?"
"Only _let_ me speak," said she, although not with entire truth. She
had been struck and punished by Linda's home-coming truth, and by her
own consciousness that she had laid out a plan of doing away Linda's
prejudices against marriage, the very supports of which plan had been
anticipated and reckoned over by Linda as justifications of jealousy,
and that she had set a rock in motion on the point of a rock, and
brought it to the point of falling, which she could now no longer
manage. She was confounded, too, yes, angered, by what she felt to be a
strange impetuosity of love, before which she could not at all speak
out the Job's-comfort that Albano would always act according to the
_obligations_ of fidelity. Beautifully was she surprised by the
prospered conversion to a readiness for marriage. With some uncertainty
as to the result, however, on the part of Linda, who by the moonlight
and the mild, distant mountain-music had only been made more stormy,
she continued: "I would not willingly interrupt thee with praise of thy
marriage resolution; in all other particulars thou art wrong. To be
sure, she is now more serious; but she stood at the deathbed of her
likeness, and saw herself grow pale in Liana; that does much to
chasten. Touching him, had he seen thee earlier ..."
"Did he not see early the image on _Lago Maggiore_, but unlike, as he
said?"
"I will, then, confess it to thee, wild one," replied Julienne,
"because one must not surprise thee, that I yesterday begged him to
join us in our visit to the Princesse, and that he, even out of regard
and dislike to all resemblances, gave me a downright refusal; but he
awaits us to-morrow in the Prince's garden."
Changed, softened, with transfigured eyes, and with sinking voice,
Linda said, "Does my friend love me so greatly? But I love him
exceedingly too,--the pure one. To-morrow will I say to him, take my
freedom, and stay forever with me. We will go from the altar, my
Julienne,--thou and I and he,--to Valencia, to Isola Bella, or
whithersoever he will, and stay together. Thanks, dear moon and music!
How childlike the tones and the rays play with each other! Embrace me,
my beloved; forgive that Linda has been naughty!" Here the storm of her
heart dissolved into sweet weeping. So, in countries upon which the sun
shines vertically down, is the blue sky daily transformed into thunder,
tempest, and black rain, and daily the sun goes down again blue and
golden.
Julienne only replied, "Beautiful! now will we go up!"--being less
capable than Linda of swift transitions. When they saw, above, the
tranquil, bright, contented Idoine again,--always steadfastly and
serenely active,--undisturbed by regret or expectation,--wearing only
the harvest-wreath of action, never the flowery bridal-wreath,--so
many white blossoms at her feet, lying ungathered for garland or
festoon,--her pure, radiant soul like a clear, bright tone, which bears
the charm of its melody through moist, cloudy air, undisturbed and
unbroken,--then did she feel that Idoine was connected with her by a
more sisterly tie than Linda. The former was to her an _ideal_ and a
constellation in her heaven above her; the latter, an unknown one,
which sparkles far off and invisible in a second hemisphere of the
heavens; but in her the womanly power of loving on, almost even to the
degree of hatred, worked on more intensely than in any one woman, and
she remained constant to her old friend. Idoine was one of those female
souls which resemble the moon; pale and faint must she stand in the
magnificent evening sky, which splendor and burning clouds adorn, and
not a single shadow can she dislodge on the earth, and mounts with
invisible rays, but all other light grows pale, and hers grows out of
the shadow, until at last her supernatural radiance invests the earthly
night, and transforms it into a second world, and all hearts love her,
weeping, and the nightingales sing in her beams.
All was now settled and ended. Linda kept herself reserved, and merely
from respect to the law of social propriety, which she never
overstepped. Idoine, guessing a change, softly drew herself back out of
her former familiarity. Early in the dark morning they parted, but
Julienne told not her friend, how, when they left each other, she had
seen Idoine turn away with wet eyes.