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WILHELM MEISTER’S
APPRENTICESHIP AND TRAVELS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
By THOMAS CARLYLE.
COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOLUME II.
NEW YORK:
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.
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MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHIP.
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BOOK VIII.
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CHAPTER I.
Felix skipped into the garden; Wilhelm followed him with rapture: a
lovely morning was displaying every thing with fresh charms; our friend
enjoyed the most delightful moment. Felix was new in the free and lordly
world, nor did his father know much more than he about the objects
concerning which the little creature was repeatedly and unweariedly
inquiring. At last they joined the gardener, who had to tell them the
names and uses of a multitude of plants. Wilhelm looked on nature as
with unscaled eyes: the child’s new-fangled curiosity first made him
sensible how weak an interest he himself had taken in external things,
how small his actual knowledge was. Not till this day, the happiest of
his life, did his own cultivation seem to have commenced: he felt the
necessity of learning, being called upon to teach.
Jarno and the abbé did not show themselves again till evening, when they
brought a guest along with them. Wilhelm viewed the stranger with
amazement; he could scarce believe his eyes: it was Werner, who
likewise, for a moment, hesitated in his recognition. They embraced each
other tenderly: neither of them could conceal that he thought the other
greatly altered. Werner declared that his friend was taller, stronger,
straighter; that he had become more polished in his looks and carriage.
“Something of his old true-heartedness I miss, however,” added he.
“That, too, will soon appear again,” said Wilhelm, “when we have
recovered from our first astonishment.”
The impression Werner made upon his friend was by no means so favorable.
The honest man seemed rather to have retrograded than advanced. He was
much leaner than of old; his peaked face appeared to have grown sharper,
his nose longer; brow and crown had lost their hair; the voice, clear,
eager, shrill, the hollow breast and stooping shoulders, the sallow
cheeks, announced indubitably that a melancholic drudge was there.
Wilhelm was discreet enough to speak but sparingly of these great
changes; while the other, on the contrary, gave free course to his
friendly joy. “In truth,” cried he, “if thou hast spent thy time badly,
and, as I suppose, gained nothing, it must be owned thou art grown a
piece of manhood such as cannot fail to turn to somewhat. Do not waste
and squander me this, too, again: with such a figure thou shalt buy some
rich and beautiful heiress.”--“I see,” said Wilhelm, smiling, “thou wilt
not belie thy character. Scarcely hast thou found thy brother after long
absence, when thou lookest on him as a piece of goods, a thing to
speculate on and make profit by.”
Jarno and the abbé did not seem at all astonished at this recognition:
they allowed the two to expatiate on the past and present as they
pleased. Werner walked round and round his friend, turned him to this
side and to that, so as almost to embarrass him. “No!” cried he, “such a
thing as this I never met with, and yet I know that I am not mistaken.
Thy eyes are deeper, thy brow is broader; thy nose has grown finer, thy
mouth more lovely. Do but look at him, how he stands; how it all suits
and fits together! Well, idling is the way to grow. But for me, poor
devil,” said he, looking at himself in the glass, “if I had not all this
while been making store of money, it were over with me altogether.”
Werner had got Wilhelm’s last letter: the distant trading-house, in
common with which Lothario meant to purchase the estates, was theirs. On
that business Werner had come hither, not dreaming that he should meet
with Wilhelm on the way. The baron’s lawyer came: the papers were
produced; Werner reckoned the conditions reasonable. “If you mean well,”
said he, “as you seem to do, with this young man, you will of yourselves
take care that our part be not abridged: it shall be at my friend’s
option whether he will take the land and lay out a portion of his
fortune on it.” Jarno and the abbé protested that they did not need this
admonition. Scarcely had the business been discussed in general terms,
when Werner signified a longing for a game at ombre; to which, in
consequence, Jarno and the abbé set themselves along with him. He was
now grown so accustomed to it, that he could not pass the evening
without cards.
The two friends, after supper, being left alone, began to talk and
question one another very keenly, touching every thing they wished to
have communicated. Wilhelm spoke in high terms of his situation, of his
happiness in being received among such men. Werner shook his head, and
said, “Well, I see, we should believe nothing that we do not see with
our eyes. More than one obliging friend assured me thou wert living with
a wild young nobleman, wert supplying him with actresses, helping him to
waste his money; that, by thy means, he had quarrelled with every one of
his relations.”--“For my own sake, and the sake of these worthy
gentlemen, I should be vexed at this,” said Wilhelm, “had not my
theatrical experience made me tolerant to every sort of calumny. How can
men judge rightly of our actions, which appear but singly or in
fragments to them; of which they see the smallest portion; while good
and bad take place in secret, and for most part nothing comes to light
but an indifferent show? Are not the actors and actresses in a play set
up on boards before them; lamps are lit on every side; the whole
transaction is comprised within three hours; yet scarcely one of them
knows rightly what to make of it?”
Our friend proceeded to inquire about his family, his young comrades,
his native town. Werner told, with great haste, of changes that had
taken place, of changes that were still in progress. “The women in our
house,” said he, “are satisfied and happy: we are never short of money.
One-half of their time they spend in dressing, the other in showing
themselves when dressed. They are as domestic as a reasonable man could
wish. My boys are growing up to prudent youths. I already, as in vision,
see them sitting, writing, reckoning, running, trading, trucking: each
of them, as soon as possible, shall have a business of his own. As to
what concerns our fortune, thou wilt be contented with the state of it.
When we have got these lands in order, thou must come directly home with
me; for it now appears as if thou, too, couldst mingle with some skill
in worldly undertakings, thanks to thy new friends, who have set thee on
the proper path. I am certainly a fool: I never knew till now how well I
liked thee;--now when I cannot gape and gaze at thee enough, so well and
handsome thou lookest. That is, in truth, another form than the portrait
which was sent thy sister, which occasioned such disputes at home. Both
mother and daughter thought young master very handsome indeed, with his
slack collar, half-open breast, large ruff, sleek, pendent hair, round
hat, short waistcoat, and wide pantaloons; while I, on the other hand,
maintained that the costume was scarce two finger-breadths from that of
harlequin. But now thou lookest like a man; only the cue is wanting, in
which I beg of thee to bind thy hair; else, some time or other, they
will seize thee as a Jew, and demand toll and tribute of thee.”
Felix, in the mean time, had come into the room; and, as they did not
mind him, he had laid himself upon the sofa, and was fallen asleep.
“What urchin is this?” said Werner. Wilhelm at that moment had not the
heart to tell the truth, nor did he wish to lay a still ambiguous
narrative before a man who was by nature any thing but credulous.
The whole party now proceeded to the lands, to view them, and conclude
the bargain. Wilhelm would not part with Felix from his side: for the
boy’s sake, he rejoiced exceedingly in the intended purchase. The
longing of the child for cherries and berries, the season for which was
at hand, brought to his mind the days of his own youth, and the manifold
duties of a father, to prepare, to procure, and to maintain for his
family a constant series of enjoyments. With what interest he viewed the
nurseries and the buildings! How zealously he contemplated repairing
what had been neglected, restoring what had fallen! He no longer looked
upon the world with the eyes of a bird of passage: an edifice he did not
now consider as a grove that is hastily put together, and that withers
ere one leaves it. Every thing that he proposed commencing was to be
completed for his boy: every thing that he erected was to last for
several generations. In this sense his apprenticeship was ended: with
the feeling of a father, he had acquired all the virtues of a citizen.
He felt this, and nothing could exceed his joy. “O needless strictness
of morality!” exclaimed he, “while Nature in her own kindly manner
trains us to all that we require to be. O strange demands of civil
society! which first perplexes and misleads us, then asks of us more
than Nature herself. Woe to every sort of culture which destroys the
most effectual means of all true culture, and directs us to the end,
instead of rendering us happy on the way!”
Much as he had already seen in his life, it seemed as if the observation
of the child afforded him his first clear view of human nature. The
theatre, the world, had appeared before him, only as a multitude of
thrown dice, every one of which upon its upper surface indicates a
greater or a smaller value, and which, when reckoned up together, make a
sum. But here in the person of the boy, as we might say, a single die
was laid before him, on the many sides of which the worth and
worthlessness of man’s nature were legibly engraved.
The child’s desire to have distinctions made in his ideas grew stronger
every day. Having learned that things had names, he wished to hear the
name of every thing: supposing that there could be nothing which his
father did not know, he often teased him with his questions, and caused
him to inquire concerning objects which, but for this, he would have
passed without notice. Our innate tendency to pry into the origin and
end of things was likewise soon developed in the boy. When he asked
whence came the wind, and whither went the flame, his father for the
first time truly felt the limitation of his own powers, and wished to
understand how far man may venture with his thoughts, and what things he
may hope ever to give account of to himself or others. The anger of the
child, when he saw injustice done to any living thing, was extremely
grateful to the father, as the symptom of a generous heart. Felix once
struck fiercely at the cook for cutting up some pigeons. The fine
impression this produced on Wilhelm was, indeed, erelong disturbed, when
he found the boy unmercifully tearing sparrows in pieces and beating
frogs to death. This trait reminded him of many men, who appear so
scrupulously just when without passion, and witnessing the proceedings
of other men.
The pleasant feeling, that the boy was producing so fine and wholesome
an influence on his being, was, in a short time, troubled for a moment,
when our friend observed, that in truth the boy was educating him more
than he the boy. The child’s conduct he was not qualified to correct:
its mind he could not guide in any path but a spontaneous one. The evil
habits which Aurelia had so violently striven against had all, as it
seemed, on her death, assumed their ancient privileges. Felix still
never shut the door behind him, he still would not eat from a plate; and
no greater pleasure could befall him than when he happened to be
overlooked, and could take his bit immediately from the dish, or let the
full glass stand, and drink out of the bottle. He delighted also very
much when he could set himself in a corner with a book, and say with a
serious air, “I must study this scholar stuff!” though he neither knew
his letters, nor would learn them.
Thus, when Wilhelm thought how little he had done for Felix, how little
he was capable of doing, there arose at times a restlessness within him,
which appeared to counterbalance all his happiness. “Are we men, then,”
said he, “so selfishly formed, that we cannot possibly take proper
charge of any one without us? Am I not acting with the boy exactly as I
did with Mignon? I drew the dear child towards me: her presence gave me
pleasure, yet I cruelly neglected her. What did I do for her education,
which she longed for with such earnestness? Nothing! I left her to
herself, and to all the accidents to which, in a society of coarse
people, she could be exposed. And now for this boy, who seemed so
interesting before he could be precious to thee, has thy heart ever bid
thee do the smallest service to him? It is time that thou shouldst cease
to waste thy own years and those of others: awake, and think what thou
shouldst do for thyself, and for this good being, whom love and nature
have so firmly bound to thee.”
This soliloquy was but an introduction to admit that he had already
thought and cared, and tried and chosen: he could delay no longer to
confess it. After sorrow, often and in vain repeated, for the loss of
Mariana, he distinctly felt that he must seek a mother for the boy; and
also that he could not find one equal to Theresa. With this gifted lady
he was thoroughly acquainted. Such a spouse and helpmate seemed the only
one to trust one’s self to in such circumstances. Her generous affection
for Lothario did not make him hesitate. By a singular destiny, they two
had been forever parted: Theresa looked upon herself as free; she had
talked of marrying, with indifference, indeed, but as of a matter
understood.
After long deliberation he determined on communicating to her every
thing he knew about himself. She was to be made acquainted with him, as
he already was with her. He accordingly began to take a survey of his
history; but it seemed to him so empty of events, and in general so
little to his credit, that he more than once was on the point of giving
up his purpose. At last, however, he resolved on asking Jarno for the
Roll of his Apprenticeship, which he had noticed lying in the tower:
Jarno said it was the very time for that, and Wilhelm consequently got
it.
It is a feeling of awe and fear which seizes on a man of noble mind when
conscious that his character is just about to be exhibited before him.
Every transition is a crisis, and a crisis presupposes sickness. With
what reluctance do we look into the glass after rising from a sick-bed!
The recovery we feel: the effects of the past disease are all we see.
Wilhelm had, however, been sufficiently prepared: events had already
spoken loudly to him, and his friends had not spared him. If he opened
the roll of parchment with some hurry, he grew calmer and calmer the
farther he read. He found his life delineated with large, sharp strokes;
neither unconnected incidents, nor narrow sentiments, perplexed his
view; the most bland and general reflections taught, without shaming
him. For the first time his own figure was presented to him, not,
indeed, as in a mirror, a second self, but as in a portrait, another
self: we do not, it is true, recognize ourselves in every feature; but
we are delighted that a thinking spirit has so understood us, that such
gifts have been employed in representing us, that an image of what we
were exists, and may endure when we ourselves are gone.
Wilhelm next employed himself in setting forth the history of his life,
for the perusal of Theresa: all the circumstances of it were recalled to
memory by what he had been reading; he almost felt ashamed that to her
great virtues he had nothing to oppose which indicated a judicious
activity. He had been minute in his written narrative: he was brief in
the letter which he sent along with it. He solicited her friendship, her
love if it were possible: he offered her his hand, and entreated for a
quick decision.
After some internal contest, whether it were proper to impart this
weighty business to his friends,--to Jarno and the abbé,--he determined
not to do so. His resolution was so firm, the business was of such
importance, that he could not have submitted it to the decision of the
wisest and best of men. He was even cautious enough to carry his letter
with his own hand to the nearest post. From his parchment-roll it
appeared with certainty enough, that in very many actions of his life,
in which he had conceived himself to be proceeding freely and in secret,
he had been observed, nay, guided; and perhaps the thought of this had
given him an unpleasant feeling: and he wished at least, in speaking to
Theresa’s heart, to speak purely from the heart,--to owe his fate to her
decision and determination only. Hence, in this solemn point; he
scrupled not to give his overseers the slip.
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CHAPTER II.
Scarcely was the letter gone, when Lothario returned. Every one was
gladdened at the prospect of so speedily concluding the important
business which they had in hand. Wilhelm waited with anxiety to see how
all these many threads were to be loosed, or tied anew, and how his own
future state was to be settled. Lothario gave a kindly salutation to
them all: he was quite recovered and serene; he had the air of one who
knows what he should do, and who finds no hinderance in the way of doing
it.
His cordial greeting Wilhelm could scarcely repay. “This,” he had to own
within himself, “is the friend, the lover, bridegroom, of Theresa: in
his stead thou art presuming to intrude. Dost thou think it possible for
thee to banish, to obliterate, an impression such as this?” Had the
letter not been sent away, perhaps he would not have ventured sending it
at all. But happily the die was cast: it might be, Theresa had already
taken up her resolution, and only distance shrouded with its veil a
happy termination. The winning or the losing must soon be decided. By
such considerations he endeavored to compose himself, and yet the
movements of his heart were almost feverish. He could give but little
attention to the weighty business, on which, in some degree, the fate of
his whole property depended. In passionate moments how trivial do we
reckon all that is about us, all that belongs to us!
Happily for him, Lothario treated the affair with magnanimity, and
Werner with an air of ease. The latter, in his violent desire of gain,
experienced a lively pleasure in contemplating the fine estate which was
to be his friend’s. Lothario, for his part, seemed to be revolving very
different thoughts. “I cannot take such pleasure in the acquirement of
property,” said he, “as in the justness of it.”
“And, in the name of Heaven,” cried Werner, “is not this of ours
acquired justly?”
“Not altogether,” said Lothario.
“Are we not giving hard cash for it?”
“Doubtless,” replied Lothario; “and most probably you will consider what
I am now hinting at as nothing but a whim. No property appears to me
quite just, quite free of flaw, except it contribute to the state its
due proportion.”
“What!” said Werner. “You would rather that our lands, which we have
purchased free from burden, had been taxable?”
“Yes,” replied Lothario, “in a suitable degree. It is only by this
equality with every other kind of property, that our possession of it
can be made secure. In these new times, when so many old ideas are
tottering, what is the grand reason why the peasant reckons the
possession of the noble less equitable than his own? Simply that the
noble is not burdened, and lies a burden on him.”
“But how would the interest of our capital agree with that?” said
Werner.
“Perfectly well,” returned the other; “if the state, for a regular and
fair contribution, would relieve us from the feudal hocus-pocus; would
allow us to proceed with our lands according to our pleasure: so that we
were not compelled to retain such masses of them undivided, so that we
might part them more equally among our children, whom we might thus
introduce to vigorous and free activity, instead of leaving them the
poor inheritance of these our limited and limiting privileges, to enjoy
which we must ever be invoking the ghosts of our forefathers. How much
happier were men and women in our rank of life, if they might, with
unforbidden eyes, look round them, and elevate by their selection, here
a worthy maiden, there a worthy youth, regarding nothing further than
their own ideas of happiness in marriage! The state would have more,
perhaps better citizens, and would not so often be distressed for want
of heads and hands.”
“I can assure you honestly,” said Werner, “I never in my life thought
about the state: my taxes, tolls, and tributes I have paid, because it
was the custom.”
“Still, however,” said Lothario, “I hope to make a worthy patriot of
you. As he alone is a good father who at table serves his children
first; so is he alone a good citizen who, before all other outlays,
discharges what he owes the state.”
By such general reflections their special business was accelerated
rather than retarded. It was nearly over, when Lothario said to Wilhelm,
“I must send you to a place where you are needed more than here. My
sister bids me beg of you to go to her as soon as possible. Poor Mignon
seems to be decaying more and more, and it is thought your presence
might allay the malady. Besides telling me in person, my sister has
despatched this note after me: so that you perceive she reckons it a
pressing case.” Lothario handed him a billet. Wilhelm, who had listened
in extreme perplexity, at once discovered in these hasty pencil-strokes
the hand of the countess, and knew not what to answer.
“Take Felix with you,” said Lothario: “the little ones will cheer each
other. You must be upon the road to-morrow morning early: my sister’s
coach, in which my people travelled hither, is still here; I will give
you horses half the way, the rest you post. A prosperous journey to you!
Make many compliments from me, when you arrive: tell my sister I shall
soon be back, and that she must prepare for guests. Our grand-uncle’s
friend, the Marchese Cipriani, is on his way to visit us: he hoped to
find the old man still in life; they meant to entertain each other with
their common love of art, and the recollection of their early intimacy.
The marchese, much younger than my uncle, owed to him the greater part
of his accomplishments. We must exert all our endeavors to fill up, in
some measure, the void which is awaiting him; and a larger party is the
readiest means.”
Lothario went with the abbé to his chamber; Jarno had ridden off before;
Wilhelm hastened to his room. There was none to whom he could unbosom
his distress, none by whose assistance he could turn aside the project,
which he viewed with so much fear. The little servant came, requesting
him to pack: they were to put the luggage on to-night, meaning to set
out by daybreak. Wilhelm knew not what to do: at length he cried, “Well,
I shall leave this house at any rate; on the road I may consider what is
to be done; at all events, I will halt in the middle of my journey; I
can send a message hither, I can write what I recoil from saying, then
let come of it what will.” In spite of this resolution, he spent a
sleepless night: a look on Felix resting so serenely was the only thing
that gave him any solace. “Oh, who knows,” cried he, “what trials are
before me! who knows how sharply by-gone errors will yet punish me, how
often good and reasonable projects for the future shall miscarry! But
this treasure, which I call my own, continue it to me, thou exorable or
inexorable Fate! Were it possible that this best part of myself were
taken from me, that this heart could be torn from my heart, then
farewell sense and understanding; farewell all care and foresight;
vanish thou tendency to perseverance! All that distinguishes us from the
beasts, pass away! And, if it is not lawful for a man to end his heavy
days by the act of his own hand, may speedy madness banish
consciousness, before death, which destroys it forever, shall bring on
his own long night.”
He seized the boy in his arms, kissed him, clasped him, and wetted him
with plenteous tears.
The child awoke: his clear eye, his friendly look, touched his father to
the inmost heart. “What a scene awaits me,” cried he, “when I shall
present thee to the beautiful, unhappy countess, when she shall press
thee to her bosom, which thy father has so deeply injured! Ought I not
to fear that she will push thee from her with a cry, when a touch of
thee renews her real or fancied pain?” The coachman did not leave him
time for further thought or hesitation, but forced him into the carriage
before day. Wilhelm wrapped his Felix well; the morning was cold but
clear: the child, for the first time in his life, saw the sun rise. His
astonishment at the first fiery glance of the luminary, at the growing
power of the light; his pleasure and his strange remarks,--rejoiced the
father, and afforded him a glimpse into the heart of the boy, before
which, as over a clear and silent sea, the sun was mounting and
hovering.
In a little town the coachman halted, unyoked his horses, and rode back.
Wilhelm took possession of a room, and asked himself seriously whether
he would stay or proceed. Thus irresolute, he ventured to take out the
little note, which hitherto he had never had the heart to look on: it
contained the following words: “Send thy young friend very soon: Mignon
for the last two days has been growing rather worse. Sad as the occasion
is, I shall be happy to get acquainted with him.”
The concluding words Wilhelm, at the first glance, had not seen. He was
terrified on reading them, and instantly determined not to go. “How?”
cried he, “Lothario, knowing what occurred between us, has not told her
who I am? She is not, with a settled mind, expecting an acquaintance,
whom she would rather not see: she expects a stranger,--and I enter! I
see her shudder and start back, I see her blush! No, it is impossible
for me to encounter such a scene!” Just then his horses were led out and
yoked: Wilhelm was determined to take off his luggage and remain. He
felt extremely agitated. Hearing the maid running up stairs to tell him,
as he thought, that all was ready, he began on the spur of the instant
to devise some pretext for continuing: his eyes were fixed, without
attention, on the letter which he still held in his hand. “In the name
of Heaven!” cried he, “what is this? It is not the hand of the countess:
it is the hand of the Amazon!”
The maid came in, requested him to walk down, and took Felix with her.
“Is it possible,” exclaimed he, “is it true? What shall I do? Remain,
and wait, and certify myself? Or hasten, hasten, and rush into an
explanation? Thou art on the way to her, and thou canst loiter? This
night thou mayest see her, and thou wilt voluntarily lock thyself in
prison? It is her hand; yes, it is hers! This hand calls thee: her coach
is yoked to lead thee to her! Now the riddle is explained: Lothario has
two sisters; my relation to the one he knows, how much I owe to the
other is unknown to him. Nor is she aware that the wounded stroller, who
stands indebted to her for his health, if not his life, has been
received with such unmerited attention in her brother’s house.”
Felix, who was swinging to and fro in the coach, cried up to him,
“Father! Come, oh come! Look at the pretty clouds, the pretty
colors!”--“Yes, I come,” cried Wilhelm, springing down-stairs; “and all
the glories of the sky, which thou, good creature, so admirest, are as
nothing to the moment which I look for.”
Sitting in the coach, he recalled all the circumstances of the matter to
his memory. “So this is the Natalia, then, Theresa’s friend! What a
discovery! what hopes, what prospects! How strange that the fear of
speaking about the one sister should have altogether concealed from me
the existence of the other!” With what joy he looked on Felix! He
anticipated for the child, as for himself, the best reception.
Evening at last came on; the sun had set; the road was not the best; the
postilion drove slowly; Felix had fallen asleep, and new cares and
doubts arose in the bosom of our friend. “What delusion, what fantasies,
are these that rule thee!” said he to himself. “An uncertain similarity
of handwriting has at once assured thee, and given thee matter for the
strangest castles in the air.” He again brought out the paper; in the
departing light he again imagined that he recognized the hand of the
countess: his eyes could no longer find in the parts what his heart had
at once shown him in the whole. “These horses, then, are running with
thee to a scene of terror! Who knows but in a few hours they may have to
bring thee back again? And if thou shouldst meet with her alone! But
perhaps her husband will be there, perhaps the baroness! How altered
will she be! Shall I not fail, and sink to the earth, at sight of her?”
Yet a faint hope that it might be his Amazon would often gleam through
these gloomy thoughts. It was now night: the carriage rolled into a
court-yard, and halted; a servant with a link stepped out of a stately
portal, and came down the broad steps to the carriage-door. “You have
been long looked for,” said he, opening it. Wilhelm dismounted, took the
sleeping Felix in his arms: the first servant called to a second, who
was standing in the door with a light, “Show the gentleman up to the
baroness.”
Quick as lightning, it went through Wilhelm’s soul, “What a happiness!
Be it by accident or of purpose, the baroness is here! I shall see her
first: apparently the countess has retired to rest. Ye good spirits,
grant that the moment of deepest perplexity may pass tolerably over!”
He entered the house: he found himself in the most earnest, and, as he
almost felt, the holiest, place that he had ever trod. A pendent,
dazzling lustre threw its light upon a broad and softly rising flight of
stairs, which lay before him, and which parted into two divisions at a
turn above. Marble statues and busts were standing upon pedestals, and
arranged in niches: some of them seemed known to him. The impressions of
our childhood abide with us, even in their minutest traces. He
recognized a Muse, which had formerly belonged to his grandfather, not
indeed by its form or worth, but by an arm which had been restored, and
some new-inserted pieces of the robe. He felt as if a fairy-tale had
turned out to be true. The child was heavy in his arms: he lingered on
the stairs, and knelt down, as if to place him more conveniently. His
real want, however, was to get a moment’s breathing-time. He could
scarcely raise himself again. The servant, who was carrying the light,
offered to take Felix; but Wilhelm could not part with him. He had now
mounted to an ante-chamber, in which, to his still greater astonishment,
he observed the well-known picture of the sick king’s son hanging on the
wall. He had scarcely time to cast a look on it: the servant hurried him
along through two rooms into a cabinet. Here, behind a light-screen,
which threw a shadow on her, sat a young lady reading. “Oh that it were
she!” said he within himself at this decisive moment. He set down the
boy, who seemed to be awakening; he meant to approach the lady; but the
child sank together, drunk with sleep; the lady rose and came to him. It
was the Amazon! Unable to restrain himself, he fell upon his knee, and
cried, “It is she!” He seized her hand, and kissed it with unbounded
rapture. The child was lying on the carpet between them, sleeping
softly.
Felix was carried to the sofa: Natalia sat down beside him; she directed
Wilhelm to the chair which was standing nearest them. She proposed to
order some refreshments; these our friend declined: he was altogether
occupied convincing himself that it was she, closely examining her
features, shaded by the screen, and accurately recognizing them. She
told him of Mignon’s sickness, in general terms; that the poor child was
gradually consuming under the influence of a few deep feelings; that
with her extreme excitability, and her endeavoring to hide it, her
little heart often suffered violent and dangerous pains; that, on any
unexpected agitation of her mind, this primary organ of life would
suddenly stop, and no trace of the vital movement could be felt in the
good child’s bosom; that, when such an agonizing cramp was past, the
force of nature would again express itself in strong pulses, and now
torment the child by its excess, as she had before suffered by its
defect.
Wilhelm recollected one spasmodic scene of that description; and Natalia
referred him to the doctor, who would speak with him at large on the
affair, and explain more circumstantially why he, the friend and
benefactor of the child, had been at present sent for. “One curious
change,” Natalia added, “you will find in her: she now wears women’s
clothes, to which she had once such an aversion.”
“How did you succeed in this?” said Wilhelm.
“If it was, indeed, a thing to be desired,” said she, “we owe it all to
chance. Hear how it happened. Perhaps you are aware that I have
constantly about me a number of little girls, whose opening minds I
endeavor, as they grow in strength, to train to what is good and right.
From my mouth they learn nothing but what I myself regard as true: yet I
can not and would not hinder them from gathering, among other people,
many fragments of the common prejudices and errors which are current in
the world. If they inquire of me about them, I attempt, as far as
possible, to join these alien and intrusive notions to some just one,
and thus to render them, if not useful, at least harmless. Some time ago
my girls had heard, among the peasants’ children, many tales of angels,
of Knecht Rupert, and such shadowy characters, who, they understood,
appeared at certain times in person, to give presents to good children,
and to punish naughty ones. They had an idea that these strange
visitants were people in disguise; in this I confirmed them: and,
without entering into explanations, I determined, on the first
opportunity, to let them see a spectacle of that sort. It chanced that
the birthday of two twin-sisters, whose behavior had been always very
good, was near: I promised, that, on this occasion, the little present
they had so well deserved should be delivered to them by an angel. They
were on the stretch of curiosity regarding this phenomenon. I had chosen
Mignon for the part; and accordingly, at the appointed day, I had her
suitably equipped in a long, light, snow-white dress. She was, of
course, provided with a golden girdle round her waist, and a golden
fillet on her hair. I at first proposed to omit the wings; but the young
ladies who were decking her insisted on a pair of large golden pinions,
in preparing which they meant to show their highest art. Thus did the
strange apparition, with a lily in the one hand, and a little basket in
the other, glide in among the girls: she surprised even me. ‘There comes
the angel!’ said I. The children all shrank back: at last they cried,
‘It is Mignon!’ yet they durst not venture to approach the wondrous
figure.
“‘Here are your gifts,’ said she, putting down the basket. They gathered
around her, they viewed, they felt, they questioned her.
“‘Art thou an angel?’ asked one of them.
“‘I wish I were,’ said Mignon.
“‘Why dost thou bear a lily?’
“‘So pure and so open should my heart be: then were I happy.’
“‘What wings are these? Let us see them?’
“‘They represent far finer ones, which are not yet unfolded.’
“And thus significantly did she answer all their other childlike,
innocent inquiries. The little party having satisfied their curiosity,
and the impression of the show beginning to abate, we were for
proceeding to undress the little angel. This, however, she resisted: she
took her cithern; she seated herself here, on this high writing-table,
and sang a little song with touching grace:--
“‘Such let me seem, till such I be:
Take not my snow-white dress away!
Soon from this dusk of earth I flee
Up to the glittering lands of day.
There first a little space I rest,
Then wake so glad, to scenes so kind:
In earthly robes no longer drest,
This band, this girdle, left behind.
And those calm, shining sons of morn,
They ask not who is maid or boy:
No robes, no garments, there are worn;
Our body pure from sin’s alloy.
Through little life not much I toiled,
Yet anguish long this heart has wrung;
Untimely woe my blossom spoiled:
Make me again forever young.’
“I immediately determined upon leaving her the dress,” proceeded
Natalia, “and procuring her some others of a similar kind. These she now
wears; and in them, I think, her form has quite a different expression.”
As it was already late, Natalia let the stranger go: he parted from her
not without anxiety. “Is she married, or not?” asked he within himself.
He had been afraid, at every rustling, that the door would open, and her
husband enter. The serving-man, who showed him to his room, went off
before our friend had mustered resolution to inquire regarding this. His
unrest held him long awake: he kept comparing the figure of the Amazon
with the figure of his new acquaintance. The two would not combine: the
former he had, as it were, himself fashioned; the latter seemed as if it
would almost new-fashion _him_.
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER III.
Next morning, while all was yet quiet, he went about, viewing the house.
It was the purest, finest, stateliest piece of architecture he had ever
seen. “True art,” cried he, “is like good company: it constrains us in
the most delightful way to recognize the measure by which, and up to
which, our inward nature has been shaped by culture.” The impression
which the busts and statues of his grandfather made upon him was
exceedingly agreeable. With a longing mind he hastened to the picture of
the sick king’s son, and he still felt it to be charming and affecting.
The servant opened to him various other chambers: he found a library, a
museum, a cabinet of philosophical instruments. In much of this he could
not help perceiving his extreme ignorance. Meanwhile Felix had awakened,
and come running after him. The thought of how and when he might receive
Theresa’s letter gave him pain: he dreaded seeing Mignon, and in some
degree Natalia. How unlike his present state was his state at the moment
when he sealed the letter to Theresa, and with a glad heart wholly gave
himself to that noble being!
Natalia sent for him to breakfast. He proceeded to a room where several
tidy little girls, all apparently below ten years, were occupied in
furnishing a table; while another of the same appearance brought in
various sorts of beverage.
Wilhelm cast his eye upon a picture hung above the sofa: he could not
but recognize in it the portrait of Natalia, little as the execution
satisfied him. Natalia entered, and the likeness seemed entirely to
vanish. To his comfort, it was painted with the cross of a religious
order on its breast; and he now saw another such upon Natalia’s.
“I have just been looking at the portrait here,” said he; “and it seems
surprising that a painter could have been at once so true and so false.
The picture resembles you, in general, extremely well; and yet it
neither has your features nor your character.”
“It is rather matter of surprise,” replied Natalia, “that the likeness
is so good. It is not my picture, but the picture of an aunt, whom I
resembled even in childhood, though she was then advanced in years. It
was painted when her age was just about what mine is: at the first
glance, every one imagines it is meant for me. You should have been
acquainted with that excellent lady. I owe her much. A very weak state
of health, perhaps too much employment with her own thoughts, and,
withal, a moral and religious scrupulosity, prevented her from being to
the world what, in other circumstances, she might have become. She was a
light that shone but on a few friends, and on me especially.”
“Can it be possible,” said Wilhelm, after thinking for a moment, while
so many circumstances seemed to correspond so well, “can it be possible
that the fair and noble Saint, whose meek confessions I had liberty to
study, was your aunt?”
“You read the manuscript?” inquired Natalia.
“Yes,” said Wilhelm, “with the greatest sympathy, and not without effect
upon my life. What most impressed me in this paper was, if I may term it
so, the purity of being, not only of the writer herself, but of all that
lay round her; that self-dependence of nature, that impossibility of
admitting any thing into her soul which would not harmonize with its own
noble, lovely tone.”
“You are more tolerant to this fine spirit,” said Natalia, “nay, I will
say more just, than many other men to whom the narrative has been
imparted. Every cultivated person knows how much he has to strive
against a certain coarseness, both in himself and others; how much his
culture costs him; how apt he is, after all, in certain cases, to
recollect himself alone, forgetting what he owes to others. How often
has a worthy person to reproach himself for having failed to act with
proper delicacy! And when a fair nature too delicately, too
conscientiously, cultivates, nay, if you will, overcultivates, itself,
there seems to be no toleration, no indulgence, for it in the world. Yet
such persons are, without us, what the ideal of perfection is within
us,--models, not for being imitated, but for being aimed at. We laugh at
the cleanliness of the Dutch; but would our friend Theresa be what she
is, if some such notion were not always present to her in her
housekeeping?”
“I see before me, then,” cried Wilhelm, “in Theresa’s friend, the same
Natalia whom her amiable relative was so attached to; the Natalia, who,
from her youth, was so affectionate, so sympathizing, and helpful! It
was only out of such a line that such a being could proceed. What a
prospect opens before me, while I at once survey your ancestors, and all
the circle you belong to!”
“Yes,” replied Natalia, “in a certain sense, the story of my aunt would
give you the faithfullest picture of us. Her love to me, indeed, has
made her praise the little girl too much: in speaking of a child, we
never speak of what is present, but of what we hope for.”
Wilhelm, in the mean time, was rapidly reflecting that Lothario’s
parentage and early youth were now likewise known to him. The fair
countess, too, appeared before him in her childhood, with the aunt’s
pearls about her neck: he himself had been near those pearls, when her
soft, lovely lips bent down to meet his own. These beautiful
remembrances he sought to drive away by other thoughts. He ran through
the characters to whom that manuscript had introduced him. “I am here,
then,” cried he, “in your worthy uncle’s house! It is no house, it is a
temple; and you are the priestess, nay, the Genius, of it: I shall
recollect for life my impression yesternight, when I entered, and the
old figures of my earliest days were again before me. I thought of the
compassionate marble statues in Mignon’s song: but these figures had not
to lament about me; they looked upon me with a lofty earnestness, they
brought my first years into immediate contact with the present moment.
That ancient treasure of our family, the joy of my grandfather, I find
here placed among so many other noble works of art; and myself, whom
nature made the darling of the good old man, my unworthy self I find
here also, Heavens! in what society, in what connections!”
The girls had, by degrees, gone out to mind their little occupations.
Natalia, left alone with Wilhelm, asked some further explanation of his
last remark. The discovery, that a number of her finest paintings and
statues had at one time been the property of Wilhelm’s grandfather, did
not fail to give a cheerful stimulus to their discourse. As by that
manuscript he had got acquainted with Natalia’s house; so now he found
himself too, as it were, in his inheritance. At length he asked for
Mignon. His friend desired him to have patience till the doctor, who had
been called out into the neighborhood, returned. It is easy to suppose
that the doctor was the same little, active man whom we already know,
and who was spoken of in the “Confessions of a Fair Saint.”
“Since I am now,” said Wilhelm, “in the middle of your family circle, I
presume the abbé whom that paper mentions is the strange, inexplicable
person whom, after the most singular series of events, I met with in
your brother’s house? Perhaps you can give some more accurate conception
of him?”
“Of the abbé there might much be said,” replied Natalia: “what I know
best about him, is the influence which he exerted on our education. He
was, for a time at least, convinced that education ought, in every case,
to be adapted to the inclinations: his present views of it I know not.
He maintained, that with man the first and last consideration was
activity, and that we could not act on any thing without the proper
gifts for it, without an instinct impelling us to it. ‘You admit,’ he
used to say, ‘that poets must be born such; you admit this with regard
to all professors of the fine arts; because you must admit it, because
those workings of human nature cannot very plausibly be aped. But, if we
consider well, we shall find that every capability, however slight, is
born with us; that there is no vague, general capability in men. It is
our ambiguous, desultory education that makes men uncertain: it awakens
wishes when it should be animating tendencies; instead of forwarding our
real capacities, it turns our efforts towards objects which are
frequently discordant with the mind that aims at them. I augur better of
a child, a youth, who is wandering astray on a path of his own, than of
many who are walking aright upon paths which are not theirs. If the
former, either by themselves or by the guidance of others, ever find the
right path, that is to say, the path which suits their nature, they will
never leave it; while the latter are in danger every moment of shaking
off a foreign yoke, and abandoning themselves to unrestricted license.’”
“It is strange,” said Wilhelm, “that this same extraordinary man should
likewise have taken charge of me; should, as it seems, have, in his own
fashion, if not led, at least confirmed, me in my errors, for a time.
How he will answer to the charge of having joined with others, as it
were, to make game of me, I wait patiently to see.”
“Of this whim, if it is one,” said Natalia, “I have little reason to
complain: of all the family I answered best with it. Indeed, I see not
how Lothario could have got a finer breeding: but for my sister, the
countess, some other treatment might have suited better; perhaps they
should have studied to infuse more earnestness and strength into her
nature. As to brother Friedrich, what is to become of him cannot be
conjectured: he will fall a sacrifice, I fear, to this experiment in
pedagogy.”
“You have another brother, then?” cried Wilhelm.
“Yes,” replied Natalia: “and a light, merry youth he is; and, as they
have not hindered him from roaming up and down the world, I know not
what the wild, dissipated boy will turn to. It is a great while since I
saw him. The only thing which calms my fears is, that the abbé, and the
whole society about my brother, are receiving constant notice where he
is and what he does.”
Wilhelm was about to ask Natalia her opinion more precisely on the
abbé’s paradoxes, as well as to solicit information about that
mysterious society; but the physician entering changed their
conversation. After the first compliments of welcome, he began to speak
of Mignon.
Natalia then took Felix by the hand; saying she would lead the child to
Mignon, and prepare her for the entrance of her friend.
The doctor, now alone with Wilhelm, thus proceeded: “I have wondrous
things to tell you, such as you are not anticipating. Natalia has
retired, that we might speak with greater liberty of certain matters,
which, although I first learned them by her means, her presence would
prevent us from discussing freely. The strange temper of the child seems
to consist almost exclusively of deep longing: the desire of revisiting
her native land, and the desire for you, my friend, are, I might almost
say, the only earthly things about her. Both these feelings do but grasp
towards an immeasurable distance, both objects lie before her
unattainable. The neighborhood of Milan seems to be her home: in very
early childhood she was kidnapped from her parents by a company of
rope-dancers. A more distinct account we cannot get from her, partly
because she was then too young to recollect the names of men and places,
but especially because she has made an oath to tell no living mortal her
abode and parentage. For the strolling-party, who came up with her when
she had lost her way, and to whom she so accurately described her
dwelling, with such piercing entreaties to conduct her home, but carried
her along with them the faster; and at night in their quarters, when
they thought the child was sleeping, joked about their precious capture,
declaring she would never find the way home again. On this a horrid
desperation fell upon the miserable creature; but at last the Holy
Virgin rose before her eyes, and promised that she would assist her. The
child then swore within herself a sacred oath, that she would henceforth
trust no human creature, would disclose her history to no one, but live
and die in hope of immediate aid from heaven. Even this, which I am
telling you, Natalia did not learn expressly from her, but gathered it
from detached expressions, songs, and childlike inadvertencies,
betraying what they meant to hide.”
Wilhelm called to memory many a song and word of this dear child, which
he could now explain. He earnestly requested the physician to keep from
him none of the confessions or mysterious poetry of this peculiar being.
“Prepare yourself,” said the physician, “for a strange confession; for a
story with which you, without remembering it, have much to do, and
which, as I greatly fear, has been decisive for the death and life of
this good creature.”
“Let me hear,” said Wilhelm: “my impatience is unbounded.”
“Do you recollect a secret nightly visit from a female,” said the
doctor, “after your appearance in the character of Hamlet?”
“Yes, I recollect it well,” cried Wilhelm, blushing; “but I did not look
to be reminded of it at the present moment.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“I do not! You frighten me! In the name of Heaven, not Mignon, surely?
Who was it? Tell me, pray.”
“I know it not myself.”
“Not Mignon, then?”
“No, certainly not Mignon; but Mignon was intending at the time to glide
in to you, and saw with horror, from a corner where she lay concealed, a
rival get before her.”
“A rival!” cried our friend. “Speak on: you more and more confound me.”
“Be thankful,” said the doctor, “that you can arrive at the result so
soon through means of me. Natalia and I, with but a distant interest in
the matter, had distress enough to undergo before we could thus far
discover the perplexed condition of the poor, dear creature, whom we
wished to help. By some wanton speeches of Philina and the other girls,
by a certain song which she had heard Philina sing, the child’s
attention had been roused: she longed to pass a night beside the man she
loved, without conceiving any thing to be implied in this beyond a happy
and confiding rest. A love for you, my friend, was already keen and
powerful in her little heart; in your arms, the child had found repose
from many a sorrow; she now desired this happiness in all its fulness.
If at one time she purposed requesting it as a favor, at another a
secret horror would hold her back. At last that merry night and the
excitement of abundant wine inspired her with the courage to attempt the
adventure, and glide in to you on that occasion. Accordingly she ran
before, to hide herself in your apartment, which was standing open; but
just when she had reached the top of the stairs, having heard a
rustling, she concealed herself, and saw a female in a white dress slip
into your chamber. You yourself arrived soon after, and she heard you
push the large bolt.
“Mignon’s agony was now unutterable: all the violent feelings of a
passionate jealousy mingled themselves with the unacknowledged longing
of obscure desire, and seized her half-developed nature with tremendous
force. Her heart, which hitherto had beaten violently with eagerness and
expectation, now at once began to falter and stop; it pressed her bosom
like a heap of lead: she could not draw her breath, she knew not what to
do; she heard the sound of the old man’s harp, hastened to the garret
where he was, and passed the night at his feet in horrible convulsions.”
The physician paused a moment: then, as Wilhelm still kept silence, he
proceeded, “Natalia told me, nothing in her life had so alarmed and
touched her as the state of Mignon while relating this; indeed, our
noble friend accused herself of cruelty in having, by her questions and
management, drawn this confession from her, and renewed by recollection
the violent sorrows of the poor little girl.
“‘The dear creature,’ said Natalia, ‘had scarcely come so far with her
recital, or, rather, with her answers to my questions, when she sank all
at once before me on the ground, and, with her hand on her bosom,
piteously moaned that the pain of that excruciating night was come back.
She twisted herself like a worm upon the floor; and I had to summon all
my composure, that I might remember and apply such means of remedy for
mind and body as were known to me.’”
“It is a painful predicament you put me in,” cried Wilhelm, “by
impressing me so vividly with the feeling of my manifold injustice
towards this unhappy and beloved being, at the very moment when I am
again to meet her. If she is to see me, why do you deprive me of the
courage to appear with freedom? And shall I confess it to you? Since her
mind is so affected, I perceive not how my presence can be advantageous
to her. If you, as a physician, are persuaded that this double longing
has so undermined her being as to threaten death, why should I renew her
sorrows by my presence, and perhaps accelerate her end?”
“My friend,” replied the doctor, “where we cannot cure, it is our duty
to alleviate; and how much the presence of a loved object tends to take
from the imagination its destructive power, how it changes an impetuous
longing to a peaceful looking, I could prove by the most convincing
instances. Every thing in measure and with purpose! For, in other cases,
this same presence may rekindle an affection nigh extinguished. But do
you go and see the child; behave to her with kindness, and let us wait
the consequence.”
Natalia, at this moment coming back, bade Wilhelm follow her to Mignon.
“She appears to feel quite happy with the boy,” observed Natalia, “and I
hope she will receive our friend with mildness.” Wilhelm followed, not
without reluctance: he was deeply moved by what he had been hearing; he
feared a stormy scene of passion. It was altogether the reverse that
happened on his entrance.
Mignon, dressed in long, white, women’s clothes, with her brown, copious
hair partly knotted, partly clustering out in locks, was sitting with
the boy Felix on her lap, and pressing him against her heart. She looked
like a departed spirit, he like life itself: it seemed as if Heaven and
Earth were clasping one another. She held out her hand to Wilhelm with a
smile, and said, “I thank thee for bringing back the child to me: they
had taken him away, I know not how; and since then I could not live. So
long as my heart needs any thing on earth, thy Felix shall fill up the
void.”
The quietness which Mignon had displayed on meeting with her friend
produced no little satisfaction in the party. The doctor signified that
Wilhelm should go frequently and see her; that in body as in mind, she
should be kept as equable as possible. He himself departed, promising to
return soon.
Wilhelm could now observe Natalia in her own circle: one would have
desired nothing better than to live beside her. Her presence had the
purest influence on the girls, and young ladies of various ages, who
resided with her in the house, or came to pay her visits from the
neighborhood.
“The progress of your life,” said Wilhelm once to her, “must always have
been very even: your aunt’s delineation of you in your childhood seems,
if I mistake not, still to fit. It is easy to see that you never were
entangled in your path. You have never been compelled to retrograde.”
“This I owe to my uncle and the abbé,” said Natalia, “who so well
discriminated my prevailing turn of mind. From my youth upwards, I can
recollect no livelier feeling than that I was constantly observing
people’s wants, and had an irresistible desire to make them up. The
child that had not learned to stand on its feet, the old man that could
no longer stand on his; the longing of a rich family for children, the
inability of a poor one to maintain their children; each silent wish for
some particular species of employment; the impulse towards any talent;
the natural gifts for many little necessary arts of life,--were sure to
strike me: my eyes seemed formed by nature for detecting them. I saw
such things where no one had directed my attention: I seemed born for
seeing them alone. The charms of inanimate nature, to which so many
persons are exceedingly susceptible, had no effect on me: the charms of
art, if possible, had less. My most delightful occupation was and is,
when a deficiency, a want, appeared before me anywhere, to set about
devising a supply, a remedy, a help for it.
“If I saw a poor creature in rags, the superfluous clothes I had noticed
hanging in the wardrobes of my friends immediately occurred to me; if I
saw children wasting for want of care, I was sure to recollect some lady
I had found oppressed with tedium amid riches and conveniences; if I saw
too many persons crammed into a narrow space, I thought they should be
lodged in the spacious chambers of palaces and vacant houses. This mode
of viewing things was altogether natural, without the least reflection:
so that in my childhood I often made the strangest work of it, and more
than once embarrassed people by my singular proposals. Another of my
peculiarities was this: I did not learn till late, and after many
efforts, to consider money as a means of satisfying wants; my benefits
were all distributed in kind: and my simplicity, I know, was frequently
the cause of laughter. None but the abbé seemed to understand me: he met
me everywhere; he made me acquainted with myself, with these wishes,
these tendencies, and taught me how to satisfy them suitably.”
“Do you, then,” said Wilhelm, “in the education of your little female
world, employ the method of these extraordinary men? Do you, too, leave
every mind to form itself? Do you, too, leave your girls to search and
wander, to pursue delusions, happily to reach the goal, or miserably
lose themselves in error?”
“No,” replied Natalia: “such treatment as that would altogether
contradict my notions. To my mind, he who does not help us at the
needful moment, never helps; he who does not counsel at the needful
moment, never counsels. I also reckon it essential, that we lay down and
continually impress on children certain laws, to operate as a kind of
hold in life. Nay, I could almost venture to assert, that it is better
to be wrong by rule, than to be wrong with nothing but the fitful
caprices of our disposition to impel us hither and thither; and, in my
way of viewing men, there always seems to be a void in their nature,
which cannot be filled up, except by some decisive and distinctly
settled law.”
“Your manner of proceeding, then,” said Wilhelm, “is entirely different
from the manner of our friends?”
“Yes,” replied Natalia; “and you may see the unexampled tolerance of
these men, from the fact, that they nowise disturb me in my practice,
but leave me on my own path, simply because it is my own, and even
assist me in every thing that I require of them.”
A more minute description of Natalia’s plans in managing her children we
reserve for some other opportunity.
Mignon often asked to be of their society; and this they granted her
with greater readiness, as she appeared to be again accustoming herself
to Wilhelm, to be opening her heart to him, and in general to have
become more cheerful, and contented with existence. In walking, being
easily fatigued, she liked to hang upon his arm. “Mignon,” she would
say, “now climbs and bounds no more; yet she still longs to mount the
summits of the hills, to skip from house to house, from tree to tree.
How enviable are the birds! and then so prettily and socially they build
their nests too!”
Erelong it became habitual for her to invite her friend, more than once
every day, into the garden. When Wilhelm was engaged or absent, Felix
had to take his place; and, if poor Mignon seemed at times quite
loosened from the earth, there were other moments when she would again
hold fast to father and son, and seem to dread a separation from them
more than any thing beside.
Natalia wore a thoughtful look. “We meant,” said she, “to open her
tender little heart, by sending for you hither. I know not whether we
did prudently.” She stopped, and seemed expecting Wilhelm to say
something. To him also it occurred, that, by his marriage with Theresa,
Mignon, in the present circumstances, would be fearfully offended: but,
in his uncertainty, he did not venture mentioning his project; he had no
suspicion that Natalia knew of it.
As little could he talk with freedom, when his noble friend began to
speak about her sister, to praise her good qualities, and to lament her
hapless situation. He felt exceedingly embarrassed when Natalia told him
he would shortly see the countess here. “Her husband,” said she, “has
now no object but replacing Zinzendorf in the Community, and, by insight
and activity, supporting and extending that establishment. He is coming
with his wife, to take a sort of leave: he then purposes visiting the
various spots where the Community have settled. They appear to treat him
as he wishes: and I should not wonder if, in order to be altogether like
his predecessor, he ventured, with my sister, on a voyage to America;
for, being already well-nigh convinced that a little more would make a
saint of him, the wish to superadd the dignity of martyrdom has probably
enough often flitted through his mind.”
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
They had often spoken of Theresa, often mentioned her in passing; and
Wilhelm almost every time was minded to confess that he had offered her
his heart and hand. A certain feeling, which he was not able to explain,
restrained him: he paused and wavered, till at length Natalia, with the
heavenly, modest, cheerful smile she often wore, said to him, “It seems,
then, I at last must break silence, and force myself into your
confidence! Why, my friend, do you keep secret from me an affair of such
importance to yourself, and so closely touching my concerns? You have
made my friend the offer of your hand: I do not mix uncalled in the
transaction; here are my credentials; here is the letter which she
writes to you, which she sends you through my hands.”
“A letter from Theresa!” cried he.
“Yes, mein Herr! Your destiny is settled: you are happy. Let me
congratulate my friend and you on your good fortune.”
Wilhelm spoke not, but gazed out before him. Natalia looked at him: she
saw that he was pale. “Your joy is strong,” continued she: “it takes the
form of terror, it deprives you of the power to speak. My participation
is not the less cordial that I show it you in words. I hope you will be
grateful, for I may say my influence on the decision of your bride has
not been small: she asked me for advice; and as it happened, by a
singular coincidence, that you were here just then. I was enabled to
destroy the few scruples she still entertained. Our messages went
swiftly to and fro: here is her determination; here is the conclusion of
the treaty! And now you shall read her other letters: you shall have a
free, clear look into the fair heart of your Theresa.”
Wilhelm opened the letter, which she handed him unsealed. It contained
these friendly words:--
“I am yours, as I am and as you know me. I call you mine, as you are and
as I know you. What in ourselves, what in our connection, wedlock
changes, we shall study to adjust by reason, cheerfulness, and mutual
good will. As it is no passion, but trust and inclination, for each
other that is leading us together, we run less risk than thousands of
others. You will forgive me, will you not, if I still think often and
kindly of my former friend: in return, I will press your Felix to my
heart, as if I were his mother. If you choose to share my little mansion
straightway, we are lord and master there; and in the mean while the
purchase of your land might be concluded. I could wish that no new
arrangements were made in it without me. I could wish at once to prove
that I deserve the confidence you repose in me. Adieu, dear, dear
friend! Beloved bridegroom, honored husband! Theresa clasps you to her
breast with hope and joy. My friend will tell you more, will tell you
all.”
Wilhelm, to whose mind this sheet recalled the image of Theresa with the
liveliest distinctness, had now recovered his composure. While reading,
thoughts had rapidly alternated within his soul. With terror he
discovered in his heart the most vivid traces of an inclination to
Natalia: he blamed himself, declaring every thought of that description
to be madness; he represented to himself Theresa in her whole
perfection: he again perused the letter, he grew cheerful, or, rather,
he so far regained his self-possession that he could appear cheerful.
Natalia handed him the letters which had passed between Theresa and
herself: out of Theresa’s we propose extracting one or two passages.
After delineating her bridegroom in her own peculiar way, Theresa thus
proceeded:--
“Such is the notion I have formed of the man who now offers me
his hand. What he thinks of himself, thou shalt see by and by in
the papers he has sent me, where he altogether candidly draws
his own portrait: I feel persuaded that I shall be happy with
him.”
“As for rank, thou knowest what my ideas have always been on
this point. Some people look on disagreement of external
circumstances as a fearful thing, and cannot remedy it. I wish
not to persuade any one, I wish to act according to my own
persuasion. I mean not to set others an example, nor do I act
without example. It is interior disagreements only that frighten
me: a frame that does not fit what it is meant to hold, much
pomp and little real enjoyment, wealth and avarice, nobility and
coarseness, youth and pedantry, poverty and ceremonies, these
are the things which would annihilate me, however it may please
the world to stamp and rate them.”
“If I hope that we shall suit each other, the hope is chiefly
founded upon this, that he resembles thee, my dear Natalia, thee
whom I so highly prize and reverence. Yes: he has thy noble
searching and striving for the better, whereby we of ourselves
produce the good which we suppose we find. How often have I
blamed thee, not in silence, for treating this or that person,
for acting in this or that case, otherwise than I should have
done; and yet, in general, the issue showed that thou wert
right. ‘When we take people,’ thou wouldst say, ‘merely as they
are, we make them worse: when we treat them as if they were what
they should be, we improve them as far as they can be improved.’
To see or to act thus, I know full well is not for me. Skill,
order, discipline, direction, that is my affair. I always
recollect what Jarno said: ‘Theresa trains her pupils, Natalia
forms them.’ Nay, once he went so far as to assert that of the
three fair qualities, faith, love, and hope, I was entirely
destitute. ‘Instead of faith,’ said he, ‘she has penetration;
instead of love, she has steadfastness; instead of hope, she has
trust.’ Indeed, I will confess, that, till I knew thee, I knew
nothing higher in the world than clearness and prudence: it was
thy presence only that persuaded, animated, conquered me; to thy
fair, lofty soul I willingly give place. My friend, too, I honor
on the same principle: the description of his life is a
perpetual seeking without finding,--not empty seeking, but
wondrous, generous seeking; he fancies others may give him what
can proceed from himself alone. So, love, the clearness of my
vision has not injured me on this occasion more than others: I
know my husband better than he knows himself, and I value him
the more. I see him, yet I see not over him: all my skill will
not enable me to judge of what he can accomplish. When I think
of him, his image always blends itself with thine: I know not
how I have deserved to belong to two such persons. But I will
deserve it, by endeavoring to do my duty by fulfilling what is
looked for from me.”
“If I recollect of Lothario? Vividly and daily. In the company
which in thought surrounds me, I cannot want him for a moment.
Oh, what a pity for this noble character, related by an error of
his youth to me, that nature has related him to thee! A being
such as thou, in truth, were worthier of him than I. To thee I
could, I would, surrender him. Let us be to him all we can, till
he find a proper wife; and then, too, let us be, let us abide,
together.”
“But what shall we say to our friends?” began Natalia. “Your brother
does not know of it?”--“Not a hint; your people know as little; we women
have, on this occasion, managed the affair ourselves. Lydia had put some
whims into Theresa’s head concerning Jarno and the abbé. There are
certain plans and secret combinations, with the general scheme of which
I am acquainted, and into which I never thought of penetrating farther.
With regard to these, Theresa has, through Lydia, taken up some shadow
of suspicion: so in this decisive step she would not suffer any one but
me to influence her. With my brother it had been already settled that
they should merely announce their marriages to one another, not giving
or asking counsel on the subject.”
Natalia wrote a letter to her brother: she invited Wilhelm to subjoin a
word or two, Theresa having so desired it. They were just about to seal,
when Jarno unexpectedly sent up his name. His reception was, of course,
as kind as possible: he wore a sportful, merry air; he could not long
forbear to tell his errand. “I am come,” said he, “to give you very
curious and very pleasing tidings: they concern Theresa. You have often
blamed us, fair Natalia, for troubling our heads about so many things;
but now you see how good it is to have one’s spies in every place.
Guess, and let us see your skill for once!”
The self-complacency with which he spoke these words, the roguish mien
with which he looked at Wilhelm and Natalia, persuaded both of them that
he had found their secret. Natalia answered, smiling, “We are far more
skilful than you think: before we even heard your riddle, we had put the
answer to it down in black and white.”
With these words she handed him the letter to Lothario, satisfied at
having met, in this way, the little triumph and surprise he had meant
for them. Jarno took the sheet with some astonishment, ran it quickly
over, started, let it drop from his hands, and stared at both his
friends with an expression of amazement, nay, of fright, which, on his
countenance, was rare. He spoke no word.
Wilhelm and Natalia were not a little struck: Jarno stepped up and down
the room. “What shall I say?” cried he, “or shall I say it all? But it
must come out: the perplexity is not to be avoided. So secret for
secret, surprise against surprise! Theresa is not the daughter of her
reputed mother! The hinderance is removed: I came to ask you to prepare
her for a marriage with Lothario.”
Jarno saw the shock which he had given his friends: they cast their eyes
upon the ground. “The present case,” said he, “is one of those which are
worse to bear in company. What each has to consider in it, he considers
best in solitude: I, at least, require an hour of leave.” He hastened to
the garden: Wilhelm followed him mechanically, yet without approaching
near.
At the end of an hour they were again assembled. Wilhelm opened the
conversation. “Formerly,” said he, “while I was living without plan or
object, in a state of carelessness, or, I may say, of levity,
friendship, love, affection, trust, came towards me with open arms, they
pressed themselves upon me; but now, when I am serious, destiny appears
to take another course with me. This resolution, of soliciting Theresa’s
hand, is probably the first that has proceeded altogether from myself. I
laid my plan considerately; my reason fully joined in it: by the consent
of that noble maiden, all my hopes were crowned. But now the strangest
fate puts back my outstretched hand: Theresa reaches hers to me, but
from afar, as in a dream; I cannot grasp it, and the lovely image leaves
me forever. So fare thee well, thou lovely image! and all ye images of
richest happiness that gathered round it!”
He was silent for a moment, looking out before him: Jarno was about to
speak. “Let me have another word,” cried Wilhelm, “for the lot is
drawing which is to decide the destiny of all my life. At this moment, I
am aided and confirmed by the impression which Lothario’s presence made
upon me at the first glance, and which has ever since continued with me.
That man well merits every sort of friendship and affection; and,
without sacrifices, friendship cannot be imagined. For his sake, it was
easy for me to delude a hapless girl; for his sake, it shall be possible
for me to give away the worthiest bride. Return, relate the strange
occurrence to him, and tell him what I am prepared for.”
“In emergencies like this,” said Jarno, “I hold that every thing is
done, if one do nothing rashly. Let us take no step till Lothario has
agreed to it. I will go to him: wait patiently for my return or for his
letter.”
He rode away, and left his friends in great disquiet. They had time to
reconsider these events, to think of them maturely. It now first
occurred to them, that they had taken Jarno’s statement simply by
itself, and without inquiring into any of the circumstances. Wilhelm was
not altogether free from doubts; but next day their astonishment, nay,
their bewilderment, arose still higher, when a messenger, arriving from
Theresa, brought the following letter to Natalia.
“Strange as it may seem, after all the letters I have sent, I am obliged
to send another, begging that thou wouldst despatch my bridegroom to me
instantly. He shall be my husband, what plans soever they may lay to rob
me of him. Give him the enclosed letter, only not before witnesses,
whoever they may be!”
The enclosed letter was as follows: “What opinion will you form of your
Theresa, when you see her all at once insisting passionately on a union
which calm reason alone appeared to have appointed? Let nothing hinder
you from setting out the moment you have read this letter. Come, my
dear, dear friend; now three times dearer, since they are attempting to
deprive me of you.”
“What is to be done?” cried Wilhelm, after he had read the letter.
“In no case that I remember,” said Natalia, after some reflection, “have
my heart and judgment been so dumb as in this: what to do or to advise I
know not.”
“Can it be,” cried Wilhelm vehemently, “that Lothario does not know of
it? or, if he does, that he is but like us, the sport of hidden plans?
Has Jarno, when he saw our letter, devised that fable on the spot? Would
he have told us something different, if we had not been so precipitate?
What can they mean? What intentions can they have? What plan can Theresa
mean? Yes, it must be owned, Lothario is begirt with secret influences
and combinations: I myself have found that they are active, that they
take a certain charge of the proceedings, of the destiny, of several
people, and contrive to guide them. The ulterior objects of these
mysteries I know not; but their nearest purpose, that of snatching my
Theresa from me, I perceive but too distinctly. On the one hand, this
prospect of Lothario’s happiness, which they exhibit to me, may be but a
hollow show: on the other hand, I see my dear, my honored bride inviting
me to her affection. What shall I do? What shall I forbear?”
“A little patience!” said Natalia: “a little time for thought. In these
singular perplexities I know but this, that what can never be recalled
should not be done in haste. To a fable, to an artful plan, we have
steadfastness and prudence to oppose: whether Jarno has been speaking
true or false must soon appear. If my brother has actually hopes of a
union with Theresa, it were hard to cut him off forever from that
prospect at the moment when it seems so kindly inviting him. Let us wait
at least till we discover whether he himself knows any thing of it,
whether he believes and hopes.”
These prudent counsels were confirmed by a letter from Lothario. “I do
not send Jarno,” he wrote: “a line from my hand is more to thee than the
minutest narrative in the mouth of a messenger. I am certain Theresa is
not the daughter of her reputed mother; and I cannot renounce hope of
being hers, till she, too, is persuaded, and can then decide between my
friend and me, with calm consideration. Let him not leave thee, I
entreat it! The happiness, the life, of a brother is at stake. I promise
thee, this uncertainty shall not be long.”
“You see how the matter stands,” said she to Wilhelm, with a friendly
air: “give me your word of honor that you will not leave the house!”
“I give it!” cried he, stretching out his hand: “I will not leave this
house against your will. I thank Heaven, and my better Genius, that on
this occasion I am led, and led by you.”
Natalia wrote Theresa an account of every thing, declaring that she
would not let her friend away. She sent Lothario’s letter also.
Theresa answered, “I wondered not a little that Lothario is himself
convinced: to his sister he would not feign to this extent. I am vexed,
greatly vexed. It is better that I say no more. But I will come to thee,
so soon as I have got poor Lydia settled: they are treating her cruelly.
I fear we are all betrayed, and shall be so betrayed that we shall never
reach the truth. If my friend were of my opinion, he would give thee the
slip after all, and throw himself into the arms of his Theresa, whom
none shall take away from him. But I, as I dread, shall lose him, and
not regain Lothario. From the latter they are taking Lydia by showing
him, afar off, the prospect of obtaining me. I will say no more: the
entanglement will grow still deeper. Whether, in the mean time, these
delightful positions in which we stand to each other may not be so
pushed awry, so undermined and broken down, that, when the darkness
passes off, the mischief can no longer admit of remedy, time will show.
If my friend do not break away, in a few days I myself will come and
seek him out beside thee, and hold him fast. Thou marvellest how this
passion can have gained the mastery of thy Theresa. It is no passion,
but conviction: it is a belief, that, since Lothario can never be mine,
this new friend will make me happy. Tell him so, in the name of the
little boy that sat with him underneath the oak, and thanked him for his
sympathy. Tell it him in the name of Theresa, who met his offers with a
hearty openness. My first dream of living with Lothario has wandered far
away from my soul: the dream of living with my other friend is yet
wholly present to me. Do they hold me so light as to think that it were
easy to exchange the former with the latter?”
“I depend on you,” said Natalia to Wilhelm, handing him the letter: “you
will not leave me. Consider that the comfort of my life is in your
hands. My being is so intimately bound and interwoven with my brother’s,
that he feels no sorrow which I do not feel, no joy which does not
likewise gladden me. Nay, I may truly say, through him alone I have
experienced that the heart can be affected and exalted; that in the
world there may be joy, love, and an emotion which contents the soul
beyond its utmost want.”
She stopped: Wilhelm took her hand, and cried, “Oh, continue! This is
the time for a true, mutual disclosure of our thoughts: it never was
more necessary for us to be well acquainted with each other.”
“Yes, my friend!” said she, smiling, with her quiet, soft, indescribable
dignity: “perhaps it is not out of season, if I tell you that the whole
of what so many books, of what the world, holds up to us and names love,
has always seemed to me a fable.”
“You have never loved?” cried Wilhelm.
“Never or always!” said Natalia.
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER V.
During this conversation they kept walking up and down the garden; and
Natalia gathered various flowers of singular forms, entirely unknown to
Wilhelm, who began to ask their names, and occupy himself about them.
“You know not,” said Natalia, “for whom I have been plucking these? I
intend them for my uncle, whom we are to visit. The sun is shining even
now so bright on the Hall of the Past, I must lead you in this moment;
and I never go to it without a few of the flowers which my uncle liked
particularly, in my hand. He was a peculiar man, susceptible of very
strange impressions. For certain plants and animals, for certain
neighborhoods and persons, nay, for certain sorts of minerals, he had an
especial love, which he was rarely able to explain. ‘Had I not,’ he
would often say, ‘from youth, withstood myself, and striven to form my
judgment upon wide and general principles, I had been the narrowest and
most intolerable person living. For nothing can be more intolerable than
circumscribed peculiarity, in one from whom a pure and suitable activity
might be required.’ And yet he was obliged to confess that life and
breath would, as it were, leave him, if he did not now and then indulge
himself, not from time to time allow himself a brief and passionate
enjoyment of what he could not always praise and justify. ‘It is not my
fault,’ said he, ‘if I have not brought my inclinations and my reason
into perfect harmony.’ On such occasions he would joke with me, and say,
‘Natalia may be looked upon as happy while she lives: her nature asks
nothing which the world does not wish and use.’”
So speaking, they arrived again at the house. Natalia led him through a
spacious passage to a door, before which lay two granite sphinxes. The
door itself was in the Egyptian fashion, somewhat narrower above than
below; and its brazen leaves prepared one for a serious or even a gloomy
feeling. Wilhelm was, in consequence, agreeably surprised, when his
expectation issued in a sentiment of pure, cheerful serenity, as he
entered a hall where art and life took away all recollection of death
and the grave. In the walls all round, a series of proportionable arches
had been hollowed out, and large sarcophaguses stood in them: among the
pillars in the intervals between them smaller openings might be seen,
adorned with urns and similar vessels. The remaining spaces of the walls
and vaulted roof were regularly divided; and between bright and
variegated borders, within garlands and other ornaments, a multitude of
cheerful and significant figures had been painted upon grounds of
different sizes. The body of the edifice was covered with that fine,
yellow marble, which passes into reddish: clear blue stripes of a
chemical substance, happily imitating azure stone, while they satisfied
the eye with contrast, gave unity and combination to the whole. All this
pomp and decoration showed itself in the chastest architectural forms:
and thus every one who entered felt as if exalted above himself; while
the co-operating products of art, for the first time, taught him what
man is and what he may become.
Opposite the door, on a stately sarcophagus, lay a marble figure of a
noble-looking man, reclined upon a pillow. He held a roll before him,
and seemed to look at it with still attention. It was placed so that you
could read with ease the words which stood there: _Think of living._
Natalia took away a withered bunch of flowers, and laid the fresh one
down before the figure of her uncle. For it was her uncle whom the
marble represented. Wilhelm thought he recognized the features of the
venerable gentleman whom he had seen when lying wounded in the green of
the forest. “Here he and I passed many an hour,” said Natalia, “while
the hall was getting ready. In his latter years, he had gathered several
skilful artists round him; and his chief delight was to invent or
superintend the drawings and cartoons for these pictures.”
Wilhelm could not satisfy himself with looking at the objects which
surrounded him. “What a life,” exclaimed he, “in this Hall of the Past!
One might with equal justice name it Hall of the Present and the Future.
Such all were, such all will be. There is nothing transitory but the
individual who looks at and enjoys it. Here, this figure of the mother
pressing her infant to her bosom will survive many generations of happy
mothers. Centuries hence, perhaps some father will take pleasure in
contemplating this bearded man, who has laid aside his seriousness, and
is playing with his son. Thus shame-faced will the bride sit for ages,
and, amid her silent wishes, need that she be comforted, that she be
spoken to; thus impatient will the bridegroom listen on the threshold
whether he may enter.”
The figures Wilhelm was surveying with such rapture were of almost
boundless number and variety. From the first jocund impulse of the
child, merely to employ its every limb in sport, up to the peaceful,
sequestered earnestness of the sage, you might, in fair and living
order, see delineated how man possesses no capacity or tendency without
employing and enjoying it. From the first soft, conscious feeling, when
the maiden lingers in pulling up her pitcher, and looks with
satisfaction at her image in the clear fountain, to those high
solemnities when kings and nations invoke the gods at the altar to
witness their alliances, all was depicted, all was forcible and full of
meaning.
It was a world, it was a heaven, that in this abode surrounded the
spectator; and beside the thoughts which those polished forms suggested,
beside the feelings they awoke, there still seemed something further to
be present, something by which the whole man felt himself laid hold of.
Wilhelm, too, observed this, though unable to account for it. “What is
this,” exclaimed he, “which independently of all signification, without
any sympathy that human incidents and fortunes may inspire us with, acts
on me so strongly and so gracefully? It speaks to me from the whole, it
speaks from every part; though I have not fully understood the former,
though I do not specially apply the latter to myself. What enchantment
breathes from these surfaces, these lines, these heights and breadths,
these masses and colors! What is it that makes these figures so
delightful, even when slightly viewed, and merely in the light of
decorations? Yes, I feel it: one might tarry here, might rest, might
view the whole, and be happy; and yet feel and think something
altogether different from aught that stood before his eyes.”
And certainly, if we were able to describe how happily the whole was
subdivided, how every thing determined by its place, by combination or
by contrast, by uniformity or by variety, appeared exactly as it should
have done, producing an effect as perfect as distinct, we should
transport the reader to a scene from which he would not be in haste to
stir.
Four large marble candelabras rose in the corners of the hall: four
smaller ones were in the midst of it, around a very beautifully worked
sarcophagus, which, judging from its size, might once have held a young
person of middle stature.
Natalia paused beside this monument: she laid her hand upon it as she
said, “My worthy uncle had a great attachment to this fine antique. ‘It
is not,’ he would often say, ‘the first blossoms alone that drop; such
you can keep above, in these little spaces; but fruits also, which,
hanging on their twigs, long give us the fairest hope, whilst a secret
worm is preparing their too early ripeness and their quick decay.’ I
fear,” continued she, “his words have been prophetic of that dear little
girl, who seems withdrawing gradually from our cares, and bending to
this peaceful dwelling.”
As they were about to go, Natalia stopped, and said, “There is something
still which merits your attention. Observe these half-round openings
aloft on both sides. Here the choir can stand concealed while singing:
these iron ornaments below the cornice serve for fastening on the
tapestry, which, by order of my uncle, must be hung round at every
burial. Music, particularly song, was a pleasure he could not live
without; and it was one of his peculiarities, that he wished the singer
not to be in view. ‘In this respect,’ he would say, ‘they spoil us at
the theatre: the music there is, as it were, subservient to the eye; it
accompanies movements, not emotions. In oratorios and concerts, the form
of the musician constantly disturbs us; true music is intended for the
ear alone: a fine voice is the most universal thing that can be figured;
and, while the narrow individual that uses it presents himself before
the eye, he cannot fail to trouble the effect of that pure universality.
The person whom I am to speak with, I must see; because it is a solitary
man, whose form and character give worth or worthlessness to what he
says: but, on the other hand, whoever sings to me must be invisible; his
form must not confuse me, or corrupt my judgment. Here it is but one
human organ speaking to another: it is not spirit speaking to spirit,
not a thousand-fold world to the eye, not a heaven to the man.’ On the
same principles, in respect of instrumental music, he required that the
orchestra should as much as possible be hid; because, by the mechanical
exertions, by the mean and awkward gestures of the performers, our
feelings are so much dispersed and perplexed. Accordingly, he always
used to shut his eyes while hearing music; thereby to concentrate his
whole being on the single pure enjoyment of the ear.”
They were about to leave the hall, when they heard the children running
hastily along the passage, and Felix crying, “No, I! No, I!”
Mignon rushed in at the open door: she was foremost, but out of breath,
and could not speak a word. Felix, still at some distance, shouted out,
“Mamma Theresa is come!” The children had run a race, as it seemed, to
bring the news. Mignon was lying in Natalia’s arms: her heart was
beating vehemently.
“Naughty child,” said Natalia, “art thou not forbidden to make violent
exertions? See how thy heart is beating!”
“Let it break!” said Mignon with a deep sigh: “it has beat too long.”
They had scarcely composed themselves from this surprise, this sort of
consternation, when Theresa entered. She flew to Natalia, clasped her
and Mignon in her arms. Then, turning round to Wilhelm, she looked at
him with her clear eyes, and said, “Well, my friend, how it is with you?
You have not let them cheat you?” He made a step towards her: she sprang
to him, and hung upon his neck. “O my Theresa!” cried he.
“My friend, my love, my husband! Yes, forever thine!” cried she, amid
the warmest kisses.
Felix pulled her by the gown, and cried, “Mamma Theresa, I am here too!”
Natalia stood, and looked before her: Mignon on a sudden clapped her
left hand on her heart, and, stretching out the right arm violently,
fell with a shriek at Natalia’s feet, as dead.
The fright was great: no motion of the heart or pulse was to be traced.
Wilhelm took her on his arm, and hastily carried her away: the body hung
lax over his shoulders. The presence of the doctor was of small avail:
he and the young surgeon, whom we know already, strove in vain. The dear
little creature could not be recalled to life.
Natalia beckoned to Theresa: the latter took her friend by the hand, and
led him from the room. He was dumb, not uttering a word: he durst not
meet her eyes. He sat down with her upon the sofa, where he had first
found Natalia. He thought with great rapidity along a series of fateful
incidents, or, rather, he did not think, but let his soul be worked on
by the thoughts which would not leave it. There are moments in life when
past events, like winged shuttles, dart to and fro before us, and by
their incessant movements weave a web which we ourselves, in a greater
or less degree, have spun and put upon the loom. “My friend, my love!”
said Theresa, breaking silence, as she took him by the hand, “let us
stand together firmly in this hour, as we perhaps shall often have to do
in similar hours. These are occurrences which it takes two united hearts
to suffer. Think, my friend, feel, that thou art not alone: show that
thou lovest thy Theresa by imparting thy sorrows to her!” She embraced
him, and drew him softly to her bosom: he clasped her in his arms, and
pressed her strongly towards him. “The poor child,” cried he, “used in
mournful moments to seek shelter and protection in my unstable bosom:
let the stability of thine assist me in this heavy hour.” They held each
other fast; he felt her heart beat against his breast; but in his spirit
all was desolate and void: only the figures of Mignon and Natalia
flitted like shadows across the waste of his imagination.
Natalia entered. “Give us thy blessing!” cried Theresa: “let us, in this
melancholy moment, be united before thee!” Wilhelm had hid his face upon
Theresa’s neck: he was so far relieved that he could weep. He did not
hear Natalia come; he did not see her; but, at the sound of her voice,
his tears redoubled. “What God has joined I will not part,” she
answered, smiling, “but to unite you is not in my power: nor am I
gratified to see that sorrow and sympathy seem altogether to have
banished from your hearts the recollection of my brother.” At these
words, Wilhelm started from Theresa’s arms. “Whither are you going?”
cried the ladies. “Let me see the child,” said he, “whom I have killed!
Misfortune, when we look upon it with our eyes, is smaller than when our
imagination sinks the evil down into the recesses of the soul. Let us
view the departed angel! Her serene countenance will say to us that it
is well with her.” As his friends could not restrain the agitated youth,
they followed him; but the worthy doctor with the surgeon met them, and
prevented them from coming near the dead. “Keep away from this mournful
object,” said he, “and allow me, so far as I am able, to give some
continuance to these remains. On this dear and singular being I will now
display the beautiful art, not only of embalming bodies, but of
retaining in them a look of life. As I foresaw her death, the
preparations are already made: with these helps I shall undoubtedly
succeed. Give me but a few days, and ask not to see the child again till
I have brought her to the Hall of the Past.”
The young surgeon had in his hands that well-known case of instruments.
“From whom can he have got it?” Wilhelm asked the doctor. “I know it
very well,” replied Natalia: “he has it from his father, who dressed
your wounds when we found you in the forest.”
“Then, I have not been mistaken! I recognized the band at once!” cried
Wilhelm. “Oh, get it for me! It was this that first gave me any hint of
my unknown benefactress. What weal and woe will such a thing survive!
Beside how many sorrows has this band already been, and its threads
still hold together! How many men’s last moments has it witnessed, and
its colors are not yet faded! It was near me in one of the fairest hours
of my existence, when I lay wounded on the ground, and your helpful form
appeared before me, and the child whom we are now lamenting sat with its
bloody hair, busied with the tenderest care to save my life!”
It was not long that our friends could converse about this sad
occurrence, that Theresa could inquire about the child, and the probable
cause of its unexpected death; for strangers were announced, who, on
making their appearance, proved to be well-known strangers. Lothario,
Jarno, and the abbé entered. Natalia met her brother: among the rest
there was a momentary silence. Theresa, smiling on Lothario, said, “You
scarcely expected to find me here; of course, it would not have been
advisable that we should visit one another at the present time: however,
after such an absence, take my cordial welcome.”
Lothario took her hand, and answered, “If we are to suffer and renounce,
it may as well take place in the presence of the object whom we love and
wish for. I desire no influence on your determination: my confidence in
your heart, in your understanding, and clear sense, is still so great,
that I willingly commit to your disposal my fate and that of my friend.”
The conversation turned immediately to general, nay, we may say, to
trivial, topics. The company soon separated into single pairs, for
walking. Natalia was with her brother, Theresa with the abbé: our friend
was left with Jarno in the castle.
The appearance of the guests at the moment when a heavy sorrow was
oppressing Wilhelm had, instead of dissipating his attention, irritated
him, and made him worse: he was fretful and suspicious, and unable or
uncareful to conceal it, when Jarno questioned him about his sulky
silence. “What is the use of saying more?” cried Wilhelm. “Lothario with
his helpers is come; and it were strange if those mysterious watchmen of
the tower, who are constantly so busy, did not now exert their influence
on us, to effect I know not what strange purpose. So far as I have known
these saintly gentlemen, it seems to be in every case their laudable
endeavor to separate the united and to unite the separated. What sort of
web their weaving will produce may probably to unholy eyes be forever a
riddle.”
“You are cross and bitter,” said the other: “that is as it should be.
Would you get into a proper passion, it were still better.”
“That, too, might come about,” said Wilhelm: “I fear much some of you
are in the mind to load my patience, natural and acquired, beyond what
it will bear.”
“In the mean time,” said the other, “till we see what is to be the issue
of the matter, I could like to tell you somewhat of the tower which you
appear to view with such mistrust.”
“It stands with you,” said Wilhelm, “whether you will risk your
eloquence on an attention so distracted. My mind is so engaged at
present, that I know not whether I can take a proper interest in these
very dignified adventures.”
“Your pleasing humor shall not hinder me,” said Jarno, “from explaining
this affair to you. You reckon me a clever fellow; I want to make you
reckon me an honest one: and, what is more, on this occasion I am bidden
speak.”--“I could wish,” said Wilhelm, “that you did it of yourself, and
with an honest purpose to inform me; but, as I cannot hear without
suspicion, wherefore should I hear at all?”--“If I have nothing better
to do,” said Jarno, “than tell you stories, you, too, have time to
listen to me; and to this you may perhaps feel more inclined, when I
assure you, that all you saw in the tower was but the relics of a
youthful undertaking, in regard to which the greater part of the
initiated were once in deep earnest, though all of them now view it with
a smile.”
“So, with these pompous signs and words, you do but mock?” cried
Wilhelm. “With a solemn air, you lead us to a place inspiring reverence
by its aspect; you make the strangest visions pass before us; you give
us rolls full of glorious mystic apothegms, of which, in truth, we
understand but little; you disclose to us, that hitherto we have been
pupils; you solemnly pronounce us free; and we are just as wise as we
were.”--“Have you not the parchment by you?” said the other. “It
contains a deal of sense: those general apothegms were not picked up at
random, though they seem obscure and empty to a man without experiences
to recollect while reading them. But give me the Indenture, as we call
it, if it is at hand.”--“Quite at hand,” cried Wilhelm: “such an amulet
well merits being worn upon one’s breast.”--“Well,” said Jarno, smiling,
“who knows whether the contents of it may not one day find place in your
head and heart?”
He opened the roll, and glanced over the first half of it. “This,” said
he, “regards the cultivation of our gifts for art and science, of which
let others speak: the second treats of life; here I am more at home.”
He then began to read passages, speaking between whiles, and connecting
them with his remarks and narrative. “The taste of youth for secrecy,
for ceremonies, for imposing words, is extraordinary, and frequently
bespeaks a certain depth of character. In those years we wish to feel
our whole nature seized and moved, even though it be but vaguely and
darkly. The youth who happens to have lofty aspirations and forecastings
thinks that secrets yield him much, that he must depend much on secrets,
and effect much by means of them. It was with such views that the abbé
favored a certain society of young men, partly according to his
principle of aiding every tendency of nature, partly out of habit and
inclination; for in former times he had himself been joined to an
association which appears to have accomplished many things in secret.
For this business I was least of all adapted. I was older than the rest;
from youth I had thought clearly; I wished in all things nothing more
than clearness; I felt no interest in men but to know them as they were.
With the same taste I gradually infected all the best of our associates,
and this circumstance had almost given a false direction to our plan of
culture. For we now began to look at nothing but the errors and the
narrowness of others, and to think ourselves a set of highly gifted
personages. Here the abbé came to our assistance: he taught us that we
never should inspect the conduct of men, unless we at the same time took
an interest in improving it; and that through action only could we ever
be in a condition to inspect and watch ourselves. He advised us,
however, to retain the primary forms of the society: hence there was
still a sort of law in our proceedings; the first mystic impressions
might be traced in the constitution of the whole. At length, as by a
practical similitude, it took the form of a corporate trade, whose
business was the arts. Hence came the names of apprentices, assistants,
and masters. We wished to see with our own eyes, and to form for
ourselves, a special record of our own experience in the world. Hence
those numerous confessions which in part we ourselves wrote, in part
made others write, and out of which the several _Apprenticeships_ were
afterwards compiled. The formation of his character is not the chief
concern with every man. Many merely wish to find a sort of recipe for
comfort, directions for acquiring riches, or whatever good they aim at.
All such, when they would not be instructed in their proper duties, we
were wont to mystify, to treat with juggleries, and every sort of
hocus-pocus, and at length to shove aside. We advanced none to the rank
of masters, but such as clearly felt and recognized the purpose they
were born for, and had got enough of practice to proceed along their way
with a certain cheerfulness and ease.”
“In my case, then,” cried Wilhelm, “your ceremony has been very
premature; for, since the day when you pronounced me free, what I can,
will, or shall do has been more unknown to me than ever.”--“We are not
to blame for this perplexity: perhaps good fortune will deliver us. In
the mean time, listen: ‘He in whom there is much to be developed will be
later in acquiring true perceptions of himself and of the world. There
are few who at once have Thought and the capacity of Action. Thought
expands, but lames: Action animates, but narrows.’”
“I beg of you,” cried Wilhelm, “not to read me any more of that
surprising stuff. These phrases have sufficiently confused me
before.”--“I will stick by my story, then,” said Jarno, half rolling up
the parchment, into which, however, he kept casting frequent glances. “I
myself have been of less service to the cause of our society, and of my
fellow-men, than any other member. I am but a bad school-master: I
cannot bear to look on people making awkward trials; when I see a person
wander from his path, I feel constrained to call to him, although it
were a night-walker going straight to break his neck. On this point I
had a continual struggle with the abbé, who maintains that error can
never be cured, except by erring. About you, too, we often argued. He
had taken an especial liking to you, and it is saying something to have
caught so much of his attention. For me, you must admit, that every time
we met I told you just the naked truth.”--“Certainly, you spared me very
little,” said the other; “and I think you still continue faithful to
your principles.”--“What is the use of sparing,” answered Jarno, “when a
young man of many good endowments is taking a quite false
direction?”--“Pardon me,” said Wilhelm: “you have rigorously enough
denied me any talent for the stage; I confess to you, that, though I
have entirely renounced the art, I cannot think myself entirely
incapable.”--“And with me,” said Jarno, “it is well enough decided, that
a person who can only play himself is no player. Whoever cannot change
himself, in temper and in form, into many forms, does not deserve the
name. Thus you, for example, acted Hamlet, and some other characters,
extremely well; because, in these, your form, your disposition, and the
temper of the moment, suited. For an amateur theatre, for any one who
saw no other way before him, this would, perhaps, have answered well
enough. But,” continued Jarno, looking on the roll, “‘we should guard
against a talent which we cannot hope to practise in perfection. Improve
it as we may, we shall always, in the end, when the merit of the master
has become apparent to us, painfully lament the loss of time and
strength devoted to such botching.’”
“Do not read!” cried Wilhelm: “I entreat you earnestly, speak on, tell,
inform me! So, the abbé aided me in Hamlet: he provided me a
Ghost?”--“Yes; for he asserted that it was the only way of curing you,
if you were curable.”--“And on this account he left the veil, and bade
me flee?”--“Yes: he hoped, that, having fairly acted Hamlet, your desire
of acting would be satiated. He maintained that you would never go upon
the stage again: I believed the contrary, and I was right. We argued on
the subject that very evening, when the play was over.”--“You saw me
act, then?”--“I did indeed.”--“And who was it that played the
Ghost?”--“That I cannot tell you: either the abbé or his twin-brother;
but I think the latter, for he is a little taller.”--“You, then, have
secrets from each other?”--“Friends may and must _have_ secrets from,
but they _are_ not secrets to, each other.”
“The very thought of that perplexity perplexes me. Let me understand the
man to whom I owe so many thanks as well as such reproaches.”
“What gives him such a value in our estimation,” answered Jarno, “what,
in some degree, secures him the dominion over all of us, is the free,
sharp eye that nature has bestowed on him, for all the powers which
dwell in man, and are susceptible of cultivation, each according to its
kind. Most men, even the most accomplished, are but limited: each prizes
certain properties in others and himself; these alone he favors, these
alone will he have cultivated. Directly the reverse is the procedure of
our abbé: for every gift he has a feeling; every gift he delights to
recognize and forward. But I must look into my roll again! ‘It is all
men that make up mankind, all powers taken together that make up the
world. These are frequently at variance; and, as they endeavor to
destroy each other, Nature holds them together, and again produces them.
From the first animal tendency to handicraft attempts, up to the highest
practising of intellectual art; from the inarticulate crowings of the
happy infant, up to the polished utterance of the orator and singer;
from the first bickerings of boys, up to the vast equipments by which
countries are conquered and retained; from the slightest kindliness, and
the most transitory love, up to the fiercest passion, and the most
earnest covenant; from the merest perception of sensible presence, up to
the faintest presentiments and hopes of the remotest spiritual
future,--all this, and much more also, lies in man, and must be
cultivated, yet not in one, but in many. Every gift is valuable, and
ought to be unfolded. When one encourages the beautiful alone, and
another encourages the useful alone, it takes them both to form a man.
The useful encourages itself; for the multitude produce it, and no one
can dispense with it: the beautiful must be encouraged; for few can set
it forth, and many need it.’”
“Hold! Hold!” cried Wilhelm: “I have read it all.”--“Yet a line or two!”
said Jarno. “Here is our worthy abbé to a hair’s-breadth: ‘One power
rules another, none can cultivate another: in each endowment, and not
elsewhere, lies the force which must complete it; this many people do
not understand, who yet attempt to teach and influence.’”--“Nor do I
understand it,” answered Wilhelm.--“You will often hear the abbé preach
on this text; and, therefore, ‘Let us merely keep a clear and steady eye
on what is in ourselves, on what endowments of our own we mean to
cultivate: let us be just to others, for we ourselves are only to be
valued in so far as we can value.’”--“For Heaven’s sake, no more of
these wise saws! I feel them to be but a sorry balsam for a wounded
heart. Tell me, rather, with your cruel settledness, what you expect of
me, how, and in what manner, you intend to sacrifice me.”--“For every
such suspicion, I assure you, you will afterwards beg our pardon. It is
your affair to try and choose: it is ours to aid you. A man is never
happy till his vague striving has itself marked out its proper
limitation. It is not to me that you must look, but to the abbé: it is
not of yourself that you must think, but of what surrounds you. Thus,
for instance, learn to understand Lothario’s superiority; how his quick
and comprehensive vision is inseparably united with activity; how he
constantly advances; how he expands his influence, and carries every one
along with him. Wherever he may be, he bears a world about with him: his
presence animates and kindles. Observe our good physician, on the other
hand. His nature seems to be directly the reverse. If the former only
works upon the general whole, and at a distance, the latter turns his
piercing eye upon the things that are beside him: he rather furnishes
the means for being active, than himself displays or stimulates
activity. His conduct is exactly like the conduct of a good domestic
manager: he is busied silently, while he provides for each in his
peculiar sphere; his knowledge is a constant gathering and expanding, a
taking in and giving out on a small scale. Perhaps Lothario in a single
day might overturn what the other had for years been employed in
building up; but perhaps Lothario also might impart to others, in a
moment, strength sufficient to restore a hundred-fold what he had
overturned.”--“It is but a sad employment,” answered Wilhelm, “to
contemplate the sublime advantages of others, at a moment when we are at
variance with ourselves. Such contemplations suit the man at ease, not
him whom passion and uncertainty are agitating.”--“Peacefully and
reasonably to contemplate is at no time hurtful,” answered Jarno: “and,
while we use ourselves to think of the advantages of others, our own
mind comes insensibly to imitate them; and every false activity, to
which our fancy was alluring us, is then willingly abandoned. Free your
mind, if you can, from all suspicion and anxiety. Here comes the abbé:
be courteous towards him, till you have learned still further what you
owe him. The rogue! There he goes between Natalia and Theresa: I could
bet he is contriving something. As in general he rather likes to act the
part of Destiny; so he does not fail to show a taste for making matches
when he finds an opportunity.”
Wilhelm, whose angry and fretful humor all the placid prudent words of
Jarno had not bettered, thought his friend exceedingly indelicate for
mentioning marriage at a moment like the present: he answered, with a
smile indeed, but a rather bitter one, “I thought the taste for making
matches had been left to those that had a taste for one another.”
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
The company had met again: the conversation of our friends was
necessarily interrupted. Erelong a courier was announced, as wishing to
deliver with his own hand a letter to Lothario. The man was introduced:
he had a vigorous sufficient look; his livery was rich and handsome.
Wilhelm thought he knew him, nor was he mistaken; for it was the man
whom he had sent to seek Philina and the fancied Mariana, and who never
came back. Our friend was about to address him, when Lothario, who had
read the letter, asked the courier with a serious, almost angry, tone,
“What is your master’s name?”
“Of all questions,” said the other, with a prudent air, “this is the one
which I am least prepared to answer. I hope the letter will communicate
the necessary information: verbally I have been charged with nothing.”
“Be it as it will,” replied Lothario with a smile: “since your master
puts such trust in me as to indite a letter so exceedingly facetious, he
shall be welcome to us.”--“He will not keep you long waiting for him,”
said the courier, with a bow, and withdrew.
“Do but hear the distracted, stupid message,” said Lothario. “‘As of all
guests, Good Humor is believed to be the most agreeable wherever he
appears, and as I always keep that gentleman beside me by way of
travelling companion, I feel persuaded that the visit I intend to pay
your noble lordship will not be taken ill: on the contrary, I hope the
whole of your illustrious family will witness my arrival with complete
satisfaction, and in due time also my departure; being always, _et
cœtera_, Count of Snailfoot.’”
“’Tis a new family,” said the abbé.
“A vicariat count, perhaps,” said Jarno.
“The secret is easy to unriddle,” said Natalia: “I wager it is none but
brother Friedrich, who has threatened us with a visit ever since my
uncle’s death.”
“Right, fair and skilful sister!” cried a voice from the nearest
thicket; and immediately a pleasant, cheerful youth stepped forward.
Wilhelm could scarcely restrain a cry of wonder. “What!” exclaimed he:
“does our fair-haired knave, too, meet me here?” Friedrich looked
attentively, and, recognizing Wilhelm, cried, “In truth, it would not
have astonished me so much to have beheld the famous pyramids, which
still stand fast in Egypt, or the grave of King Mausolus, which, as I am
told, does not exist, here placed before me in my uncle’s garden, as to
find you in it, my old friend, and frequent benefactor. Accept my best
and heartiest service!”
After he had kissed and complimented the whole circle, he again sprang
towards Wilhelm, crying, “Use him well, this hero, this leader of
armies, and dramatical philosopher! When we became acquainted first, I
dressed his hair indifferently, I may say execrably; yet he afterwards
saved me from a pretty load of blows. He is magnanimous as Scipio,
munificent as Alexander: at times he is in love, yet he never hates his
rivals. Far from heaping coals of fire on the heads of his enemies,--a
piece of service, I am told, which we can do for any one,--he rather,
when his friends have carried off his love, despatches good and trusty
servants after them, that they may not strike their feet against a
stone.”
In the same style he ran along with a volubility which baffled all
attempts to restrain it; and, as no one could reply to him in that vein,
he had the conversation mostly to himself. “Do not wonder,” cried he,
“that I am so profoundly versed in sacred and profane writers: you shall
hear by and by how I attained my learning.” They wished to know how
matters stood with him,--where he had been; but crowds of proverbs and
old stories choked his explanation.
Natalia whispered to Theresa, “His gayety afflicts me: I am sure at
heart he is not merry.”
As, except a few jokes which Jarno answered, Friedrich’s merriment was
met by no response from those about him, he was obliged at last to say,
“Well, there is nothing left for me, but, among so many grave faces, to
be grave myself. And as, in such a solemn scene, the burden of my sins
falls heavy on my soul, I must honestly resolve upon a general
confession; for which, however, you, my worthy gentlemen and ladies,
shall not be a jot the wiser. This honorable friend already knows a
little of my walk and conversation; he alone shall know the rest; and
this the rather, as he alone has any cause to ask about it. Are not
you,” continued he to Wilhelm, “curious about the how and where, the
when and wherefore? And how it stands with the conjugation of the Greek
verb φιλέω, φιλῶ, and the derivatives of that very amiable part of
speech?”
He then took Wilhelm by the arm, and led him off, pressing him and
skipping round him with the liveliest air of kindness.
Scarcely had they entered Wilhelm’s room, when Friedrich noticed, in the
window, a powder-knife, with the inscription, “Think of me.” “You keep
your valuables well laid up!” said he. “This is the powder-knife Philina
gave you, when I pulled your locks for you. I hope, in looking at it,
you have diligently thought of that fair damsel; I assure you, she has
not forgotten you: if I had not long ago obliterated every trace of
jealousy from my heart, I could not look on you without envy.”
“Talk no more of that creature,” answered Wilhelm. “I confess it was a
while before I could get rid of the impression which her looks and
manner made on me, but that was all.”
“Fie, Fie!” cried Friedrich. “Would any one deny his deary? You loved
her as completely as a man could wish. No day passed without your giving
her some present; and, when a German gives, you may be sure he loves. No
alternative remained for me but whisking her away from you, and in this
the little red officer at last succeeded.”
“What! you were the officer whom we discovered with her, whom she
travelled off with?”
“Yes,” said Friedrich, “whom you took for Mariana. We had sport enough
at the mistake.”
“What cruelty,” cried Wilhelm, “to leave me in such suspense!”
“And, besides, to take the courier, whom you sent to catch us, into
pay!” said Friedrich. “He is a very active fellow: we have kept him by
us ever since. And the girl herself I love as desperately as ever. She
has managed me in some peculiar style: I am almost in a mythologic case;
every day I tremble at the thought of being metamorphosed.”
“But tell me, pray,” said Wilhelm, “where have you acquired this stock
of erudition? It surprises me to hear the strange way you have assumed
of speaking always with a reference to ancient histories and fables.”
“It was by a pleasant plan,” said Friedrich, “that I got my learning.
Philina lives with me at present: we have got a lease of an old,
knightly castle from the farmer in whose ground it is; and there we
live, with the hobgoblins of the place, as merrily as possible. In one
of the rooms we found a small, but choice, library, consisting of a
Bible in folio, ‘Gottfried’s Chronicle,’ two volumes of the ‘Theatrum
Europæum,’ an ‘Acerra Philologica,’ ‘Gryphius’ Writings,’ and some other
less important works. As we now and then, when tired of romping, felt
the time hang heavy on our hands, we proposed to read some books; and,
before we were aware, the time hung heavier than ever. At last Philina
hit upon the royal plan of laying all the tomes, opened at once, upon a
large table. We sat down opposite to one another: we read to one
another,--always in detached passages, first from this book, then from
that. We had a jolly time of it. We felt now as if we were in good
society, where it is reckoned unbecoming to dwell on any subject, or
search it to the bottom: we thought ourselves in witty, gay society,
where none will let his neighbor speak. We regularly treat ourselves
with this diversion every day, and the erudition we obtain from it is
quite surprising. Already there is nothing new for us under the sun: on
every thing we see or hear, our learning offers us a hint. This method
of instruction we diversify in many ways. Frequently we read by an old,
spoiled sand-glass, which runs in a minute or two. The moment it is
down, the silent party turns it round like lightning, and commences
reading from his book; and no sooner is it down again, than the other
cuts him short, and starts the former topic. Thus we study in a truly
academic manner, with this difference, that our hours are shorter, and
our studies extremely varied.”
“This rioting is quite conceivable,” said Wilhelm, “when a pair like you
two are together; but how a pair so full of frolic stay together does
not seem so easily conceivable.”
“It is our good fortune,” answered Friedrich, “and our bad. Philina dare
not let herself be seen,--she cannot bear to see herself: she is with
child. Nothing ever was so ludicrous and shapeless in the world. A
little while before I came away, she chanced to cast an eye upon the
looking-glass in passing. ‘Faugh!’ cried she, and turned away her face:
‘the living picture of the Frau Melina! Shocking figure! One looks
entirely deplorable!’”
“I confess,” said Wilhelm, with a smile, “it must be rather farcical to
see a father and a mother, such as you and she, together.”
“’Tis a foolish business,” answered Friedrich, “that I must at last be
raised to the paternal dignity. But she asserts, and the time agrees. At
first that cursed visit which she paid you after ‘Hamlet’ gave me
qualms.”
“What visit?”
“I suppose you have not quite slept off the memory of it yet? The
pretty, flesh-and-blood spirit of that night, if you do not know it, was
Philina. The story was, in truth, a hard dower for me; but, if we cannot
be content with such things, we should not be in love. Fatherhood, at
any rate, depends entirely upon conviction: I am convinced, and so I am
a father. There, you see, I can employ my logic in the proper season
too. And, if the brat do not laugh itself to death so soon as it is
born, it may prove, if not a useful, at least a pleasant, citizen of
this world.”
Whilst our friends were talking thus of mirthful subjects, the rest of
the party had begun a serious conversation. Scarcely were Friedrich and
Wilhelm gone, when the abbé led his friends, as if by chance, into a
garden-house, and, having got them seated, thus addressed them:--
“We have in general terms asserted that Fräulein Theresa was not the
daughter of her reputed mother: it is fit that we should now explain
ourselves on this matter, in detail. I shall relate the story to you,
which I undertake to prove and to elucidate in every point.
“Frau von ---- spent the first years of her wedlock in the utmost
concord with her husband; but they had this misfortune, that the
children she brought him came into the world dead: and, on occasion of
the third, the mother was declared by the physicians to be on the verge
of death, and to be sure of death if she should ever have another. The
parties were obliged to take their resolution: they would not break the
marriage; it was too suitable to both, in a civil point of view. Frau
von ---- sought in the culture of her mind, in a certain habit of
display, in the joys of vanity, a compensation for the happiness of
motherhood, which was refused her. She cheerfully indulged her husband,
when she noticed in him an attachment to a young lady, who had sole
charge of their household, a person of beautiful exterior, and very
solid character. Frau von ---- herself, erelong, assisted in procuring
an arrangement, by which the lady yielded to the wishes of Theresa’s
father; continuing to discharge her household duties, and testifying to
the mistress of the family, if possible, a more submissive zeal to serve
her than before.
“After a while she declared herself with child; and both the father and
his wife, on this occasion, though from very different causes, fell upon
the same idea. Herr von ---- wished to have the offspring of his
mistress educated in the house as his lawful child; and Frau von ----,
angry that the indiscretion of her doctor had allowed some whisper of
her condition to go abroad, proposed by a supposititious child to
counteract this, and likewise to retain, by such compliance, the
superiority in her household, which otherwise she was like to lose.
However, she was more backward than her husband: she observed his
purpose, and contrived, without any formal question, to facilitate his
explanation. She made her own terms, obtaining almost every thing that
she required; and hence the will in which so little care was taken of
the child. The old doctor was dead: they applied to a young, active, and
discreet successor; he was well rewarded; he looked forward to the
credit of exposing and remedying the unskilfulness and premature
decision of his deceased colleague. The true mother not unwillingly
consented: they managed the deception very well; Theresa came into the
world, and was surrendered to a stepmother, while her mother fell a
victim to the plot; having died by venturing out too early, and left the
father inconsolable.
“Frau von ---- had thus attained her object; in the eyes of the world
she had a lovely child, which she paraded with excessive vanity: and she
had also been delivered from a rival whose fortune she envied, and whose
influence, at least in prospect, she beheld with apprehension. The
infant she loaded with her tenderness: and by affecting, in trustful
hours, a lively feeling for her husband’s loss, she gained a mastery of
his heart; so that in a manner he surrendered all to her, laid his own
happiness and that of his child in her hands: nor was it till a short
while prior to his death, and, in some degree, by the exertions of his
grown-up daughter, that he again assumed the rule in his own house.
This, fair Theresa, was in all probability the secret which your father,
in his last sickness, so struggled to communicate: this is what I wished
to lay circumstantially before you, at a moment when our young friend,
who by a strange concurrence has become your bridegroom, happens to be
absent. Here are the papers which will prove in the most rigorous manner
every thing that I have stated. You will also see from them how long I
have been following the trace of this discovery; though, till now, I
could never attain certainty respecting it. I did not risk imparting to
my friend the possibility of such a happiness: it would have wounded him
too deeply had this hope a second time deceived him. You will understand
poor Lydia’s suspicions: I readily confess, I nowise favored our
friend’s attachment to her, when I began again to look forward to his
union with Theresa.”
To this recital no one replied. The ladies, some days afterwards,
returned the papers, not making any further mention of them.
There were other matters in abundance to engage the party when they were
together; and the scenery around was so delightful, that our friends,
singly or in company, on horseback, in carriages, or on foot, delighted
to explore it. On one of these excursions, Jarno took an opportunity of
opening the affair to Wilhelm: he delivered him the papers; not,
however, seeming to require from him any resolution in regard to them.
“In this most singular position in which I am,” said our friend, “I need
only repeat to you what I said at first, in presence of Natalia, and
with the clear intention to fulfil it. Lothario and his friends may
require of me every sort of self-denial; I here abandon in their favor
all pretension to Theresa: do you procure me in return a formal
discharge. There requires no great reflection to decide. For some days I
have noticed that Theresa has to make an effort in retaining any show of
the vivacity with which she welcomed me at first. Her affection is gone
from me; or, rather, I have never had it.”
“Such affairs are more conveniently explained,” said Jarno, “by a
gradual process, in silence and expectation, than by many words, which
always cause a sort of fermentation and embarrassment.”
“I rather think,” said Wilhelm, “that precisely this affair admits of
the most clear and calm decision on the spot. I have often been
reproached with hesitation and uncertainty: why will you now, when I do
not hesitate, commit against myself the fault you have often blamed in
me? Do people take such trouble with our training only to let us feel
that they themselves will not be trained? Yes: grant me soon the
cheerful thought that I am out of a mistaken project, into which I
entered with the purest feelings in the world.”
Notwithstanding this request, some days elapsed without his hearing any
more of the affair, or observing any further alteration in his friends.
The conversation, on the contrary, was general, and of indifferent
matters.
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
Jarno and Wilhelm were sitting one day by Natalia. “You are thoughtful,
Jarno,” said the lady: “I have seen it in your looks for some time.”
“I am so,” answered Jarno: “a weighty business is before me, which we
have for years been meditating, and must now begin to execute. You
already know the outline of it: I may speak of it before our friend; for
it will depend on himself whether he, too, shall not share in it. You
are going to get rid of me before long: I mean to take a voyage to
America.”
“To America?” said Wilhelm, smiling: “such an adventure I did not
anticipate from you, still less that you would have selected me for a
companion.”
“When you rightly understand our plan,” said Jarno, “you will give it a
more honorable name, and, perhaps, yourself be tempted to embark in it.
Listen to me. It requires but a slight acquaintance with the business of
the world to see that mighty changes are at hand, that property is
almost nowhere quite secure.”
“Of the business of the world I have no clear notion,” interrupted
Wilhelm; “and it is but of late that I ever thought about my property.
Perhaps I had done well to drive it out of my head still longer: the
care of securing it appears to give us hypochondria.”
“Hear me out,” said Jarno. “Care beseems ripe age, that youth may live,
for a time, free from care; in the conduct of poor mortals, equilibrium
cannot be restored except by contraries. As matters go, it is any thing
but prudent to have property in only one place, to commit your money to
a single spot; and yet it is difficult to guide it well in many. We
have, therefore, thought of something else. From our old tower there is
a society to issue, which must spread itself through every quarter of
the world, and to which members from every quarter of the world shall be
admissible. We shall insure a competent subsistence to each other, in
the single case of a revolution happening, which might drive any part of
us entirely from their possessions. I am now proceeding to America to
profit by the good connections which our friend established while he
staid there. The abbé means to go to Russia: if you like to join us, you
shall have the choice of continuing in Germany to help Lothario, or of
accompanying me. I conjecture you will choose the latter: to take a
distant journey is extremely serviceable to a young man.”
Wilhelm thought a moment, and replied, “The offer well deserves
consideration; for erelong the word with me must be, The farther off,
the better. You will let me know your plan, I hope, more perfectly. It
is, perhaps, my ignorance of life that makes me think so; but such a
combination seems to me to be attended with insuperable difficulties.”
“The most of which, till now, have been avoided,” answered Jarno, “by
the circumstance that we have been but few in number, honorable,
discreet, determined people, animated by a certain general feeling, out
of which alone the feeling proper for societies can spring.”--“And if
you speak me fair,” said Friedrich, who hitherto had only listened, “I,
too, will go along with you.”
Jarno shook his head.
“Well, what objections can you make?” cried Friedrich. “In a new colony,
young colonists will be required; these I bring with me: merry colonists
will also be required; of these I make you certain. Besides, I recollect
a certain damsel, who is out of place on this side of the water,--the
fair, soft-hearted Lydia. What is the poor thing to do with her sorrow
and mourning, unless she get an opportunity to throw it to the bottom of
the sea, unless some brave fellow take her by the hand? You, my
benefactor,” said he, turning towards Wilhelm, “you have a taste for
comforting forsaken persons: what withholds you now? Each of us might
take his girl under his arm, and trudge with Jarno.”
This proposal struck Wilhelm offensively. He answered with affected
calmness, “I know not whether she is unengaged; and, as in general I
seem to be unfortunate in courtship, I shall hardly think of making the
attempt.”
“Brother Friedrich,” said Natalia, “though thy own conduct is so full of
levity, it does not follow that such sentiments will answer others. Our
friend deserves a heart that shall belong to him alone, that shall not,
at his side, be moved by recollections of some previous attachment. It
was only with a character as pure and reasonable as Theresa’s that such
a venture could be risked.”
“Risk!” cried Friedrich: “in love it is all risk. In the grove or at the
altar, with a clasp of the arms or a golden ring, by the chirping of the
cricket or the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums, it is all but a risk:
chance does it all.”
“I have often noticed,” said Natalia, “that our principles are just a
supplement to our peculiar manner of existence. We delight to clothe our
errors in the garb of universal laws, to attribute them to irresistibly
appointed causes. Do but think by what a path thy dear will lead thee,
now that she has drawn thee towards her, and holds thee fast there.”
“She herself is on a very pretty path,” said Friedrich,--“on the path to
saintship. A by-path, it is true, and somewhat roundabout, but the
pleasanter and surer for that. Maria of Magdala travelled it, and who
can say how many more? But, on the whole, sister, when the point in hand
is love, thou shouldst not mingle in it. In my opinion, thou wilt never
marry, till a bride is lacking somewhere: in that case, thou wilt give
thyself, with thy habitual charity, to be the supplement of some
peculiar manner of existence, not otherwise. So let us strike a bargain
with this soul-broker, and agree about our travelling-company.”
“You come too late with your proposals,” answered Jarno: “Lydia is
disposed of.”
“And how?” cried Friedrich.
“I myself have offered her my hand,” said Jarno.
“Old gentleman,” said Friedrich, “you have done a feat to which, if we
regard it as a substantive, various adjectives might be appended;
various predicates, if we regard it as a subject.”
“I must honestly confess,” replied Natalia, “it appears a dangerous
experiment to make a helpmate of a woman, at the very moment when her
love for another man is like to drive her to despair.”
“I have ventured,” answered Jarno: “under a certain stipulation she is
to be mine. And, believe me, there is nothing in the world more precious
than a heart susceptible of love and passion. Whether it has loved,
whether it still loves, are points which I regard not. The love of which
another is the object charms me almost more than that which is directed
to myself. I see the strength, the force, of a tender soul; and my
self-love does not trouble the delightful vision.”
“Have you, then, talked with Lydia of late?” inquired Natalia.
Jarno smiled and nodded: Natalia shook her head, and said as he rose, “I
really know not what to make of you; but me you shall not mystify, I
promise you.”
She was about retiring, when the abbé entered with a letter in his hand.
“Stay, if you please,” said he to her: “I have a proposal here,
respecting which your counsel will be welcome. The marchese, your late
uncle’s friend, whom for some time we have been expecting, will be here
in a day or two. He writes to me, that German is not so familiar to him
as he had supposed; that he needs a person who possesses this and other
languages, to travel with him; that, as he wishes to connect himself
with scientific rather than political society, he cannot do without some
such interpreter. I can think of no one better suited for the post than
our young friend here. He knows the language, is acquainted with many
things beside; and, for himself, it cannot but be advantageous to travel
over Germany in such society and such circumstances. Till we have seen
our native country, we have no scale to judge of other countries by.
What say you, my friend? What say you, Natalia?”
Nobody objected to the scheme: Jarno seemed to think his transatlantic
project would not be a hinderance, as he did not mean to sail directly.
Natalia did not speak, and Friedrich uttered various saws about the uses
of travel.
This new project so provoked our friend, that he could hardly conceal
his irritation. He saw in this proposal a concerted plan for getting rid
of him as soon as possible; and, what was worse, they went so openly to
work, and seemed so utterly regardless of his feelings. The suspicions
Lydia had excited in him, all that he himself had witnessed, rose again
upon his mind: the simple manner in which every thing had been explained
by Jarno now appeared to him another piece of artifice.
He constrained himself, and answered, “At all events, the offer will
require mature deliberation.”
“A quick decision may, perhaps, be necessary,” said the abbé.
“For that I am not prepared,” answered Wilhelm. “We can wait till the
marchese comes, and then observe if we agree together. One condition
must, however, be conceded first of all,--that I take Felix with me.”
“This is a condition,” said the abbé, “which will scarcely be conceded.”
“And I do not see,” cried Wilhelm, “why I should let any man prescribe
conditions to me, or why, if I choose to view my native country, I must
go in company with an Italian.”
“Because a young man,” said the abbé, with a certain imposing
earnestness, “is always called upon to form connections.”
Wilhelm, feeling that he could not long retain his self-command, as it
was Natalia’s presence only which, in some degree, assuaged his
indignation, hastily made answer, “Give me a little while to think. I
imagine it will not be very hard to settle whether I am called upon to
form additional connections; or ordered irresistibly, by heart and head,
to free myself from such a multiplicity of bonds, which seem to threaten
me with a perpetual, miserable thraldom.”
Thus he spoke, with a deeply agitated mind. A glance at Natalia somewhat
calmed him: her form and dignity, in this impassioned moment, stamped
themselves more deeply on his mind than ever.
“Yes,” said he, so soon as he was by himself, “confess it, thou lovest
her: thou once more feelest what it means to love with thy whole soul.
Thus did I love Mariana, and deceive myself so dreadfully; I loved
Philina, and could not help despising her; Aurelia I respected, and
could not love; Theresa I reverenced, and paternal tenderness assumed
the form of an affection for her. And now, when all the feelings that
can make a mortal happy meet within my heart, now I am compelled to
flee! Ah! why should these feelings and convictions be combined with an
insuperable longing? Why, without the hope of its fulfilment, should
they utterly subvert all other happiness? Shall the sun and the world,
society or any other gift of fortune, ever henceforth yield me pleasure?
Wilt thou not forever say, Natalia is not here? And yet, alas! Natalia
will be always present to thee! If thou closest thy eyes, she will
appear to thee: if thou openest them, her form will flit before all
outward things, like the image which a dazzling object leaves behind it
in the eye. Did not the swiftly passing figure of the Amazon dwell
continually in thy imagination? And yet thou hadst but seen her, thou
didst not know her. Now when thou knowest her, when thou hast been so
long beside her, when she has shown such care about thee,--now are her
qualities impressed as deeply upon thy soul as her form was then upon
thy fancy. It is painful to be always seeking, but far more painful to
have found, and to be forced to leave. What now shall I ask for further
in the world? What now shall I look for further? Is there a country, a
city, that contains a treasure such as this? And I must travel on, and
ever find inferiority? Is life, then, like a race-course, where a man
must rapidly return when he has reached the utmost end? Does the good,
the excellent, stand before us like a firm, unmoving goal, from which,
with fleet horses, we are forced away the instant we appeared to have
attained it? Happier are they who strive for earthly wares! They find
what they are seeking in its proper climate, or they buy it in the fair.
“Come, my darling boy!” cried he to Felix, who now ran frisking towards
him: “be thou and remain thou all to me! Thou wert given me as a
compensation for thy loved mother; thou wert to replace the second
mother whom I meant for thee; and now thou hast a loss still greater to
make good. Occupy my heart, occupy my spirit, with thy beauty, thy
loveliness, thy capabilities, and thy desire to use them!”
The boy was busied with a new plaything: his father tried to put it in a
better state for him; just as he succeeded, Felix had lost all pleasure
in it. “Thou art a true son of Adam!” cried Wilhelm. “Come, my child!
Come, my brother! let us wander, playing without object, through the
world, as we best may.”
His resolution to remove, to take the boy along with him, and recreate
his mind by looking at the world, had now assumed a settled form. He
wrote to Werner for the necessary cash and letters of credit; sending
Friedrich’s courier on the message, with the strictest charges to return
immediately. Much as the conduct of his other friends had grieved him,
his relation to Natalia remained serene and clear as ever.
He confided to her his intention. She took it as a settled thing that he
would go; and, if this seeming carelessness in her chagrined him, her
kindly manner and her presence made him calm. She counselled him to
visit various towns, that he might get acquainted with certain of her
friends. The courier returned, and brought the letter which our friend
required; though Werner did not seem content with this new whim. “My
hope that thou wert growing reasonable,” so the letter ran, “is now
again deferred. Where are you all gadding? And where lingers the lady
who thou saidst was to assist us in arranging these affairs? Thy other
friends are also absent. They have thrown the whole concern upon the
shoulders of the lawyer and myself. Happy that he is as expert a jurist
as I am a financier, and that both of us are used to business. Fare thee
well! Thy aberrations shall be pardoned thee, since but for them our
situation here could not have been so favorable.”
So far as outward matters were concerned, Wilhelm might now have entered
on his journey; but there were still for his heart two hinderances that
held him fast. In the first place, they flatly refused to show him
Mignon’s body till the funeral the abbé meant to celebrate; and, for
this solemnity, the preparations were not ready. There had also been a
curious letter from the country clergyman, in consequence of which the
doctor had gone off. It related to the harper, of whose fate Wilhelm
wanted to have further information.
In these circumstances, day or night he found no rest for mind or body.
When all were asleep, he wandered up and down the house. The presence of
the pictures and statues, which he knew so well of old, alternately
attracted and repelled him. Nothing that surrounded him could he lay
hold of or let go; all things reminded him of all: the whole ring of his
existence lay before him; but it was broken into fragments, and seemed
as if it would never unite again. These works of art, which his father
had sold, appeared to him an omen that he himself was destined never to
obtain a lasting, calm possession of any thing desirable in life, or
always to be robbed of it so soon as gained, by his own or other
people’s blame. He waded so deep in these strange and dreary
meditations, that often he almost thought himself a disembodied spirit;
and, even when he felt and handled things without him, he could scarcely
keep himself from doubting whether he was really there and alive.
Nothing but the piercing grief which often seized him, but the tears he
shed at being forced, by causes frivolous as they were irresistible, to
leave the good which he had found, and found after having lost it,
restored him to the feeling of his earthly life. It was in vain to call
before his mind his happy state in other respects. “All is nothing,
then,” exclaimed he, “if the one blessing, which appears to us worth all
the rest, is wanting!”
The abbé told the company that the marchese was arrived. “You have
determined, it appears,” said he to Wilhelm, “to set out upon your
travels with your boy alone. Get acquainted with this nobleman, however:
he will be useful to you if you meet him by the way.” The marchese
entered. He was a person not yet very far advanced in years,--a fine,
handsome, pleasing, Lombard figure. In his youth, while in the army and
afterwards in public business, he had known Lothario’s uncle; they had
subsequently travelled through the greater part of Italy together: and
many of the works of art, which the marchese now again fell in with, had
been purchased in his presence, and under various happy circumstances,
which he still distinctly recollected.
The Italians have in general a deeper feeling for the high dignity of
art than any other nation. In Italy, whoever follows the employment
tries to pass at once for artist, master, and professor; by which
pretensions he acknowledges at least that it is not sufficient merely to
lay hold of some transmitted excellency, or to acquire by practice some
dexterity, but that a man who aims at art should have the power to think
of what he does, to lay down principles, and make apparent to himself
and others how and wherefore he proceeds in this way or in that.
The stranger was affected at again beholding these productions when the
owner of them was no more, and cheered to see the spirit of his friend
surviving in the gifted persons left behind him. They discussed a series
of works: they found a lively satisfaction in the harmony of their
ideas. The marchese and the abbé were the speakers; Natalia felt herself
again transported to the presence of her uncle, and could enter without
difficulty into their opinions and criticisms; Wilhelm could not
understand them, except as he translated their technology into dramatic
language. Friedrich’s facetious vein was sometimes rather difficult to
keep in check. Jarno was seldom there.
It being observed that excellent works of art were very rare in latter
times, it was remarked by the marchese, “We can hardly think or estimate
how many circumstances must combine in favor of the artist: with the
greatest genius, with the most decisive talent, the demands which he
must make upon himself are infinite, the diligence required in
cultivating his endowments is unspeakable. Now, if circumstances are not
in his favor, if he observe that the world is very easy to be satisfied,
requiring but a slight, pleasing, transitory show, it were matter of
surprise if indolence and selfishness did not keep him fixed at
mediocrity: it were strange if he did not rather think of bartering
modish wares for gold and praises than of entering on the proper path,
which could not fail in some degree to lead him to a sort of painful
martyrdom. Accordingly, the artists of our time are always offering and
never giving. They always aim at charming, and they never satisfy: every
thing is merely indicated; you can nowhere find foundation or
completion. Those for whom they labor, it is true, are little better. If
you wait a while in any gallery of pictures, and observe what works
attract the many, what are praised and what neglected, you have little
pleasure in the present, little hope in the future.”
“Yes,” replied the abbé: “and thus it is that artists and their judges
mutually form each other. The latter ask for nothing but a general,
vague enjoyment; a work of art is to delight them almost as a work of
nature; they imagine that the organs for enjoying works of art may be
cultivated altogether of themselves, like the tongue and the palate;
they try a picture or a poem as they do an article of food. They do not
understand how very different a species of culture it requires to raise
one to the true enjoyment of art. The hardest part of it, in my opinion,
is that sort of separation which a man that aims at perfect culture must
accomplish in himself. It is on this account that we observe so many
people partially cultivated, and yet every one of them attempting to
pronounce upon the general whole.”
“Your last remark is not quite clear to me,” said Jarno, who came in
just then.
“It would be difficult,” replied the abbé, “to explain it fully without
a long detail. Thus much I may say: When any man pretends to mix in
manifold activity or manifold enjoyment, he must also be enabled, as it
were, to make his organs manifold, and independent of each other.
Whoever aims at doing or enjoying all and every thing with his entire
nature, whoever tries to link together all that is without him by such a
species of enjoyment, will only lose his time in efforts that can never
be successful. How difficult, though it seems so easy, is it to
contemplate a noble disposition, a fine picture, simply in and for
itself; to watch the music for the music’s sake; to admire the actor in
the actor; to take pleasure in a building for its own peculiar harmony
and durability. Most men are wont to treat a work of art, though fixed
and done, as if it were a piece of soft clay. The hard and polished
marble is again to mould itself, the firm-walled edifice is to contract
or to expand itself, according as their inclinations, sentiments, and
whims may dictate: the picture is to be instructive, the play to make us
better,--every thing is to do all. The reason is, that most men are
themselves uninformed, they cannot give themselves and their being any
certain shape; and thus they strive to take from other things their
proper shape, that all they have to do with may be loose and wavering
like themselves. Every thing is, in the long-run, reduced by them to
what they call effect: every thing is relative, say they; and so,
indeed, it is: every thing with them grows relative, except absurdity
and platitude, which truly are absolute enough.”
“I understand you,” answered Jarno; “or, rather, I perceive how what you
have been saying follows from the principles you hold so fast by. Yet
with men, poor devils, we should not go to quest so strictly. I know
enow of them in truth, who, beside the greatest works of art and nature,
forthwith recollect their own most paltry insufficiency; who take their
conscience and their morals with them to the opera; who bethink them of
their loves and hatreds in contemplating a colonnade. The best and
greatest that can be presented to them from without, they must first, as
far as possible, diminish in their way of representing it, that they may
in any measure be enabled to combine it with their own sorry nature.”
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
The abbé called them in the evening to attend the exequies of Mignon.
The company proceeded to the Hall of the Past: they found it
magnificently ornamented and illuminated. The walls were hung with azure
tapestry almost from ceiling to floor, so that nothing but the friezes
and socles, above and below, were visible. On the four candelabras in
the corner large wax-lights were burning: smaller lights were in the
four smaller candelabras placed by the sarcophagus in the middle. Near
this stood four boys, dressed in azure with silver: they had broad fans
of ostrich-feathers, which they waved above a figure that was resting
upon the sarcophagus. The company sat down: two invisible choruses began
in a soft, musical recitative to ask, “Whom bring ye us to the still
dwelling?” The four boys replied with lovely voices, “’Tis a tired
playmate whom we bring you: let her rest in your still dwelling, till
the songs of her heavenly sisters once more awaken her.”
CHORUS.
“Firstling of youth in our circle, we welcome thee! With sadness
welcome thee! May no boy, no maiden, follow! Let age only,
willing and composed, approach the silent hall, and in the
solemn company, repose this one dear child!
BOYS.
Ah, reluctantly we brought her hither! Ah, and she is to remain
here! Let us, too, remain: let us weep, let us weep upon her
bier!
CHORUS.
Yet look at the strong wings; look at the light, clear robe. How
glitters the golden band upon her head! Look at the beautiful,
the noble, repose.
BOYS.
Ah! the wings do not raise her; in the frolic game, her robe
flutters to and fro no more; when we bound her head with roses,
her looks on us were kind and friendly.
CHORUS.
Cast forward the eye of the spirit. Awake in your souls the
imaginative power, which carries forth what is fairest, what is
highest, life, away beyond the stars.
BOYS.
But, ah! We find her not here; in the garden she wanders not;
the flowers of the meadow she plucks no longer. Let us weep, we
are leaving her here! Let us weep, and remain with her!
CHORUS.
Children, turn back into life! Your tears let the fresh air dry,
which plays upon the rushing water. Flee from Night! Day and
Pleasure and Continuance are the lot of the living.
BOYS.
Up! Turn back into life! Let the day give us labor and pleasure,
till the evening brings us rest, and the nightly sleep refreshes
us.
CHORUS.
Children! Hasten into life! In the pure garments of beauty, may
Love meet you with heavenly looks and with the wreath of
immortality!”
The boys had retired: the abbé rose from his seat, and went behind the
bier. “It is the appointment,” said he, “of the man who prepared this
silent abode, that each new tenant of it shall be introduced with a
solemnity. After him, the builder of this mansion, the founder of this
establishment, we have next brought a young stranger hither; and thus
already does this little space contain two altogether different victims
of the rigorous, arbitrary, and inexorable Death-goddess. By appointed
laws we enter into life: the days are numbered which make us ripe to see
the light, but for the duration of our life there is no law. The weakest
thread will spin itself to unexpected length; and the strongest is cut
suddenly asunder by the scissors of the Fates, delighting, as it seems,
in contradictions. Of the child whom we have here committed to her final
rest, we can say but little. It is still uncertain whence she came; her
parents we know not; the years of her life we can only conjecture. Her
deep and closely shrouded soul allowed us scarce to guess at its
interior movements: there was nothing clear in her, nothing open but her
affection for the man who had snatched her from the hands of a
barbarian. This impassioned tenderness, this vivid gratitude, appeared
to be the flame which consumed the oil of her life: the skill of the
physician could not save that fair life, the most anxious friendship
could not lengthen it. But, if art could not stay the departing spirit,
it has done its utmost to preserve the body, and withdraw it from decay.
A balsamic substance has been forced through all the veins, and now
tinges, in place of blood, these cheeks too early faded. Come near, my
friends, and view this wonder of art and care!”
He raised the veil: the child was lying in her angel’s dress, as if
asleep, in the most soft and graceful posture. They approached, and
admired this show of life. Wilhelm alone continued sitting in his place;
he was not able to compose himself: what he felt he durst not think, and
every thought seemed ready to destroy his feeling.
For the sake of the marchese, the speech had been pronounced in French.
That nobleman came forward with the rest, and viewed the figure with
attention. The abbé thus proceeded. “With a holy confidence, this kind
heart, shut up to men, was continually turned to its God. Humility, nay,
an inclination to abase herself externally, seemed natural to her. She
clave with zeal to the Catholic religion, in which she had been born and
educated. Often she expressed a still wish to sleep on consecrated
ground; and, according to the usage of the Church, we have, therefore,
consecrated this marble coffin, and the little earth which is hidden in
the cushion that supports her head. With what ardor did she, in her last
moments, kiss the image of the Crucified, which stood beautifully
figured on her tender arm, with many hundred points!” So saying, he
stripped up her right sleeve; and a crucifix, with marks and letters
round it, showed itself in blue upon the white skin.
The marchese looked at this with eagerness, stooping down to view it
more intensely. “O God!” cried he, as he stood upright, and raised his
hands to heaven. “Poor child! Unhappy niece! Do I meet thee here? What a
painful joy to find thee, whom we had long lost hope of; to find this
dear frame, which we had long believed the prey of fishes in the ocean,
here preserved, though lifeless! I assist at thy funeral, splendid in
its external circumstances, still more splendid from the noble persons
who attend thee to thy place of rest. And to these,” added he, with a
faltering voice, “so soon as I can speak, I will express my thanks.”
Tears hindered him from saying more. By the pressure of a spring, the
abbé sank the body into the cavity of the marble. Four youths, dressed
as the boys had been, came out from behind the tapestry, and lifting the
heavy, beautifully ornamented lid upon the coffin, thus began their
song.
THE YOUTHS.
“Well is the treasure now laid up,--the fair image of the Past!
Here sleeps it in the marble, undecaying: in your hearts, too,
it lives, it works. Travel, travel back into life! Take along
with you this holy earnestness, for earnestness alone makes life
eternity.”
The invisible chorus joined in with the last words, but no one heard the
strengthening sentiment: all were too much busied with themselves, and
the emotions which these wonderful disclosures had excited. The abbé and
Natalia conducted the marchese out: Theresa and Lothario walked by
Wilhelm. It was not till the music had altogether died away, that their
sorrows, thoughts, meditations, curiosity, again fell on them with all
their force, and made them long to be transported back into that
exalting scene.
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
The marchese avoided speaking of the matter, but had long, secret
conversations with the abbé. When the company was met, he often asked
for music,--a request to which they willingly assented, as each was glad
to be delivered from the charge of talking. Thus they lived for some
time, till it was observed that he was making preparations for
departure. One day he said to Wilhelm, “I wish not to disturb the
remains of this beloved child; let her rest in the place where she loved
and suffered: but her friends must promise to visit me in her native
country, in the scene where she was born and bred; they must see the
pillars and statues, of which a dim idea remained with her. I will lead
you to the bays where she liked so well to roam, and gather pebbles.
You, at least, young friend, shall not escape the gratitude of a family
that stands so deeply indebted to you. To-morrow I set out on my
journey. The abbé is acquainted with the whole history of this matter:
he will tell it you again. He could pardon me when grief interrupted my
recital: as a third party, he will be enabled to narrate the incidents
with more connection. If, as the abbé had proposed, you like to follow
me in travelling over Germany, you shall be heartily welcome. Leave not
your boy behind: at every little inconvenience which he causes us, we
will again remember your attentive care of my poor niece.”
The same evening our party was surprised by the arrival of the countess.
Wilhelm trembled in every joint as she entered: she herself, though
forewarned, kept close by her sister, who speedily reached her a chair.
How singularly simple was her attire, how altered was her form! Wilhelm
scarcely dared to look at her: she saluted him with a kindly air; a few
general words addressed to him did not conceal her sentiments and
feelings. The marchese had retired betimes; and, as the company were not
disposed to part so early, the abbé now produced a manuscript. “The
singular narrative which was intrusted to me,” said he, “I forthwith put
on paper. The case where pen and ink should least of all be spared, is
in recording the particular circumstances of remarkable events.” They
informed the countess of the matter; and the abbé read as follows, in
the name of the marchese:--
“Many men as I have seen, I still regard my father as a very
extraordinary person. His character was noble and upright; his ideas
were enlarged, I may even say great; to himself he was severe: in all
his plans there was a rigid order, in all operations an unbroken
perseverance. In one sense, therefore, it was easy to transact and live
with him: yet, owing to the very qualities which made it so, he never
could accommodate himself to life; for he required from the state, from
his neighbors, from his children, and his servants, the observance of
all the laws which he had laid upon himself. His most moderate demands
became exorbitant by his rigor; and he never could attain to enjoyment,
for nothing ever was completed as he had forecast it. At the moment when
he was erecting a palace, laying out a garden, or acquiring a large
estate in the highest cultivation, I have seen him inwardly convinced,
with the sternest ire, that Fate had doomed him to do nothing but
abstain and suffer. In his exterior he maintained the greatest dignity:
if he jested, it was but displaying the preponderancy of his
understanding. Censure was intolerable to him: the only time I ever saw
him quite transported with rage was once when he heard that one of his
establishments was spoken of as something ludicrous. In the same spirit
he had settled the disposal of his children and his fortune. My eldest
brother was educated as a person that had large estates to look for. I
was to embrace the clerical profession: the youngest was to be a
soldier. I was of a lively temper, fiery, active, quick, apt for
corporeal exercises: the youngest rather seemed inclined to an
enthusiastic quietism,--devoted to the sciences, to music, and poetry.
It was not till after the hardest struggle, the maturest conviction of
the impossibility of his project, that our father, still reluctantly,
agreed to let us change vocations; and, although he saw us both
contented, he could never suit himself to this arrangement, but declared
that nothing good would come of it. The older he grew, the more isolated
did he feel from all society. At last he came to live almost entirely
alone. One old friend, who had served in the German armies, who had lost
his wife in the campaign, and brought a daughter of about ten years of
age along with him, remained his only visitor. This person bought a fine
little property beside us: he used to come and see my father on stated
days of the week, and at stated hours; his little daughter often came
along with him. He was never heard to contradict my father, who at
length grew perfectly habituated to him, and endured him as the only
tolerable company he had. After our father’s death, we easily observed
that this old gentleman had not been visiting for naught,--that his
compliances had been rewarded by an ample settlement. He enlarged his
estates: his daughter might expect a handsome portion. The girl grew up,
and was extremely beautiful: my elder brother often joked with me about
her, saying I should go and court her.
“Meanwhile brother Augustin, in the seclusion of his cloister, had been
spending his years in the strangest state of mind. He abandoned himself
wholly to the feeling of a holy enthusiasm, to those half-spiritual,
half-physical emotions which, as they for a time exalted him to the
third heaven, erelong sank him down to an abyss of powerlessness and
vacant misery. While my father lived, no change could be contemplated:
what, indeed, could we have asked for or proposed? After the old man’s
death, our brother visited us frequently: his situation, which at first
afflicted us, in time became much more tolerable; for his reason had at
length prevailed. But, the more confidently reason promised him complete
recovery and contentment on the pure path of nature, the more vehemently
did he require of us to free him from his vows. His thoughts, he let us
know, were turned upon Sperata, our fair neighbor.
“My elder brother had experienced too much suffering from the harshness
of our father to look on the condition of the youngest without sympathy.
He spoke with the family confessor, a worthy old man: we signified to
him the double purpose of our brother, and requested him to introduce
and expedite the business. Contrary to custom he delayed; and at last,
when Augustin pressed us, and we recommended the affair more keenly to
the clergyman, he had nothing left but to impart the strange secret to
us.
“Sperata was our sister, and that by both her parents. Our mother had
declared herself with child at a time when both she and our father were
advanced in years: a similar occurrence had shortly before been made the
subject of some merriment in our neighborhood; and our father, to avoid
such ridicule, determined to conceal this late lawful fruit of love as
carefully as people use to conceal its earlier accidental fruits. Our
mother was delivered secretly: the child was carried to the country; and
the old friend of the family, who, with the confessor, had alone been
trusted with the secret, easily engaged to give her out for his
daughter. The confessor had reserved the right of disclosing the secret
in case of extremity. The supposed father was now dead: Sperata was
living with an old lady; we were aware that a love of song and music had
already led our brother to her; and on his again requiring us to undo
his former bond, that he might engage himself by a new one, it was
necessary that we should, as soon as possible, apprise him of the danger
he stood in.
“He viewed us with a wild, contemptuous look. ‘Spare your idle tales,’
cried he, ‘for children and credulous fools: from me, from my heart,
they shall not tear Sperata; she is mine. Recall, I pray you, instantly,
your frightful spectre, which would but harass me in vain. Sperata is
not my sister: she is my wife!’ He described to us, in rapturous terms,
how this heavenly girl had drawn him out of his unnatural state of
separation from his fellow-creatures into true life; how their spirits
accorded like their voices; how he blessed his sufferings and errors,
since they had kept clear of him women, till the moment when he wholly
and forever gave himself to this most amiable being. We were shocked at
the discovery, we deplored his situation, but we knew not how to help
ourselves; for he declared, with violence, that Sperata was with a child
by him. Our confessor did whatever duty could suggest to him, but by
this means he only made the evil worse. The demands of nature and
religion, moral rights and civil laws, were vehemently attacked and
spurned at by our brother. He considered nothing holy but his relation
to Sperata, nothing dignified but the names of father and wife. ‘These
alone,’ cried he, ‘are suitable to nature: all else is caprice and
opinion. Were there not noble nations which admitted marriage with a
sister? Name not your gods! You never name them but when you wish to
befool us, to lead us from the paths of nature, and, by scandalous
constraint, to transform the noblest inclinations into crimes.
Unspeakable are the perplexities, abominable the abuses, into which you
force the victims whom you bury alive.
“‘I may speak, for I have suffered like no other,--from the highest,
sweetest feeling of enthusiasm, to the frightful deserts of utter
powerlessness, vacancy, annihilation, and despair; from the loftiest
aspirations of preternatural existence, to the most entire
unbelief,--unbelief in myself. All these horrid grounds of the cup, so
flattering at the brim, I have drained; and my whole being was poisoned
to its core. And now, when kind Nature, by her greatest gift, by love,
has healed me; now, when in the arms of a heavenly creature I again feel
that I am, that she is, that out of this living union a third shall
arise and smile in our faces,--now ye open up the flames of your hell,
of your purgatory, which can only singe a sick imagination: ye oppose
them to the vivid, true, indestructible enjoyment of pure love. Meet us
under these cypresses, which turn their solemn tops to heaven; visit us
among those espaliers where the citrons and pomegranates bloom beside
us, where the graceful myrtle stretches out its tender flowers to
us,--and then venture to disturb us with your dreary, paltry nets which
men have spun!’
“Thus for a long time he persisted in a stubborn disbelief of our story;
and when we assured him of its truth, when the confessor himself
asseverated it, he did not let it drive him from his point. ‘Ask not the
echoes of your cloisters, not your mouldering parchments, not your
narrow whims and ordinances! Ask Nature and your heart: she will teach
you what you should recoil from; she will point out to you with the
strictest finger over what she has pronounced her everlasting curse.
Look at the lilies: do not husband and wife shoot forth on the same
stalk? Does not the flower which bore them hold them both? And is not
the lily the type of innocence? Is not their sisterly union fruitful?
When Nature abhors, she speaks it aloud; the creature that shall not be,
is not produced; the creature that lives with a false life, is soon
destroyed. Unfruitfulness, painful existence, early destruction, these
are her curses, the marks of her displeasure. It is only by immediate
consequences that she punishes. Look around you; and what is prohibited,
what is accursed, will force itself upon your notice. In the silence of
the convent, in the tumult of the world, a thousand practices are
consecrated and revered, while her curse rests on them. On stagnant
idleness as on overstrained toil, on caprice and superfluity as on
constraint and want, she looks down with mournful eyes; her call is to
moderation; true are all her commandments, peaceful all her influences.
The man who has suffered as I have done, has a right to be free. Sperata
is mine: death alone shall take her from me. How I shall retain her, how
I may be happy, these are your cares. This instant I go to her, and part
from her no more.’
“He was for proceeding to the boat, and crossing over to her: we
restrained him, entreating that he would not take a step which might
produce the most tremendous consequences. He should recollect, we told
him, that he was not living in the free world of his own thoughts and
ideas, but in a constitution of affairs, the ordinances and conditions
of which had become as inflexible as laws of nature. The confessor made
us promise not to let him leave our sight, still less our house: after
this he went away, engaging to return erelong. What we had foreseen took
place: reason had made our brother strong, but his heart was weak; the
earlier impressions of religion rose on him, and dreadful doubts along
with them. He passed two fearful nights and days: the confessor came
again to his assistance, but in vain. His enfranchised understanding
acquitted him: his feelings, religion, all his usual ideas, declared him
guilty.
“One morning we found his chamber empty: on the table lay a note, in
which he signified, that, as we kept him prisoner by force, he felt
himself entitled to provide for his freedom; that he meant to go
directly to Sperata; he expected to escape with her, and was prepared
for the most terrible extremities should any separation be attempted.
“The news, of course, affrighted us exceedingly; but the confessor bade
us be at rest. Our poor brother had been narrowly enough observed: the
boatman, in place of taking him across, proceeded with him to his
cloister. Fatigued with watching for the space of four and twenty hours,
he fell asleep, as the skiff began to rock him in the moonshine; and he
did not awake till he saw himself in the hands of his spiritual
brethren: he did not recover from his amazement till he heard the doors
of the convent bolting behind him.
“Sharply touched at the fate of our brother, we reproached the confessor
for his cruelty; but he soon silenced or convinced us by the surgeon’s
reason, that our pity was destructive to the patient. He let us know
that he was not acting on his own authority, but by order of the bishop
and his chapter; that by this proceeding they intended to avoid all
public scandal, and to shroud the sad occurrence under the veil of a
secret course of discipline prescribed by the Church. Our sister they
would spare: she was not to be told that her lover was her brother. The
charge of her was given to a priest, to whom she had before disclosed
her situation. They contrived to hide her pregnancy and her delivery. As
a mother she felt altogether happy in her little one. Like most of our
women, she could neither write, nor read writing: she gave the priest
many verbal messages to carry to her lover. The latter, thinking that he
owed this pious fraud to a suckling mother, often brought pretended
tidings from our brother, whom he never saw; recommending her, in his
name, to be at peace; begging of her to be careful of herself and of her
child, and for the rest to trust in God.
“Sperata was inclined by nature to religious feelings. Her situation,
her solitude, increased this tendency: the clergyman encouraged it, in
order to prepare her by degrees for an eternal separation. Scarcely was
her child weaned, scarcely did he think her body strong enough for
suffering agony of mind, when he began to paint her fault to her in most
terrific colors, to treat the crime of being connected with a priest as
a sort of sin against nature, as a sort of incest. For he had taken up
the strange thought of making her repentance equal in intensity to what
it would have been had she known the true circumstances of her error. He
thereby produced so much anxiety and sorrow in her mind; he so exalted
the idea of the Church and of its head before her; showed her the awful
consequences, for the weal of all men’s souls, should indulgence in a
case like this be granted, and the guilty pair rewarded by a lawful
union; signifying, too, how wholesome it was to expiate such sins in
time, and thereby gain the crown of immortality,--that at last, like a
poor criminal, she willingly held out her neck to the axe, and earnestly
entreated that she might forever be divided from our brother. Having
gained so much, the clergy left her the liberty (reserving to themselves
a certain distant oversight) to live at one time in a convent, at
another in her house, according as she afterwards thought good.
“Her little girl, meanwhile, was growing: from her earliest years she
had displayed an extraordinary disposition. When still very young, she
could run and move with wonderful dexterity: she sang beautifully, and
learned to play upon the cithern almost of herself. With words, however,
she could not express herself; and the impediment seemed rather to
proceed from her mode of thought than from her organs of speech. The
feelings of the poor mother to her, in the mean time, were of the most
painful kind: the expostulations of the priest had so perplexed her
mind, that, though she was not quite deranged, her state was far from
being sane. She daily thought her crime more terrible and punishable:
the clergyman’s comparison of incest, frequently repeated, had impressed
itself so deeply, that her horror was not less than if the actual
circumstances had been known to her. The priest took no small credit for
his ingenuity, with which he had contrived to tear asunder a luckless
creature’s heart. It was miserable to behold maternal love, ready to
expand itself in joy at the existence of her child, contending with the
frightful feeling that this child should not exist. The two emotions
warred with each other in her soul: love was often weaker than aversion.
“The child had long ago been taken from her, and committed to a worthy
family residing on the seashore. In the greater freedom which the little
creature enjoyed here, she soon displayed her singular delight in
climbing. To mount the highest peaks, to run along the edges of the
ships, to imitate in all their strangest feats the rope-dancers whom she
often saw in the place, seemed a natural tendency in her.
“To practise these things with the greater ease, she liked to change
clothes with boys; and, though her foster-parents thought this highly
blamable and unbecoming, we bade them indulge her as much as possible.
Her wild walks and leapings often led her to a distance: she would lose
her way, and be long from home, but she always came back. In general, as
she returned, she used to set herself beneath the columns in the portal
of a country house in the neighborhood: her people now had ceased to
look for her; they waited for her. She would there lie resting on the
steps, then run up and down the large hall, looking at the statues;
after which, if nothing specially detained her, she used to hasten home.
“But at last our confidence was balked, and our indulgence punished. The
child went out, and did not come again: her little hat was found
swimming on the water near the spot where a torrent rushes down into the
sea. It was conjectured, that, in clambering among the rocks, her foot
had slipped: all our searching could not find the body.
“The thoughtless tattle of her housemates soon communicated the
occurrence to Sperata: she seemed calm and cheerful when she heard it;
hinting not obscurely at her satisfaction that God had pleased to take
her poor child to himself, and thus preserved it from suffering, or
causing some more dreadful misery.
“On this occasion all the fables which are told about our waters came to
be the common talk. The sea, it was said, required every year an
innocent child: yet it would endure no corpse, but sooner or later throw
it to the shore; nay, the last joint, though sunk to the lowest bottom,
must again come forth. They told the story of a mother, inconsolable
because her child had perished in the sea, who prayed to God and his
saints to grant her at least the bones for burial. The first storm threw
ashore the skull, the next the spine; and, after all was gathered, she
wrapped the bones in a cloth, and took them to the church: but, oh!
miraculous to tell! as she crossed the threshold of the temple, the
packet grew heavier and heavier; and at last, when she laid it on the
steps of the altar, the child began to cry, and issued living from the
cloth. One joint of the right-hand little finger was alone wanting:
this, too, the mother anxiously sought and found; and, in memory of the
event, it was preserved among the other relics of the church.
“On poor Sperata these recitals made a deep impression: her imagination
took a new flight, and favored the emotion of her heart. She supposed
that now the child had expiated, by its death, both its own sins and the
sins of its parents; that the curse and penalty which hitherto had
overhung them all was at length wholly removed; that nothing more was
necessary could she only find the child’s bones, that she might carry
them to Rome, where, upon the steps of the great altar in St. Peter’s,
her little girl, again covered with its fair, fresh skin, would stand up
alive before the people. With its own eyes it would once more look on
father and mother; and the pope, convinced that God and his saints
commanded it, would, amid the acclamations of the people, remit the
parents their sins, acquit them of their oaths, and join their hands in
wedlock.
“Her looks and her anxiety were henceforth constantly directed to the
sea and the beach. When at night, in the moonshine, the waves were
tossing to and fro, she thought every glittering sheet of foam was
bringing out her child; and some one about her had to run off, as if to
take it up when it should reach the shore.
“By day she walked unweariedly along the places where the pebbly beach
shelved slowly to the water: she gathered in a little basket all the
bones she could find. None durst tell her that they were the bones of
animals: the larger ones she buried, the little ones she took along with
her. In this employment she incessantly persisted. The clergyman, who,
by so unremittingly discharging what he thought his duty, had reduced
her to this condition, now stood up for her with all his might. By his
influence the people in the neighborhood were made to look upon her, not
as a distracted person, but as one entranced: they stood in reverent
attitudes as she walked by, and the children ran to kiss her hand.
“To the old woman, her attendant and faithful friend, the secret of
Sperata’s guilt was at length imparted by the priest, on her solemnly
engaging to watch over the unhappy creature, with untiring care, through
all her life. And she kept this engagement to the last, with admirable
conscientiousness and patience.
“Meanwhile we had always had an eye upon our brother. Neither the
physicians nor the clergy of his convent would allow us to be seen by
him; but, in order to convince us of his being well in some sort, we had
leave to look at him as often as we liked in the garden, the passages,
or even through a window in the roof of his apartment.
“After many terrible and singular changes, which I shall omit, he had
passed into a strange state of mental rest and bodily unrest. He never
sat but when he took his harp and played upon it, and then he usually
accompanied it with singing. At other times he kept continually in
motion; and in all things he was grown extremely guidable and pliant,
for all his passions seemed to have resolved themselves into the single
fear of death. You could persuade him to do any thing by threatening him
with dangerous sickness or with death.
“Besides this singularity of walking constantly about the cloister, a
practice which he hinted it were better to exchange for wandering over
hill and dale, he talked about an apparition which perpetually tormented
him. He declared, that, on awakening at whatever hour of the night, he
saw a beautiful boy standing at the foot of his bed, with a bare knife,
and threatening to destroy him. They shifted him to various other
chambers of the convent, but he still asserted that the boy pursued him.
His wandering to and fro became more unrestful: the people afterwards
remembered, too, that at this time they had often seen him stand at the
window, and look out upon the sea.
“Our poor sister, on the other hand, seemed gradually wasting under the
consuming influence of her single thought, of her narrow occupation. It
was at last proposed by the physician, that, among the bones she had
gathered, the fragments of a child’s skeleton should by degrees be
introduced, and so the hapless mother’s hopes kept up. The experiment
was dubious; but this at least seemed likely to be gained by it, that,
when all the parts were got together, she would cease her weary search,
and might be entertained with hopes of going to Rome.
“It was accordingly resolved on. Her attendant changed, by imperceptible
degrees, the small remains committed to her with the bones Sperata
found. An inconceivable delight arose in the poor, sick woman’s heart,
when the parts began to fit each other, and the shape of those still
wanting could be marked. She had fastened every fragment in its proper
place with threads and ribbons; filling up the vacant spaces with
embroidery and silk, as is usually done with the relics of saints.
“In this way nearly all the bones had been collected: none but a few of
the extremities were wanting. One morning, while she was asleep, the
physician having come to ask for her, the old attendant, with a view to
show him how his patient occupied herself, took away these dear remains
from the little chest where they lay in poor Sperata’s bedroom. A few
minutes afterwards they heard her spring upon the floor: she lifted up
the cloth, and found the chest empty. She threw herself upon her knees:
they came, and listened to her joyful, ardent prayer. ‘Yes,’ exclaimed
she, ‘it is true! it was no dream, it is real! Rejoice with me, my
friends! I have seen my own beautiful, good little girl again alive. She
arose, and threw the veil from off her; her splendor enlightened all the
room; her beauty was transfigured to celestial loveliness; she could not
tread the ground, although she wished it. Lightly was she borne aloft:
she had not even time to stretch her hand to me. “_There!_” cried she to
me, and pointed to the road where I am soon to go. Yes, I will follow
her,--soon follow her: my heart is light to think of it. My sorrows are
already vanished: the sight of my risen little one has given me a
foretaste of the heavenly joys.’
“From that time her soul was wholly occupied with prospects of the
brightest kind; she gave no further heed to any earthly object; she took
but little food; her spirit by degrees cast off the fetters of the body.
At last this imperceptible gradation reached its head unexpectedly: her
attendants found her pale and motionless; she opened not her eyes; she
was what we call dead.
“The report of her vision quickly spread abroad among the people; and
the reverential feeling, which she had excited in her lifetime, soon
changed, at her death, to the thought that she should be regarded as in
bliss,--nay, as in sanctity.
“When we were bearing her to be interred, a crowd of persons pressed
with boundless violence about the bier: they would touch her hand, they
would touch her garment. In this impassioned elevation, various sick
persons ceased to feel the pains by which at other times they were
tormented: they looked upon themselves as healed; they declared it; they
praised God and his new saint. The clergy were obliged to lay the body
in a neighboring chapel: the people called for opportunity to offer
their devotion. The concourse was incredible: the mountaineers, at all
times prone to lively and religious feelings, crowded forward from their
valleys; the reverence, the wonder, the adoration, daily spread, and
gathered strength. The ordinances of the bishop, which were meant to
limit, and in time abolish, this new worship, could not be put in
execution: every show of opposition raised the people into tumults;
every unbeliever they were ready to assail with personal violence. ‘Did
not Saint Borromæus,’ cried they, ‘dwell among our forefathers? Did not
his mother live to taste the joy of his canonization? Was not that great
figure on the rocks at Arona meant to represent to us, by a sensible
symbol, his spiritual greatness? Do not the descendants of his kindred
live among us to this hour? And has not God promised ever to renew his
miracles among a people that believe?’
“As the body, after several days, exhibited no marks of putrefaction,
but grew whiter, and, as it were, translucent, the general faith rose
higher and higher. Among the multitude were several cures which even the
sceptical observer was unable to account for, or ascribe entirely to
fraud. The whole country was in motion: those who did not go to see it,
heard at least no other topic talked of.
“The convent where my brother lived resounded, like the land at large,
with the noise of these wonders; and the people felt the less restraint
in speaking of them in his presence, as in general he seemed to pay no
heed to any thing, and his connection with the circumstance was known to
none of them. But on this occasion it appeared he had listened with
attention. He conducted his escape with such dexterity and cunning, that
the manner of it still remains a mystery. We learned afterwards, that he
had crossed the water with a number of travellers, and charged the
boatmen, who observed no other singularity about him, above all to have
a care lest their vessel overset. Late in the night he reached the
chapel, where his hapless loved one was resting from her woes. Only a
few devotees were kneeling in the corners of the place: her old friend
was sitting at the head of the corpse; he walked up to her, saluted her,
and asked how her mistress was. ‘You see it,’ answered she, with some
embarrassment. He looked at the corpse with a sidelong glance. After
some delay he took its hand. Frightened by its coldness, he in the
instant let it go: he looked unrestfully around him; then, turning to
the old attendant, ‘I cannot stay with her at present,’ said he: ‘I have
a long, long way to travel; but at the proper time I shall be back: tell
her so when she awakens.’
“With this he went away. It was a while before we got intelligence of
these occurrences: we searched, but all our efforts to discover him were
vain. How he worked his way across the mountains none can say. A long
time after he was gone we came upon a trace of him among the Grisons,
but we were too late: it quickly vanished. We supposed that he was gone
to Germany, but his weak footprints had been speedily obliterated by the
war.”
---------------------------------------
CHAPTER X.
The abbé ceased to read. No one had listened without tears. The countess
scarcely ever took her handkerchief from her eyes: at last she rose,
and, with Natalia, left the room. The rest were silent, till the abbé
thus began: “The question now arises, whether we shall let the good
marchese leave us without telling him our secret. For who can doubt a
moment that our harper and his brother Augustin are one? Let us consider
what is to be done, both for the sake of that unhappy man himself and of
his family. My advice is, not to hurry, but to wait till we have heard
what news the doctor, who has gone to see him, brings us back.”
All were of the same opinion; and the abbé thus proceeded: “Another
question, which perhaps may be disposed of sooner, still remains. The
marchese is affected to the bottom of his heart at the kindness which
his poor niece experienced here, particularly from our young friend. He
made me tell him again and again every circumstance connected with her,
and he shows the liveliest gratitude. ‘Her young benefactor,’ he said,
‘refused to travel with me, while he knew not the connection that
subsists between us. I am not now a stranger, of whose manner of
existence, of whose humors, he might be uncertain: I am his associate,
his relation; and, as his unwillingness to leave his boy behind was the
impediment which kept him from accompanying me, let this child now
become a fairer bond to join us still more closely. Beyond the
obligations he has already placed me under, let him be of service to me
on my present journey; let him, then, return along with me; my elder
brother will receive him as he ought. And let him not despise the
heritage of his unhappy foster-child; for, by a secret stipulation of
our father with his military friend, the fortune which he gave Sperata
has returned to us: and certainly we will not cheat our niece’s
benefactor of the recompense he has merited so well.’”
Theresa, taking Wilhelm by the hand, now said to him, “We have here
another beautiful example that disinterested well-doing yields the
highest and best return. Follow the call which so strangely comes to
you, and, while you lay a double load of gratitude on the marchese,
hasten to a fair land, which has already often drawn your heart and your
imagination towards it.”
“I leave myself entirely to the guidance of my friends and you,” said
Wilhelm: “it is vain to think, in this world, of adhering to our
individual will. What I purposed to hold fast, I must let go; and
benefits which I have not deserved descend upon me of their own accord.”
Pressing Theresa’s hand, Wilhelm took his own away. “I give you full
permission,” said he to the abbé, “to decide about me as you please.
Since I shall not need to leave my Felix, I am ready to go anywhither,
and to undertake whatever you think good.”
Thus authorized, the abbé forthwith sketched out his plan. The marchese,
he proposed, should be allowed to depart: Wilhelm was to wait for
tidings from the doctor; he might then, when they had settled what was
to be done, set off with Felix. Accordingly, under the pretence that
Wilhelm’s preparations for his journey would detain him, he advised the
stranger to employ the mean while in examining the curiosities of the
city, which he meant to visit. The marchese did in consequence depart,
and not without renewed and strong expressions of his gratitude; of
which indeed the presents left by him, including jewels, precious
stones, embroidered stuffs, afforded a sufficient proof.
Wilhelm, too, was at length in readiness for travelling; and his friends
began to be distressed that the doctor sent them no news. They feared
some mischief had befallen the poor old harper, at the very moment when
they were in hopes of radically improving his condition. They sent the
courier off; but he was scarcely gone, when the doctor in the evening
entered with a stranger, whose form and aspect were expressive, earnest,
striking, and whom no one knew. Both stood silent for a space: the
stranger at length went up to Wilhelm, and, holding out his hand, said,
“Do you no longer know your old friend?” It was the harper’s voice, but
of his form there seemed to remain no vestige. He was in the common garb
of a traveller, cleanly and genteelly equipped; his beard had vanished;
his hair was dressed with some attention to the mode; and what
particularly made him quite irrecognizable was, that in his countenance
the look of age was no longer visible. Wilhelm embraced him with the
liveliest joy: he was presented to the rest, and behaved with great
propriety, not knowing that the party had a little while before become
so well acquainted with him. “You will have patience with a man,”
continued he, with great composure, “who, grown up as he appears, is
entering on the world, after long sorrows, inexperienced as a child. To
this skilful gentleman I stand indebted for the privilege of again
appearing in the company of my fellow-men.”
They bade him welcome: the doctor motioned for a walk, to interrupt the
conversation, and lead it to indifferent topics.
In private the doctor gave the following explanation: “It was by the
strangest chance that we succeeded in the cure of this man. We had long
treated him, morally and physically, as our best consideration dictated:
in some degree the plan was efficacious; but the fear of death continued
powerful in him, and he would not lay aside his beard and cloak. For the
rest, however, he appeared to take more interest in external things than
formerly; and both his songs and his conceptions seemed to be
approaching nearer life. A strange letter from the clergyman, as you
already know, called me from you. I arrived: I found our patient
altogether changed; he had voluntarily given up his beard; he had let
his locks be cut into a customary form; he asked for common clothes; he
seemed to have all at once become another man. Though curious to
penetrate the reason of this sudden alteration, we did not risk
inquiring of himself: at last we accidentally discovered it. A glass of
laudanum was missing from the parson’s private laboratory: we thought it
right to institute a strict inquiry; every one endeavored to ward off
suspicion, and the sharpest quarrels rose among the inmates of the
house. At last this man appeared before us, and admitted that he had the
laudanum: we asked if he had swallowed any of it. ‘No,’ said he, ‘but it
is to this that I owe the recovery of my reason. It is at your choice to
take the vial from me, and to drive me back, inevitably, to my former
state. The feeling, that it was desirable to see the pains of life
terminated by death, first put me on the way of cure: before long the
thought of terminating them by voluntary death arose in me, and with
this intention I took the glass of poison. The possibility of casting
off my load of griefs forever gave me strength to bear them; and thus
have I, ever since this talisman came into my possession, forced myself
back into life by a contiguity with death. Be not anxious lest I use the
drug, but resolve, as men acquainted with the human heart, by granting
me an independence of life, to make me properly and wholesomely
dependent on it.’ After mature consideration, we determined not to
meddle further with him; and he now carries with him, in a firm little
ground-glass vial, this poison, of which he has so strangely made an
antidote.”
The doctor was informed of all that had become known in the mean time:
towards Augustin it was determined that they should observe the deepest
silence in regard to it. The abbé undertook to keep beside him, and to
lead him forward on the healthful path he had entered.
Meanwhile Wilhelm was to set about his journey over Germany with the
marchese. If it should appear that Augustin could be again excited to
affection for his native country, the circumstances were to be
communicated to his friends, and Wilhelm might conduct him thither.
Wilhelm had at last made every preparation for his journey. At first the
abbé thought it strange that Augustin rejoiced in hearing of his friend
and benefactor’s purpose to depart, but he soon discovered the
foundation of this curious movement. Augustin could not subdue his fear
of Felix; and he longed, as soon as possible, to see the boy removed.
By degrees so many people had assembled, that the castle and adjoining
buildings could scarcely accommodate them all, and the less, as such a
multitude of guests had not originally been anticipated. They
breakfasted, they dined, together: each endeavored to persuade himself
that they were living in a comfortable harmony; but each, in secret,
longed in some degree to be away. Theresa frequently rode out, attended
by Lothario, and oftener alone: she had already got acquainted with all
the landladies and landlords in the district; for she held it as a
principle of her economy, in which, perhaps, she was not far mistaken,
that it is essential to be in good acceptance with one’s neighbors, male
and female, and to maintain with them a constant interchange of
civilities. Of an intended marriage with Lothario, she appeared to have
no thought. Natalia and the countess often talked with one another; the
abbé seemed to covet the society of Augustin; Jarno had frequent
conversations with the doctor; Friedrich held by Wilhelm; Felix ran
about wherever he could meet with most amusement. It was thus, too, that
in general they paired themselves in walking when the company broke up:
when it was obliged to be together, recourse was quickly had to music,
to unite them all by giving each back to himself.
Unexpectedly the count increased the party; intending to remove his
lady, and, as it appeared, to take a solemn farewell of his worldly
friends. Jarno hastened to the coach to meet him: the count inquired
what guests they had; to which the other answered, in a fit of wild
humor that would often seize him, “We have all the nobility in
nature,--marcheses, marquises, milords, and barons: we wanted nothing
but a count.” They came up-stairs: Wilhelm was the first who met them in
the ante-chamber. “Milord,” said the count to him in French, after
looking at him for a moment, “I rejoice very much in the unexpected
pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with your lordship: I am very much
mistaken if I did not see you at my castle in the prince’s suite.” “I
had the happiness of waiting on your Excellence at that time,” answered
Wilhelm; “but you do me too much honor when you take me for an
Englishman, and that of the first quality. I am a German, and”--“And a
fine young fellow,” interrupted Jarno. The count looked at Wilhelm with
a smile, and was about to make some reply, when the rest of the party
entered, and saluted him with many a friendly welcome. They excused
themselves for being unable at the moment to show him to a proper
chamber, promising without delay to make the necessary room for him.
“Ay, ay!” said he, smiling: “we have left Chance, I see, to act as our
purveyor. Yet with prudence and arrangement, how much is possible! For
the present I entreat you not to stir a slipper from its place: the
disorder, I perceive, would otherwise be great. Every one would be
uncomfortably lodged; and this no one shall be on my account, if
possible, not even for an hour. You can testify,” said he to Jarno, “and
you, too, Meister,” turning to Wilhelm, “how many people I commodiously
stowed that time in my castle. Let me have the list of persons and
servants; let me see how they are lodged at present: I will make a plan
of dislocation, such that, with the very smallest inconvenience, every
one shall find a suitable apartment; and there shall be room enough to
hold another guest if one should accidentally arrive.”
Jarno at once offered the count his assistance, procured him all the
necessary information; taking great delight, as usual, if he could now
and then contrive to lead him astray, and leave him in awkward
difficulties. The old gentleman at last, however, gained a signal
triumph. The arrangement was completed: he caused the names to be
written on their several doors, himself attending; and it could not be
denied, that, by a very few changes and substitutions, the object had
been fully gained. Jarno, among other things, had also managed, that the
persons who at present took an interest in each other should be lodged
together.
“Will you help me,” said the count to Jarno, after every thing was
settled, “to clear up my recollections of the young man there, whom you
call Meister, and who you tell me is a German?” Jarno was silent; for he
knew very well that the count was one of those people who, in asking
questions, merely wish to show their knowledge. The count, accordingly,
continued, without waiting for an answer, “You, I recollect, presented
him to me, and warmly recommended him in the prince’s name. If his
mother was a German woman, I’ll be bound for it his father is an
Englishman, and one of rank too: who can calculate the English blood
that has been flowing these last thirty years in German veins! I will
not insist on knowing more: I know you have always family secrets of
that kind, but in such cases it is in vain to think of cheating me.” He
then proceeded to detail a great variety of things as having taken place
with Wilhelm at the castle, to the whole of which Jarno, as before, made
no reply; though the count was altogether in the wrong, confounding
Wilhelm more than once with a young Englishman of the prince’s suite.
The truth was, the good old gentleman had in former years possessed a
very excellent memory, and was still proud of being able to remember the
minutest circumstances of his youth; but, in regard to late occurrences,
he used to settle in his mind as true, and utter with the greatest
certainty, whatever fables and fantastic combinations, in the growing
weakness of his powers, imagination might present to him. For the rest,
he was become extremely mild and courteous: his presence had a very
favorable influence upon the company. He would call on them to read some
useful book together; nay, he often gave them little games, which,
without participating in them, he directed with the greatest care. If
they wondered at his condescension, he would reply, that it became a man
who differed from the world in weighty matters to conform to it the more
anxiously in matters of indifference.
In these games our friend had, more than once, an angry and unquiet
feeling to endure. Friedrich, with his usual levity, took frequent
opportunity of giving hints that Wilhelm entertained a secret passion
for Natalia. How could he have found it out? What entitled him to say
so? And would not his friends think, that, as they two were often
together, Wilhelm must have made a disclosure to him,--so thoughtless
and unlucky a disclosure?
One day, while they were merrier than common at some such joke,
Augustin, dashing up the door, rushed in with a frightful look; his
countenance was pale, his eyes were wild; he seemed about to speak, but
his tongue refused its office. The party were astounded: Lothario and
Jarno, supposing that his madness had returned, sprang up and seized
him. With a choked and faltering voice, then loudly and violently, he
spoke, and cried, “Not me! Haste! Help! Save the child! Felix is
poisoned!”
They let him go; he hastened through the door: all followed him in
consternation. They called the doctor; Augustin made for the abbé’s
chamber; they found the child, who seemed amazed and frightened, when
they called to him from a distance, “What hast thou been doing?”
“Dear papa!” cried Felix, “I did not drink from the bottle, I drank from
the glass: I was very thirsty.”
Augustin struck his hands together: “He is lost!” cried he, then pressed
through the by-standers, and hastened away.
They found a glass of almond-milk upon the table, with a bottle near it
more than half empty. The doctor came, was told what they had seen and
heard: with horror he observed the well-known laudanum-vial lying empty
on the table. He called for vinegar: he summoned all his art to his
assistance.
Natalia had the little patient taken to a room: she busied herself with
painful care about him. The abbé had run out to seek Augustin, and draw
some explanation from him. The unhappy father had been out upon the same
endeavor, but in vain: he returned, to find anxiety and fear on every
face. The doctor, in the mean time, had been examining the almond-milk
in the glass; he found it to contain a powerful mixture of opium: the
child was lying on the sofa, seeming very sick; he begged his father
“not to let them pour more stuff into him, not to let them plague him
any more.” Lothario had sent his people, and had ridden off himself,
endeavoring to find some trace of Augustin. Natalia sat beside the
child; he took refuge in her lap, and entreated earnestly for her
protection, earnestly for a little piece of sugar: the vinegar, he said,
was biting sour. The doctor granted his request; the child was in a
frightful agitation; they were obliged to let him have a moment’s rest.
The doctor said that every means had been adopted: he would continue to
do his utmost. The count came near, with an air of displeasure; his look
was earnest, even solemn; he laid his hands upon the child, turned his
eyes to heaven, and remained some moments in that attitude. Wilhelm, who
was lying inconsolable on a seat, sprang up, and, casting a despairing
look at Natalia, left the room. Shortly afterwards the count, too, left
it.
“I cannot understand,” said the doctor, having paused a little, “how it
comes that there is not the smallest trace of danger visible about the
child. At a single gulp he must have swallowed an immense dose of opium;
yet I find no movement in his pulse but what may be ascribed to our
remedies, and to the terror we have put him into.”
In a few minutes Jarno entered, with intelligence that Augustin had been
discovered in the upper story, lying in his blood: a razor had been
found beside him; to all appearance he had cut his throat. The doctor
hastened out: he met the people carrying down the body. The unhappy man
was laid upon a bed, and accurately examined: the cut had gone across
the windpipe; a copious loss of blood had been succeeded by a swoon; yet
it was easy to observe that life, that hope, was still there. The doctor
put the body in a proper posture, joined the edges of the wound, and
bandaged it. The night passed sleepless and full of care to all. Felix
would not quit Natalia; Wilhelm sat before her on a stool; he had the
boy’s feet upon his lap; the head and breast were lying upon hers. Thus
did they divide the pleasing burden and the painful anxiety, and
continue, till the day broke, in their uncomfortable, sad position.
Natalia had given her hand to Wilhelm; they did not speak a word; they
looked at the child, and then at one another. Lothario and Jarno were
sitting at the other end of the room, and carrying on a most important
conversation,--which, did not the pressure of events forbid us, we would
gladly lay before our readers. The boy slept softly: he awoke quite
cheerful early in the morning, and demanded a piece of bread and butter.
So soon as Augustin had in some degree recovered, they endeavored to
obtain some explanation from him. They learned with difficulty, and by
slow degrees, that having, by the count’s unlucky shifting, been
appointed to the same chamber with the abbé, he had found the manuscript
in which his story was recorded. Struck with horror on perusing it, he
felt that it was now impossible for him to live, on which he had
recourse, as usual, to the laudanum: this he poured into a glass of
almond-milk, and raised it to his mouth; but he shuddered when it
reached his lips: he set it down untasted, went out to walk once more
across the garden, and behold the face of nature; and, on his return, he
found the child employed in filling up the glass out of which it had
been drinking.
They entreated the unhappy creature to be calm: he seized Wilhelm by the
hand with a spasmodic grasp, and cried, “Ah! why did I not leave thee
long ago? I knew well that I should kill the boy, and he me.”--“The boy
lives!” said Wilhelm. The doctor, who had listened with attention, now
inquired of Augustin if all the drink was poisoned. “No,” replied he,
“nothing but the glass.”--“By the luckiest chance, then,” cried the
doctor, “the boy has drunk from the bottle! A benignant genius has
guided his hand, that he did not catch at death, which stood so near and
ready for him.”--“No, no!” cried Wilhelm, with a groan, and clapping
both his hands upon his eyes. “How dreadful are the words! Felix said
expressly that he drank, not from the bottle, but the glass. His health
is but a show: he will die among our hands.” Wilhelm hastened out: the
doctor went below, and taking Felix up, with much caressing, asked,
“Now, did not you, my pretty boy? You drank from the bottle, not the
glass?” The child began to cry. The doctor secretly informed Natalia how
the matter stood: she also strove in vain to get the truth from Felix,
who but cried the more,--cried till he fell asleep.
Wilhelm watched by him: the night went peacefully away. Next morning
Augustin was found lying dead in bed: he had cheated his attendants by a
seeming rest, had silently loosened the bandages, and bled to death.
Natalia went to walk with Felix: he was sportful as in his happiest
days. “You are always good to me,” said Felix, “you never scold, you
never beat, me: I will tell you the truth, I did drink from the bottle.
Mamma Aurelia used to rap me over the fingers every time I touched the
bottle: father looked so sour, I thought he would beat me.”
With winged steps Natalia hastened to the castle: Wilhelm came, still
overwhelmed with care, to meet her. “Happy father!” cried she, lifting
up the child, and throwing it into his arms: “there is thy son again! He
drank from the bottle: his naughtiness has saved him.”
They told the count the happy issue; but he listened with a smiling,
silent, modest air of knowingness, like one tolerating the error of
worthy men. Jarno, attentive to all, could not explain this lofty
self-complacency, till, after many windings, he at last discovered it to
be his lordship’s firm belief, that the child had really taken poison,
and that he himself, by prayer and the laying on of hands, had
miraculously counteracted the effects of it. After such a feat, his
lordship now determined on departing. Every thing, as usual with him,
was made ready in a moment: the fair countess, when about to go, took
Wilhelm’s hand before parting with her sister’s; she then pressed both
their hands between her own, turned quickly round, and stepped into the
carriage.
So many terrible and strange events, crowding one upon the back of
another, inducing an unusual mode of life, and putting every thing into
disorder and perplexity, had brought a sort of feverish movement into
all departments of the house. The hours of sleep and waking, of eating,
drinking, and social conversation, were inverted. Except Theresa, none
of them had kept in their accustomed course. The men endeavored, by
increased potations, to recover their good-humor; and, thus
communicating to themselves an artificial vivacity, they drove away that
natural vivacity which alone imparts to us true cheerfulness, and
strength for action.
Wilhelm, in particular, was moved and agitated by the keenest feelings.
Those unexpected, frightful incidents had thrown him out of all
condition to resist a passion which had so forcibly seized his heart.
Felix was restored to him, yet still it seemed that he had nothing:
Werner’s letters, the directions for his journey, were in readiness;
there was nothing wanting but the resolution to remove. Every thing
conspired to hasten him. He could not but conjecture that Lothario and
Theresa were awaiting his departure, that they might be wedded. Jarno
was unusually silent: you would have said that he had lost a portion of
his customary cheerfulness. Happily the doctor helped our friend, in
some degree, from this embarrassment: he declared him sick, and set
about administering medicine to him.
The company assembled always in the evening: Friedrich, the wild madcap,
who usually drank more wine than was meet, took possession of the talk,
and by a thousand frolicsome citations, fantasies, and waggish
allusions, often kept the party laughing, often, also, threw them into
awkward difficulties, by the liberty he took to think aloud.
In the sickness of his friend he seemed to have little faith. Once, when
they were all together, “Pray, doctor,” cried he, “how is it you call
the malady our friend is laboring under? Will none of the three thousand
names with which you decorate your ignorance apply to it? The disease at
least is not without examples. There is one such case,” continued he,
with an emphatic tone, “in the Egyptian or Babylonian history.”
The company looked at one another, and smiled.
“What call you the king?”--cried he, and stopped short a moment. “Well,
if you will not help me, I must help myself.” He threw the door-leaves
up, and pointed to the large picture in the ante-chamber. “What call you
the goat-beard there, with the crown on, who is standing at the foot of
the bed, making such a rueful face about his sick son? How call you the
beauty who enters, and in her modest, roguish eyes, at once brings
poison and antidote? How call you the quack of a doctor, who at this
moment catches a glimpse of the reality, and, for the first time in his
life, takes occasion to prescribe a reasonable recipe, to give a drug
which cures to the very heart, and is at once salutiferous and savory?”
In this manner he continued babbling. The company took it with as good a
face as might be, hiding their embarrassment behind a forced laugh. A
slight blush overspread Natalia’s cheeks, and betrayed the movements of
her heart. By good fortune she was walking up and down with Jarno: on
coming to the door, with a cunning motion she slipped out, walked once
or twice across the ante-chamber, and retired to her room.
The company were silent: Friedrich began to dance and sing,--
“Wonders will ye see anon!
Whatsoever’s done is done,
Said’s whatever’s said: straightway,
E’er’t be day,
Wonders will be shown.”
--_Editor’s version._
Theresa had gone out to find Natalia: Friedrich pulled the doctor
forward to the picture, pronounced a ridiculous eulogium on medicine,
and glided from the room.
Lothario had been standing all the while in the recess of a window: he
was looking, without motion, down into the garden. Wilhelm was in the
most dreadful state. Left alone with his friend, he still kept silence
for a time; he ran with a hurried glance over all his history, and at
last, with shuddering, surveyed his present situation: he started up,
and cried, “If I am to blame for what is happening, for what you and I
are suffering, punish me. In addition to my other miseries, deprive me
of your friendship, and let me wander, without comfort, forth into the
wide world, in which I should have mingled, and withdrawn myself from
notice, long ago. But if you see in me the victim of a cruel
entanglement of chance, out of which I could not thread my way, then
give me the assurance of your love, of your friendship, on a journey
which I dare not now postpone. A time will come when I may tell you what
has passed of late within me. Perhaps this is but a punishment which I
am suffering, because I did not soon enough disclose myself to you,
because I hesitated to display myself entirely as I was: you would have
assisted me, you would have helped me out in proper season. Again and
again have my eyes been opened to my conduct; but it was ever too late,
it was ever in vain! How richly do I merit Jarno’s censure! I imagined I
had seized it: how firmly did I purpose to employ it, to commence
another life! Could I, might I, have done so? It avails not for mortals
to complain of fate or of themselves. We are wretched, and appointed for
wretchedness; and what does it matter whether blame of ours, higher
influence or chance, virtue or vice, wisdom or folly, plunge us into
ruin? Farewell! I will not stay another moment in a house where I have
so fearfully violated the rights of hospitality. Your brother’s
indiscretion is unpardonable: it aggravates my suffering to the highest
pitch, it drives me to despair.”
“And what,” replied Lothario, taking Wilhelm by the hand, “what if your
alliance with my sister were the secret article on which depended my
alliance with Theresa? This amends that noble maiden has appointed for
you: she has vowed that these two pairs should appear together at the
altar. ‘His reason has made choice of me,’ said she; ‘his heart demands
Natalia: my reason shall assist his heart.’ We agreed to keep our eyes
upon Natalia and yourself: we told the abbé of our plan, who made us
promise not to intermeddle with this union, or attempt to forward it,
but to suffer every thing to take its course. We have done so: Nature
has performed her part; our mad brother only shook the ripe fruit from
the branch. And now, since we have come together so unusually, let us
lead no common life: let us work together in a noble manner, and for
noble purposes! It is inconceivable how much a man of true culture can
accomplish for himself and others, if, without attempting to rule, he
can be the guardian over many; can induce them to do that in season
which they are at any rate disposed enough to do; can guide them to
their objects, which in general they see with due distinctness, though
they miss the road to them. Let us make a league for this: it is no
enthusiasm, but an idea which may be fully executed, which, indeed, is
often executed, only with imperfect consciousness, by people of
benevolence and worth. Natalia is a living instance of it. No other need
attempt to rival the plan of conduct which has been prescribed by Nature
for that pure and noble soul.”
He had more to say, but Friedrich with a shout came jumping in. “What a
garland have I earned!” cried he: “how will you reward me? Myrtle,
laurel, ivy, leaves of oak, the freshest you can find, come twist them:
I have merits far beyond them all. Natalia is thine! I am the conjurer
who raised this treasure for thee.”
“He raves,” said Wilhelm: “I must go.”
“Art thou empowered to speak?” inquired Lothario, holding Wilhelm from
retiring.
“By my own authority,” said Friedrich, “and the grace of God. It was
thus I was the wooer, thus I am the messenger: I listened at the door;
she told the abbé every thing.”
“Barefaced rogue! who bade thee listen?” said Lothario.
“Who bade her bolt the door?” cried Friedrich. “I heard it all: she was
in a wondrous pucker. In the night when Felix seemed so ill, and was
lying half upon her knees, and thou wert sitting comfortless before her,
sharing the beloved load, she made a vow, that, if the child died, she
would confess her love to thee, and offer thee her hand. And now, when
the child lives, why should she change her mind? What we promise under
such conditions, we keep under any. Nothing wanting but the parson! He
will come, and marvel what strange news he brings.”
The abbé entered. “We know it all,” cried Friedrich: “be as brief as
possible; it is mere formality you come for,--they never send for you or
me on any other score.”
“He has listened,” said the baron. “Scandalous!” exclaimed the abbé.
“Now, quick!” said Friedrich. “How stands it with the ceremonies? These
we can reckon on our fingers. You must travel: the marchese’s invitation
answers to a hair’s-breadth. If we had you once beyond the Alps, it will
all be right: the people are obliged to you for undertaking any thing
surprising; you procure them an amusement which they are not called to
pay for. It is as if you gave a free ball: all ranks partake in it.”
“In such popular festivities,” replied the abbé, “you have done the
public much service in your time; but to-day, it seems, you will not let
me speak at all.”
“If it is not just as I have told it,” answered Friedrich, “let us have
it better. Come round, come round: we must see them both together.”
Lothario embraced his friend, and led him to Natalia, who, with Theresa,
came to meet them. All were silent.
“No loitering!” cried Friedrich. “In two days you may be ready for your
travels. Now, think you, friend,” continued he, addressing Wilhelm,
“when we first scraped acquaintance, and I asked you for the pretty
nosegay, who could have supposed you were ever to receive a flower like
this from me?”
“Do not, at the moment of my highest happiness, remind me of those
times!”
“Of which you need not be ashamed, any more than one need be ashamed of
his descent. The times were very good times: only I cannot but laugh to
look at thee; to my mind thou resemblest Saul the son of Kish, who went
out to seek his father’s asses, and found a kingdom.”
“I know not the worth of a kingdom,” answered Wilhelm; “but I know I
have attained a happiness which I have not deserved, and which I would
not change with any thing in life.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MEISTER’S TRAVELS;
OR,
THE RENUNCIANTS.
A NOVEL.
To travel now the Apprentice does essay,
And every step is girt with doubt and danger:
In truth, he uses not to sing or pray;
But, is his path perplexed, this toilsome ranger
Does turn an earnest eye, when mist’s above him,
To his own heart, and to the hearts that love him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scarce could tell you rightly
Whether I’m the same or not,
If you task me very tightly:
Yes, this is my sense you’ve got,--
Sense that vexes, then assuages,
Now too light, and now too dark,
But in some few hundred pages
May again come to the mark.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Does Fortune try thee? She had cause to do’t:
She wished thee temperate; obey, be mute!
What, shap’st thou here at the world! ’tis shapen long ago;
The Maker shaped it, _he_ thought it best even so:
Thy lot is appointed, go follow its hest;
Thy way is begun, thou must walk, and not rest;
For sorrow and care cannot alter thy case;
And running, not raging, will win thee the race.
Enweri tells us, a most royal man,
The deepest heart and highest head to scan:
“In every place, at every time, thy surest chance
Lies in decision, justice, tolerance.”
My inheritance, how wide and fair!
Time is my estate: to time I’m heir.
Now it is day: be doing, every one;
For the night cometh, wherein work can none.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so I, in Tale adjoining,
Lift old treasures into day;
If not gold or perfect coining,
They are metals any way:
Thou canst sort them, thou canst sunder,
Thou canst melt and make them one;
Then take that with smiling wonder,
Stamp it like thyself, my son.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MEISTER’S TRAVELS.
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CHAPTER I.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.
Wilhelm was sitting under the shadow of a huge crag, on a shaggy,
impressive spot, where the steep mountain path turned abruptly round a
corner, down into the chasm. The sun was still high, and brightening the
tops of the pine-trees in the clefts at his feet. He was looking at
something in his note-book, when Felix, who had been clambering about,
came to him with a stone in his hand. “What is the name of this stone,
father?” said the boy.
“I know not,” answered Wilhelm.
“Can this be gold that glitters in it so?” said Felix.
“No, no,” replied Wilhelm; “and now I remember, people call it mica, or
cat-gold.”
“Cat-gold!” said the boy, smiling. “And why?”
“I suppose, because it is false, and cats are reckoned false too.”
“Well, I will note that,” said the son, and put in the stone beside the
rest with which he had already filled his pockets.
Scarcely was this over when, adown the steep path, a strange enough
appearance came in sight. Two boys, beautiful as day, in colored jackets
which you might have taken for outer shirts, came bounding down, one
after the other; and Wilhelm had opportunity of viewing them more
closely, as they faltered on observing him, and stopped for a moment.
Round the elder boy’s head waved rich, fair locks, which you looked at
first, on observing him; and then his clear blue eyes attracted your
attention, which spread itself with delight over his beautiful shape.
The younger, more like a friend than a brother, was decked with brown,
sleek hair, which hung down over his shoulders, and the reflection of
which appeared to be imaged in his eyes.
These strange, and, in this wilderness, quite unexpected, beings,
Wilhelm had not time to view more narrowly; for he heard a man’s voice
calling down round the corner of the crag, in a serious, but friendly,
tone, “Why do you stand still? Don’t stop the way.”
Wilhelm looked upwards; and, if the children had surprised him, what he
now saw filled him with astonishment. A stout, firm-set, not too tall,
young man, tucked up for walking, of brown complexion and black hair,
was stepping firmly and carefully down the rock-way, and leading an ass
behind him, which first presented its glossy, well-trimmed head, and
then the fair burden it bore. A soft, lovely woman was seated on a large
and well-pannelled saddle: in her arms, within a blue mantle which hung
over her, lay an infant, which she was pressing to her breast, and
looking at with indescribable tenderness. The man did as the children
had done,--faltered for a moment at sight of Wilhelm. The beast
slackened its step, but the descent was too precipitous: the travellers
could not halt; and Wilhelm with astonishment saw them vanish behind the
contiguous wall of rocks.
Nothing was more natural than that this singular procession should cut
short his meditations. He rose in no small curiosity, and looked from
his position towards the chasm, to see whether they would not again make
their appearance somewhere below. He was just about descending to salute
these strange travellers, when Felix came climbing up, and said,
“Father, may I not go home with these boys to their house? They want to
take me with them. Thou must go too, the man said to me. Come! They are
waiting down there.”
“I will speak with them,” answered Wilhelm.
He found them at a place where the path was more level, and he could not
but gaze in wonder at the singular figures which had so strongly
attracted his attention. Not till now had it been in his power to note
the peculiarities of the group. The young, stout man, he found, had a
joiner’s axe on his shoulder, and a long, thin iron square. The children
bore in their hands large sedge-tufts, like palms; and if, in this
point, they resembled angels, they likewise carried little baskets with
shop-wares in them, thereby resembling the little daily posts, as they
pass to and fro over the mountains. The mother also, he observed, on
looking more leisurely, wore under her blue mantle a reddish,
mild-colored, lower garment: so that “The Flight into Egypt,” which our
friend had so often seen painted, he now, with amazement, saw bodied
forth before his eyes.
The strangers exchanged salutations; and as Wilhelm, from surprise and
attention, could not speak, the young man said, “Our children have
formed a friendship in these few moments. Will you go with us to see
whether some kind relation will not spring up between the elder parties
also?”
Wilhelm bethought himself an instant, and then answered, “The aspect of
your little family procession awakens trust and good will, and, to
confess it frankly, curiosity no less, and a lively desire to be better
acquainted with you. For, at the first glance, one might ask himself the
question, Whether you are real travellers, or only spirits that take
pleasure in enlivening these uninhabitable mountains by pleasant
visions?”
“Then, come home with us to our dwelling,” said the other. “Come with
us!” cried the children, already drawing Felix along with them. “Come
with us!” said the woman, turning her soft kindliness from the suckling
to the stranger.
Without reflecting, Wilhelm answered, “I am sorry, that, for the present
moment, I cannot follow you. This night, at least, I must spend up at
the Border-house. My portmanteau, my papers,--all is lying up there,
unpacked, intrusted to no one. But, that I may prove my wish and purpose
to satisfy your friendly invitation, take my Felix with you as a pledge.
To-morrow I shall see you. How far is it?”
“We shall be home before sunset,” said the carpenter; “and from the
Border-house you are but a league and a half. Your boy increases our
household for this night, and to-morrow we expect you.”
The man and the animal set forth. Wilhelm smiled thoughtfully to see his
Felix so soon received among the angels. The boy had already seized a
sedge-tuft, and taken the basket from the younger of his companions. The
procession was again on the point of vanishing behind a ledge of rock,
when Wilhelm recollected himself, and cried, “But how shall I inquire
you out?”
“Ask for St. Joseph!” sounded from the hollow; and the whole vision had
sunk behind the blue, shady wall of cliffs. A pious hymn, uplifted on a
chorus of several voices, rose echoing from the distance; and Wilhelm
thought he could distinguish the voice of his Felix among the rest.
He ascended the path, and thus protracted the period of sunset. The
heavenly star, which he had more than once lost sight of, illuminated
him afresh as he mounted higher; and it was still day when he reached
his inn. Once more he delighted himself with the vast mountain prospect,
then withdrew to his chamber, where immediately he seized his pen, and
passed a part of the night in writing.
_Wilhelm to Natalia._
Now at last I have reached the summit,--the summit of the
mountains, which will place a stronger separation betwixt us
than all the tract I had passed over before. To my feeling, one
is still in the neighborhood of those he loves, so long as the
streams run down from him towards them. To-day I can still fancy
to myself that the twig which I cast into the forest-brook may,
perhaps, float down to her, may in a few days land at her
garden; and thus our spirit sends its images more easily, our
heart its sympathies, by the same downward course. But over on
the other side I fear there rises a wall of division against the
imagination and the feelings. Yet this, perhaps, is but a vain
anxiety; for over on the other side, after all, it will not be
otherwise than it is here. What could part me from thee! From
thee, whose own I am forever; though a strange destiny sunders
me from thee, and unexpectedly shuts the heaven to which I stood
so near. I had time to compose myself; and yet no time could
have sufficed to give me that composure, had I not gained it
from thy mouth, from thy lips, in that decisive moment. How
could I have torn myself away, if the enduring thread had not
been spun which is to unite us for time and eternity? Yet I must
not speak of all this. Thy tender commands I will not break: on
this mountain-top be it the last time that I name the word
Separation before thee! My life is to become a restless
wandering. Strange duties of the wanderer have I to fulfil, and
peculiar trials to undergo. How I often smile within myself when
I read the terms which thou prescribedst to me, which I
prescribed to myself. Many of them have been kept, many broken;
but, even while breaking them, this sheet is of use to me, this
testimonial of my last confession,--of my last absolution: it
speaks to me as an authoritative conscience, and I again turn to
the right path. I watch myself; and my faults no longer rush
like mountain torrents, one over the other.
Yet I will confess to thee I many times wonder at those teachers
and guides of men who impose on their scholars nothing but
external, mechanical duties. They make the task light for
themselves as well as for the world. For this very part of my
obligations, which at first seemed the heaviest, the strangest,
I now observe with greatest ease, with greatest satisfaction.
I am not to stay beyond three days under one roof. I am to quit
no inn without removing at least one league from it. These
regulations are, in truth, calculated to make my life a life of
travel, and to prevent the smallest thought of settlement from
taking hold of me. Hitherto I have fulfilled this condition to
the letter, not even using all the liberty it grants me. This is
the first time that I have paused: here, for the first time, I
sleep three nights in the same bed. From this spot I send thee
much that I have heard, observed, laid up for thee; and early in
the morning I descend on the other side,--in the first place, to
a strange family, I might almost say, a Holy Family, of which,
in my journal, thou wilt find further notice. For the present,
farewell; and lay down this sheet with the feeling that it has
but one thing to say, but one thing which it would say and
repeat forever; yet will not say it, will not repeat it now,
till I have once more the happiness of lying at thy feet, and
weeping over thy hands for all that I renounce.
MORNING.
My packing is done. The porter is girding the portmanteau on his
dorsel. As yet, the sun is not up: vapors are streaming out of
all the hollows, but the upper sky is clear. We step down into
the gloomy deeps, which also will soon brighten over our heads.
Let me send my last sigh home to thee! Let my last look towards
thee be yet blinded with involuntary tears! I am decided and
determined. Thou shalt hear no more complaints from me: thou
shalt hear only what happens to the wanderer. And yet now, when
I am on the point of ending, a thousand thoughts, wishes, hopes,
and purposes come crowding through my soul. Happily the people
force me away. The porter calls me; and mine host has already in
my presence begun sorting the apartment, as if I were gone: thus
feelingless, imprudent heirs do not hide from the departing
testator their preparations for assuming management.
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