_Hersilia to Wilhelm._
My valued, and, to speak it plainly, dear friend, you are wrong,
and yet, as acting on your own conviction, not wrong either. So
the nut-brown maid is found, then,--found, seen, spoken to,
known, and acknowledged! And you tell us further, that it is
impossible to wish this strange person, in her own way, any
happier condition, or, in her present one, to be of any real
advantage to her.
And now you make it a point of conscience not to tell us where
that wondrous being lives. This you may settle with your own
conscience, but to us it is unconscionable. You think to calm
Lenardo by assuring him that she is well. He had said, almost
promised, that he would content himself with this; but what will
not the passionate promise for others and themselves! Know,
then, that the matter is not in the least concluded as it yet
stands. She is happy, you tell us,--happy by her own activity
and merit: but the youth would like to learn the How, the When,
and the Where; and, what is worse than this, his sisters, too,
would like to learn. Half a year is gone since your departure:
till the end of another half-year we cannot hope to see you.
Could not you, like a shrewd and knowing man, contrive to play
your eternal _Rouge-et-Noir_ in our neighborhood? I have seen
people that could make the knight skip over all the chess-board
without ever lighting twice on one spot. You should learn this
feat: your friends would not have to want you so long.
But, to set my good will to you in the clearest light, I now
tell you in confidence, that there are two most enchanting
creatures on the road: whence I say not, nor whither; described
they cannot be, and no eulogy will do them justice. A younger
and an elder lady, between whom it always grieves one to make
choice,--the former so lovely, that all must wish to be loved by
her; the latter so attractive, that you must wish to live beside
her, though she did not love you. I could like, with all my
heart, to see you hemmed in for three days between these two
splendors: on the morning of the fourth, your rigorous vow would
stand you in excellent stead.
By way of foretaste I send you a story, which, in some degree,
refers to them: what of it is true or fictitious you can try to
learn from themselves.
THE MAN OF FIFTY.
The major came riding into the court of the mansion; and
Hilaria, his niece, was already standing without, to receive him
at the bottom of the stairs which led up to the apartments.
Scarcely could he recognize her; for she had grown, both in
stature and beauty. She flew to meet him: he pressed her to his
breast with the feeling of a father.
To the baroness, his sister, he was likewise welcome; and, as
Hilaria hastily retired to prepare breakfast, the major said
with a joyful air, “For this time I can come to the point at
once, and say that our business is finished. Our brother, the
chief marshal, has at last convinced himself that he can neither
manage farmers nor stewards. In his lifetime he makes over the
estates to us and our children: the annuity he bargains for is
high, indeed, but we can still pay it; we gain something for the
present, and for the future all. This new arrangement is to be
completed forthwith. And, as I very soon expect my discharge, I
can again look forward to an active life, which may secure
decided advantages to us and ours. We shall calmly see our
children growing up beside us; and it will depend on us, on
them, to hasten their union.”
“All this were well,” said the baroness, “had not I a secret to
inform thee of, which I myself discovered first. Hilaria’s heart
is no longer free: on her side thy son has little or nothing to
hope for.”
“What sayest thou?” cried the major. “Is it possible? While we
have been taking all pains to settle economical concerns, does
inclination play us such a trick? Tell me, love, quick, tell me,
who is it that has fettered Hilaria’s heart? Or is it, then, so
bad as this? Is it not, perhaps, some transient impression we
may hope to efface again?”
“Thou must think and guess a little first,” replied the
baroness, and thereby heightened his impatience. It had mounted
to the utmost pitch, when the entrance of Hilaria, with the
servants bringing in breakfast, put a negative on any quick
solution of the riddle.
The major himself thought he saw the fair girl with other eyes
than a little while before. He almost felt as if jealous of the
happy man whose image had been able to imprint itself on a soul
so lovely. The breakfast he could not relish; and he noticed not
that all was ordered as he liked to have it, and as he had used
to wish and require it.
In this silence and stagnation Hilaria herself almost lost her
liveliness. The mother felt embarrassed, and led her daughter to
the harpsichord; but Hilaria’s sprightly and expressive playing
scarcely extorted any approbation from the major. He wished the
breakfast and the lovely girl fairly out of the way; and the
baroness was at last obliged to resolve on breaking up, and
proposed to her brother a walk in the garden.
No sooner were they by themselves, than the major pressingly
repeated his question, to which, after a pause, his sister
answered, smiling, “If thou wouldst find the happy man whom she
loves, thou hast not far to go: he is quite at hand; she loves
_thee_!”
The major stopped in astonishment, then cried, “It were a most
unseasonable jest to trick me into such a thought, which, if
true, would make me so embarrassed and unhappy. For, though I
need time to recover from my amazement, I see at one glance how
grievously our circumstances would be disturbed by so
unlooked-for an accident. The only thing that comforts me, is my
persuasion that attachments of this sort are apparent merely,
that a self-deception lurks behind them, and that a good, true
soul will undoubtedly return from such mistakes, either by its
own strength, or at least by a little help from judicious
friends.”
“I am not of that opinion,” said the baroness: “by all the
symptoms, Hilaria’s present feeling is a very serious one.”
“A thing so unnatural I should not have expected from so natural
a character,” replied the major.
“So unnatural it is not, after all,” said his sister. “I myself
recollect having, in my own youth, an attachment to a man still
older than thou. Thou art fifty,--not so very great an age for a
German, if, perhaps, other livelier nations do fail sooner.”
“But how dost thou support thy conjecture?” said the major.
“It is no conjecture, it is certainty. The details thou shalt
learn by and by.”
Hilaria joined them; and the major felt himself, against his
will, a second time altered. Her presence seemed to him still
dearer and more precious than before, her manner more
affectionate and tender: already he began to put some faith in
his sister’s statement. The feeling was highly delightful,
though he neither would permit nor confess this to his mind.
Hilaria was, in truth, peculiarly interesting: her manner
blended in closest union a soft shyness as towards a lover, and
a trustful frankness as towards an uncle; for she really, and
with her whole soul, loved him. The garden lay in all the pomp
of spring; and the major, who saw so many old trees again
putting on their vesture, might also believe in the returning of
his own spring. And who would not have been tempted to it, at
the side of this most lovely maiden.
So passed the day with them; the various household epochs were
gone through in high cheerfulness: in the evening, after supper,
Hilaria returned to her harpsichord; the major listened with
other ears than in the morning: one melody winded into another,
one song produced a second; and scarcely could midnight separate
the little party.
On retiring to his room, the major found every thing arranged to
suit his old habitual conveniences: some copper-plates, even,
which he liked to look at, had been shifted from other
apartments; and, his eyes being at last opened, he saw himself
attended to and flattered in the most minute particulars.
A few hours’ sleep sufficed on this occasion: his buoyant
spirits aroused him early. But now he soon found occasion to
observe that a new order of things carries many inconveniences
along with it. His old groom, who also discharged the functions
of lackey and valet, he had not once reproved during many years,
for all went its usual course in the most rigid order; the
horses were dressed and the clothes brushed at the proper
moment: but to-day the master had risen earlier, and nothing
suited as it used to do.
Erelong a new circumstance combined with this to ruffle him
still further. At other times all had been right, as his servant
had prepared it for him: now, however, on advancing to the
glass, he found himself not at all as he wished to be. Some gray
hairs he could not deny, and of wrinkles also there appears to
have been a trace or two. He wiped and powdered more than usual,
and was fain at last to let matters stand as they could. Then it
seemed there were still creases in his coat, and still dust on
his boots. The old groom knew not what to make of this, and was
amazed to see so altered a master before him.
In spite of all these hinderances, the major got down to the
garden in good time. Hilaria, whom he hoped to find there, he
actually found. She brought him a nosegay; and he had not the
heart to kiss her as usual, and press her to his breast. He felt
himself in the most delightful embarrassment, and yielded to his
feelings without reflecting whither they might carry him.
The baroness soon joined them and, directing her brother to a
note which had just been brought her by a special messenger, she
cried, “Thou wilt not guess whom this announces to us!”
“Tell us at once, then,” said the major; and it now appeared
that an old theatrical friend was travelling by a road not far
off, and purposing to call for a moment. “I am anxious to see
him again,” said the major: “he is no chicken now, and I hear he
still plays young parts.”
“He must be ten years older than thou,” replied the baroness.
“He must,” said the major, “from all that I remember.”
They had not waited long, when a lively, handsome, courteous man
stepped forward to them. Yet the friends soon recognized each
other, and recollections of all sorts enlivened the
conversation. They proceeded to questions, to answers, to
narratives: they mutually made known their present situations,
and in a short time felt as if they had never been separated.
Secret history informs us that this person had, in former days,
being then a very elegant and graceful youth, the good or bad
fortune to attract the favor of a lady of rank; that, by this
means, he had come into perplexity and danger, out of which the
major, at the very moment when the saddest fate seemed
impending, had happily delivered him. From that hour he
continued grateful to the brother as well as to the sister; for
it was she that, by timeful warning, had originated their
precautions.
For a while before dinner the men were left alone. Not without
surprise, nay, in some measure with amazement, had the major
viewed, as a whole and in detail, the exterior condition of his
old friend. He seemed not in the smallest altered, and it was
not to be wondered at that he could still appear on the stage as
an actor of youthful parts. “Thou inspectest me more strictly
than is fair,” said he at last to the major: “I fear thou
findest the difference between this and by-gone times but too
great.”
“Not at all,” replied the major: “on the contrary, it fills me
with astonishment to find thy look fresher and younger than
mine; though I know thou wert a firm-set man at the time when I,
with the boldness of a callow desperado, stood by thee in
certain straits.”
“It is thy own fault,” replied the other: “it is the fault of
all like thee; and, though you are not to be loudly censured for
it, you are still to be blamed. You think only of the needful:
you wish to be, not to seem. This is very well so long as one is
any thing. But when, at last, being comes to recommend itself by
seeming, and this seeming is found to be even more transient
than the being, then every one of you discovers that he should
not have done amiss, if, in his care for what was inward, he had
not entirely neglected what was outward.”
“Thou art right,” replied the major, and could scarcely suppress
a sigh.
“Perhaps not altogether right,” said the aged youth; “for though
in my trade it were unpardonable if one did not try to parget up
the outward man as long as possible, you people need to think of
other things, which are more important and profitable.”
“Yet there are occasions,” said the major, “when a man feels
fresh internally, and could wish, with all his heart, that he
were fresh externally too.”
As the stranger could not have the slightest suspicion of the
major’s real state of mind, he took these words in a soldierly
sense, and copiously explained how much depended on externals in
the art military, and how the officer who had so much attention
to bestow on dress might apply a little also to skin and hair.
“For example,” continued he, “it is inexcusable that your
temples are already gray, that wrinkles are here and there
gathering together, and that your crown threatens to grow bald.
Now look at me, old fellow as I am! See how I have held out! And
all this without witchcraft, and with far less pains and care
than others take, day after day, in spoiling, or at least
wearying, themselves.”
The major found this accidental conversation too precious an
affair to think of ending it soon, but he went to work softly
and with precaution towards even an old acquaintance. “This
opportunity, alas! I have lost,” cried he; “and it is past
recalling now: I must even content myself as I am, and you will
not think worse of me on that account.”
“Lost it is not,” said the other, “were not you grave gentlemen
so stiff and stubborn, did you not directly call one vain if he
thinks about his person, and cast away from you the happiness of
being in pleasant company, and pleasing there yourselves.”
“If it is not magic,” smiled the major, “that you people use for
keeping yourselves young, it is, at all events, a secret: or, at
least, you have _arcana_, such as one often sees bepraised in
newspapers; and from these you pick out the best.”
“Joke or earnest,” said the other, “thou hast spoken truth.
Among the many things that have been tried for giving some
repair to the exterior, which often fails far sooner than the
interior, there are, in fact, certain invaluable recipes, simple
as well as compound; which, as imparted to me by brethren of the
craft, purchased for ready money, or hit upon by chance, I have
proved, and found effectual. By these I now hold fast and
persevere, yet without abandoning my further researches. So much
I may tell thee, and without exaggeration: a dressing-box I
carry with me beyond all price! A box whose influences I could
like to try on thee, if we chanced any time to be a fortnight
together.”
The thought that such a thing was possible, and that this
possibility was held out to him so accidentally at the very
moment of need, enlivened the spirit of the major to such a
degree that he actually appeared much fresher and brisker
already: at table, excited by the hope of bringing head and face
into harmony with his heart, and by eagerness to get acquainted
with the methods of doing so, he was quite another man; he met
Hilaria’s graceful attentions with alacrity of soul, and even
looked at her with a certain confidence, which, in the morning,
he was far from feeling.
If the dramatic stranger had contrived, by many recollections,
stories, and happy hits, to keep up the cheerful humor once
excited, he so much the more alarmed the major, on signifying,
when the cloth was removed, that he must now think of setting
forth, and continuing his journey. By every scheme in his power
the major strove to facilitate his friend’s stay, at least for
the night; he pressingly engaged to have horses and relays in
readiness next morning: in a word, the healing toilet was
absolutely not to get out of the premises, till once he had
obtained more light on its contents and use.
The major saw very well that here no time must be lost: he
accordingly endeavored, soon after dinner, to take his old
favorite aside and speak with him in private. Not having the
heart to proceed directly to the point, he steered towards it
from afar off, and, taking up the former conversation, signified
that he, for his part, would willingly bestow more care on his
exterior, were it not that people, the moment they observed a
man making such an attempt, marked him down for vain, and so
deducted from him, in regard to moral esteem, what they felt
obliged to yield him in regard to sensible.
“Do not vex me with such phrases!” said his friend: “these are
words to which society has got accustomed without attaching any
meaning to them, or, if we take it up more strictly, by which it
indicates its unfriendly and spiteful nature. If thou consider
it rightly, what, after all, is this same vanity they make so
much ado about? Every man should feel some pleasure in himself,
and happy he who feels it. But, if he does feel it, how can he
help letting others notice it? How shall he hide, in the midst
of life, that it gives him joy to be alive? If good society, and
I mean this exclusively here, only blamed such indications when
they became too violent; when the joy of one man over his
existence hindered others to have joy and to show it over
theirs,--it were good and well; and from this excess the censure
has, in fact, originally sprung. But what are we to make of that
strange, prim, abnegating rigor against a thing which cannot be
avoided? Why should not a display of feeling on the part of
others be considered innocent and tolerable, which, more or
less, we from time to time allow ourselves? For it is the
pleasure one has in himself, the desire to communicate this
consciousness of his to others, that makes a man agreeable,--the
feeling of his own grace that makes him graceful. Would to
Heaven all men were vain! that is, were vain with clear
perception, with moderation, and in a proper sense: we should
then, in the cultivated world, have happy times of it. Women, it
is told us, are vain from the very cradle; yet does it not
become them, do they not please us the more? How can a youth
form himself if he is not vain? An empty, hollow nature will, by
this means, at least contrive to give itself an outward show;
and a proper man will soon train himself from the outside
inwards. As to my own share, I have reason to consider myself,
in this point, a most happy man: for my trade justifies me in
being vain; and, the vainer I am, the more satisfaction I give.
I am praised when others are blamed, and have still, in this
very way, the happiness and the right to gratify and charm the
public at an age when others are constrained to retire from the
scene, or linger on it only with disgrace.”
The major heard with no great joy the issue of these
reflections. The little word vanity, as he pronounced it, had
been meant to serve as a transition for enabling him to
introduce, with some propriety, the statement of his own wish.
But now he was afraid, if their dialogue proceeded thus, he
should be led still farther from his aim: so he hastened to the
point directly.
“For my own part,” said he, “I should by no means disincline to
enlist under thy flag, since thou still holdest it to be in
time, and thinkest I might yet in some degree make up for what
is lost. Impart to me somewhat of thy tinctures, pomades, and
balsams; and I will make a trial of them.”
“Imparting,” said the other, “is a harder task than you suppose.
Here, for example, it were still to small purpose that I poured
thee out some liquors from my vials, and left the half of the
best ingredients in my toilet: the appliance is the hardest. You
cannot, on the instant, appropriate what is given you. How this
and that suit together; under what circumstances, in what
sequence, things are to be used,--all this requires practice and
study,--nay, study and practice themselves will scarcely profit,
if one bring not to the business a natural genius for it.”
“Thou art now, it seems, for drawing back,” said the major.
“Thou raisest difficulties when I would have thy truly somewhat
fabulous assertions rendered certain. Thou hast no mind to let
me try thy words by the test of action.”
“By such banterings, my friend,” replied the other, “thou
wouldst not prevail on me to gratify thy wish, if it were not
that I entertain such affection for thee, and, indeed, first
made the proposal myself. Besides, if we consider it, man has
quite a peculiar pleasure in making proselytes; in bringing what
he values in himself into view also, without himself, on others;
causing others to enjoy what he enjoys; finding in others his
own likeness, represented and reflected back to him. In sooth,
if this is selfishness, it is of the most laudable and lovable
sort,--that selfishness which has made us men and keeps us so.
From this universal feeling, then, apart from my friendship to
thee, I shall be happy in having such a scholar in the great
youth-renewing art. But, as from a master it may be expected
that he shall produce no botcher by his training, I confess
myself a little at a loss how to set about it. I told thee
already that neither recipes nor instructions would avail: the
practice cannot be taught by universal rules. For thy sake, and
from the wish to propagate my doctrine, I am ready to make any
sacrifice. The greatest my power for the present moment I will
now propose to thee. I shall leave my servant here,--a sort of
waiting-man and conjurer,--who, if he does not understand
preparing every thing, if he has not yet been initiated into all
the mysteries, can apply my preparations perfectly, and, in the
first stage of the attempt, will be of great use to thee, till
once thou have worked thy way so far into the art, that I may
reveal to thee the higher secrets also.”
“How!” cried the major, “thou hast stages and degrees in thy art
of making young? Thou hast secrets, even for the initiated?”
“No doubt of it,” replied the other. “That were but a sorry art
which could be comprehended all at once, the last point of which
could be seen by one just entering its precincts.”
Without loss of time the waiting-man was formally consigned to
the major, who engaged to treat him handsomely. The baroness was
called on for drawers, boxes, glasses, to what purpose she knew
not; the partition of the toilet-store went forward; the friends
kept together in a gay and sprightly mood till after nightfall.
At moonrise, some time later, the guest took his leave,
promising erelong to return.
The major reached his chamber pretty much fatigued. He had risen
early, had not spared himself throughout the day, and now hoped
very soon to get to bed. But here, instead of one servant, he
found two. The old groom, in his old way, rapidly undressed him;
but now the waiting-man stepped forth, and signified, that, for
appliances of a renovating and cosmetic nature, the peculiar
season was night, that so their effects, assisted by a peaceful
sleep, might be stronger and safer. The major was obliged to
content himself, and let his head be anointed, his face painted,
his eyebrows pencilled, and his lips tipped with salve. Besides
all this, there were various ceremonies still required; nay, the
very night-cap was not to be put on immediately, not till a net,
or even a fine-leather cap, had been drawn on next the head.
The major laid himself in bed with a sort of unpleasant feeling,
which, however, he had no time to investigate the nature of; as
he very soon fell asleep. But, if we might speak with his
spirit, we should say he felt a little mummy-like, somewhat
between a sick man and a man embalmed. Yet the sweet image of
Hilaria, encircled with the gayest hopes, soon led him into a
refreshing sleep.
In the morning, at the proper hour, the groom was ready in his
place. All that pertained to his master’s equipment lay in
wonted order on the chairs; and the major was just on the point
of rising, when the new attendant entered, and strongly
protested against any such precipitation. He must rest, he must
wait, if their enterprise were to prosper, if they were to be
rewarded for their pains and labor. The major now learned that
he had to rise by and by, to take a slight breakfast, and then
go into a bath, which was already prepared for him. The
regulations were inflexible, they required a strict observance;
and some hours passed away under these occupations.
The major abridged the resting-time after his bath, and thought
to get his clothes about him: for he was by nature expeditious,
and at present he longed to see Hilaria; but in this point also
his new servant thwarted him, and signified, that in all cases
he must drop the thought of being in a hurry. Whatever he did,
it appeared, must be done leisurely and pleasurably; but the
time of dressing was especially to be considered as a cheerful
hour for conversation with one’s self.
The valet’s manner of proceeding completely agreed with his
words. But, in return, the major, when, on stepping forward to
the glass, he saw himself trimmed out in the neatest fashion,
really thought that he was better dressed than formerly. Without
many words the conjurer had changed the very uniform into a
newer cut, having spent the night in working at it. An
apparently so quick rejuvenescence put the major in his
liveliest mood; so that he felt himself as if renovated, both
without and within, and hastened with impatient longing to his
friends.
He found his sister engaged in looking at the pedigree which she
had caused to be hung up; the conversation last night having
turned on some collateral relations, unmarried persons, or
resident in foreign countries, or entirely gone out of sight,
from all of whom the baroness and her brother had more or less
hope of heritages for themselves or their families. They
conversed a while on these matters, without mentioning the
circumstance that all their economical cares and exertions had
hitherto been solely directed to their children. By Hilaria’s
attachment the whole of this prospect had altered, yet neither
the major nor his sister could summon courage to mention it
further at this moment.
The baroness left the room: the major was standing alone before
this laconic history of his family; Hilaria stepped in to him;
she leaned herself on him in a kind, childlike way, looked at
the parchment, and asked him whom of all these he had known, and
who of them were still left and living.
The major began his delineation with the oldest of whom any dim
recollection remained with him from childhood. Then he proceeded
farther; painted the characters of several fathers, the likeness
or unlikeness of their children to them; remarked that the
grandfather often re-appeared in the grandson; spoke, by the
way, of the influence of certain women, wedded out of stranger
families, and sometimes changing the character of whole
branches. He eulogized the virtue of many an ancestor and
relative, nor did he hide their failings. Such as had brought
shame on their lineage he passed in silence. At length he
reached the lowest lines. Here stood his brother, the chief
marshal himself, and his sister, and beneath him his son with
Hilaria at his side.
“These two look each other straight enough in the face,” said
the major; not adding what he thought of the matter in his
heart.
After a pause Hilaria answered, in a meek, small tone, and
almost with a sigh, “Yet those, surely, are not to blame who
look upwards.” At the same time she looked up to him with a pair
of eyes out of which her whole love was speaking.
“Do I understand thee rightly?” said the major, turning round to
her.
“I can say nothing,” answered she, with a smile, “which you do
not know already.”
“Thou makest me the happiest man under the sun,” cried he, and
fell at her feet. “Wilt thou be mine?”
“For Heaven’s sake, rise! I am thine forever.”
The baroness entered. Though not surprised, she rather
hesitated. “If it be wrong, sister,” said the major, “the blame
is thine: if it be right, we will thank thee forever.”
The baroness from youth upwards had so loved her brother that
she preferred him to all men; and perhaps Hilaria’s attachment
itself had, if not arisen from this sisterly partiality, at
least been cherished by it. All three now united in one love, in
one delight; and thus the happiest hours flew over them. Yet, at
last, their eyes re-opened to the world around them likewise;
and this rarely stands in unison with such emotions.
They now again bethought them of the son. For him Hilaria had
been destined: this he himself well knew. Directly after
finishing the business with the chief marshal, the major had
appointed his son to expect him in the garrison, that they might
settle every thing together, and conduct these purposes to a
happy issue. But now, by an unexpected occurrence, the whole
state of matters had been thrown out of joint; the circumstances
which before plied into one another so kindly, now seemed to be
assuming a hostile aspect; and it was not easy to foresee what
turn the affair would take, what temper would seize the
individuals concerned in it.
Meanwhile the major was obliged to resolve on visiting his son,
to whom he had already announced himself. Not without
reluctance, not without singular forecastings, not without pain
at even for a short time leaving Hilaria, he at last, after much
lingering, took the road, and, leaving groom and horses behind
him, proceeded with his cosmetic valet, who had now become an
indispensable appendage, towards the town where his son resided.
Both saluted and embraced each other cordially after so long a
separation. They had much to communicate, yet they did not just
commence with what lay nearest their hearts. The son went into
copious talk about his hopes of speedy advancement: in return
for which the father gave him precise accounts of what had been
discussed and determined between the elder members of the
family, both in regard to fortune in general, to the individual
estates, and every thing pertaining to them.
The conversation was, in some degree, beginning to flag, when
the son took heart, and said to his father, with a smile, “You
treat me very tenderly, dear father; and I thank you for it. You
tell me of properties and fortune, and mention not the terms
under which, at least in part, they are to be mine: you keep
back the name of Hilaria; you expect that I should bring it
forth, that I should express my desire to be speedily united
with that amiable maiden.”
At these words the major felt in great perplexity; but as,
partly by nature, partly by old habit, it was his way to collect
the purpose of the man he had to treat with before stating his
own, he now said nothing, and looked at the son with an
ambiguous smile. “You will not guess, father, what I have to
say,” continued the lieutenant: “I will speak it out briefly,
and once for all. I can depend on your affection, which, amid
such manifold care for me, has had due regard for my true
happiness as well as my fortune. Some time or other it must be
said: be it said, then, even now, Hilaria cannot make me happy!
I think of Hilaria as of a lovely relative, towards whom I would
live all my days with the friendliest feelings; but another has
awakened my affection, another has found my heart. The
attachment is irresistible: you will not make me miserable.”
Not without effort did the major conceal the cheerfulness which
was rising over his face, and, in a tone of mild seriousness,
inquire of the son, Who the person was that had so entirely
subdued him?--“You must see her yourself, father,” said the
other; “for she can as little be described as comprehended. I
have but one fear,--that you yourself will be led away by her,
like every one that approaches her. By Heaven, it will be so;
and I shall see you the rival of your son!”
“But who is she?” inquired the major. “If it is not in thy power
to delineate her personal characteristics, tell me, at least, of
her outward circumstances: these, at least, may be described.”
“Well, then, father,” replied the son; “and yet these outward
circumstances, too, would be different in a different person,
would act otherwise on another. She is a young widow, heiress of
an old, rich man lately deceased; independent, and well meriting
to be so; acquainted with many, loved by just as many, courted
by just as many; yet, if I mistake not very greatly, in her
heart wholly mine.”
With joyful vivacity, as the father kept silence, and gave no
sign of disapproval, the son proceeded to describe the conduct
of the fair widow towards him; told of her all-conquering grace;
recounted one by one her tender expressions of favor; in which
the father truly could see nothing but the light friendliness of
a universally courted woman, who, among so many, may indeed
prefer some one, yet without on that account entirely deciding
for him. Under any other circumstances he would doubtless have
endeavored to warn a son, nay, even a friend, of the
self-deception which might probably enough be at work here; but,
in the present case, he himself was so anxious for his son’s
being right, for the fair widow’s really loving him, and as soon
as possible deciding in his favor, that he either felt no
scruple of this sort, or banished any such from his mind,
perhaps even only concealed it.
“Thou placest me in great perplexity,” began the father, after
some pause. “The whole arrangement between the surviving members
of our family depends on the understanding that thou wed
Hilaria. If she wed a stranger, the whole fair, careful
combination of a fine fortune falls to the ground again; and
thou thyself art not too well provided for. There is certainly
another way still, but one which sounds rather strange, and by
which thou wouldst gain very little: I, in my old days, might
wed Hilaria,--a plan which could hardly give thee any very high
satisfaction.”
“The highest in the world!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “for who
can feel a true attachment, who can enjoy or anticipate the
happiness of love, without wishing every friend, every one whom
he values, the like supreme felicity? You are not old, father;
and how lovely is Hilaria! Even the transient thought of
offering her your hand bespeaks a youthful heart, an unimpaired
spirit. Let us take up this thought, this project, on the spot,
and consider and investigate it thoroughly. My own happiness
would be complete if I knew you happy: I could then rejoice in
good earnest, that the care you had bestowed on my destiny was
repaid on your own by so fair and high a recompense. I can now
with confidence and frankness, and true openness of heart,
conduct you to my fair one. You will approve of my feelings,
since you yourself feel: you will not impede the happiness of
your son, since you are advancing to your own happiness.”
With these and other importunate words the lieutenant repressed
many a scruple which his father was for introducing, left him no
time to calculate, but hurried off with him to the fair widow,
whom they found in a commodious and splendid house, with a
select rather than numerous party, all engaged in cheerful
conversation. She was one of those female souls whom no man can
escape. With incredible address she contrived to make our major
the hero of this evening. The rest of the party seemed to be her
family: the major alone was her guest. His circumstances she
already knew very well; yet she had the skill to ask about them,
as if she were wishing, now at last, to get right information on
the subject from himself: and so, likewise, every individual of
the company was made to show some interest in the stranger. One
must have known his brother, a second his estates, a third
something else concerned with him; so that the major, in the
midst of a lively conversation, still felt himself to be the
centre. Moreover, he was sitting next the fair one; her eyes
were on him, her smile was directed to him: in a word, he felt
himself so comfortable, that he almost forgot the cause which
had brought him. She herself scarcely ever mentioned his son,
though the young man took a keen share in the conversation: it
seemed as if, in her eyes, he, like all the rest, was present
only on his father’s account.
The guests strolled up and down the rooms, and grouped
themselves into accidental knots. The lieutenant stepped up to
his fair one, and asked, “What say you to my father?”
With a smile she replied, “Methinks you might well take him as a
pattern. Do but look how neatly he is dressed! If his manner and
bearing are not better than his gentle son’s!” And thus she
continued to cry up and praise the father at the son’s expense;
awakening, by this means, a very mixed feeling of contentment
and jealousy in the young man’s heart.
Erelong the lieutenant came in contact with his father, and
recounted all this to him. It made the major’s manner to his
fair hostess so much the more friendly; and she, on her side,
began to treat him on a more lively and trustful footing. In
short, we may say, that, when the company broke up, the major,
as well as the rest, already belonged to her and to her circle.
A heavy rain prevented the guests from returning home as they
had come. Some coaches drove up, into which the walkers arranged
themselves: only the lieutenant, under the pretext that the
carriage was already too crowded, let his father drive away, and
staid behind.
The major, on entering his apartment, felt actually confused and
giddy in mind, uncertain of himself; as is the case with us on
passing rapidly from one state to the opposite. The land still
seems in motion to a man who steps from shipboard, and the light
still quivers in the eye of him who comes at once into darkness.
So did the major still feel himself encircled with the presence
of that fair being. He wished still to see, to hear her, again
to see, again to hear her: and, after some consideration, he
forgave his son; nay, he thought him happy that he might pretend
to the appropriation of such loveliness.
From these feelings he was roused by the lieutenant, who, with
lively expressions of rapture, rushed into the room, embraced
his father, and exclaimed, “I am the happiest man in the world!”
After several more of such preliminary phrases, the two at last
came to an explanation. The father remarked, that the fair lady
in conversing with him had not mentioned the son, or hinted at
him by a single syllable. “That is just her soft, silent,
half-concealing, half-discovering way, by which you become
certain of your wishes, and yet can never altogether get rid of
doubt. So was she wont to treat me hitherto; but your presence,
father, has done wonders. I confess it, I staid behind, that I
might see her one moment longer. I found her walking to and fro
in her still shining rooms; for I know it is her custom, when
the company is gone, no light must be extinguished. She walks
alone up and down in her magic halls, when the spirits are
dismissed which she had summoned thither. She accepted the
pretext under cover of which I came back. She spoke with kind
grace, though of indifferent matters. We walked to and fro
through the open doors, along the whole suite of chambers. We
had wandered several times to the end, into the little cabinet,
which is lighted only by a dim lamp. If she was beautiful while
moving under the blaze of the lustres, she was infinitely more
so when illuminated by the soft gleam of the lamp. We had again
reached the cabinet; and, in turning, we paused for an instant.
I know not what it was that forced this audacity on me: I know
not how I could venture, in the midst of the most ordinary
conversation, all at once to seize her hand, to kiss that soft
hand, and to press it to my heart. It was not drawn away.
‘Heavenly creature!’ cried I, ‘conceal thyself no longer from
me. If in this fair heart dwells favor for the happy man who
stands before thee, disclose it, confess it! The present is the
best, the highest time. Banish me, or take me to thy arms!’
“I know not what all I said, what I looked and expressed. She
withdrew not, she resisted not, she answered not. I ventured to
clasp her in my arms, to ask her if she would be mine. I kissed
her with rapture; she pushed me away: ‘Well, yes, then: yes!’ or
some such words, said she, in a faint tone, as if embarrassed. I
retired, and cried, ‘I will send my father: he shall speak for
me.’--‘Not a word to him of this!’ replied she, following me
some steps. ‘Go away: forget what has happened.’”
What the major thought we shall not attempt to unfold. He said,
however, to his son, “What is to be done now, thinkest thou? To
my mind the affair is, by accident, so well introduced, that we
may now go to work a little more formally; that perhaps it were
well if I called there to-morrow, and proposed in thy name.”
“For Heaven’s sake, no, father!” cried the son: “it would spoil
the whole business. That look, that tone, must be disturbed and
deranged by no formality. It is enough, father, that your
presence accelerates this union without your uttering a word on
the subject. Yes, it is to you that I owe my happiness! The
respect which my loved one entertains for you has conquered
every scruple, and never would your son have found so good a
moment had not his father prepared it for him.”
These and such disclosures occupied them till far in the night.
They mutually settled their plans: the major, simply for form’s
sake, was to make a parting call, and then set out to arrange
his marriage with Hilaria; the son was to forward and accelerate
his, as he should find it possible.
_Hersilia’s Postscript._
Here I break off, partly because I can write no more at present,
but partly also to fix a thorn in your heart. Now, answer the
question for yourself: How strangely, from all that you have
read, must matters stand with these ladies at present! Till now
they had no mutual relation to each other: they were strangers,
though each seemed to have the prospect of a marriage which was
to approximate them. And now we find them in company, but by
themselves, without male attendance, and wandering over the
world. What can have passed, what can be to follow? You, my
worthy sir, will doubtless get quit of the difficulty by
mournfully exclaiming to yourself, “These, also, are
renunciants!” And here you are perfectly right: but expectants
too? This I durst not discover, even if I knew it.
To show you the way how this amiable pair may be met with on
your wandering, I adopt a singular expedient. You herewith
receive a little clipping of a map: when you lay this in its
place on the full map of the country, the magnetic needle
painted here will point with its barb to the spot whither the
desirable are moving. This riddle is not so very hard to read:
but I could wish, that, from time to time, you would do the like
for us, and send a little snip of chart over hither; we should
then, in some measure, understand to what quarter our thoughts
were to be directed: and how glad should we be if the needle
were at last attracted by ourselves. May all good be given you,
and all errors forgiven!
It is said of women, that they cannot send away a letter without
tacking postscripts to the end of it. Whatever inferences you
may draw from the fact, I cannot deny that this is my second
postscript, and the place, after all, where I am to tell you the
flower of the whole matter. This arrow-shaft, on the little
patch of map, Hilaria herself was at the pains to draw and to
decorate with such dainty plumage: the sharp point, however, was
the fair widow’s work. Have a care that it do not scratch, or
perhaps pierce you. Our bargain is, that whenever you meet, be
this where it may, you are forthwith to present the small shred
of paper, and so be the sooner and more heartily admitted into
trust.
A WORD FROM THE EDITOR.
That a certain deficiency, perhaps discernible in the parts, certainly
discernible here and there in the whole, cannot, henceforth, be avoided,
we ourselves take courage to forewarn the reader, without fearing
thereby to thwart his enjoyment. In the present task, undertaken truly
with forethought and good heart, we still meet with all the
inconveniences which have delayed the publication of these little
volumes for twenty years. This period has altered nothing for the
better. We still find ourselves in more than one way impeded, at this or
that place threatened with one obstruction or another. For we have to
solve the uncertain problem of selecting from those most multifarious
papers what is worthiest and most important, so that it be grateful to
thinking and cultivated minds, and refresh and forward them in many a
province of life. Now, here are the journals, more or less complete,
lying before us; sometimes communicable without scruple; sometimes,
again by reason of their unimportant, and likewise of their too
important contents, seemingly unfit for insertion.
There are not even wanting sections devoted to the actual world, on
statistic, technical, and other practical external subjects. To cut
these off as incongruous, we do not determine without reluctance; as
life and inclination, knowledge and passion, strangely combining
together, go on here in the straitest union.
Then we come on sketches written with clear views and for glorious
objects, but not so consequent and deep searching that we can fully
approve of them, or suppose, that, in this new and so far advanced time,
they could be readable and influential.
So likewise we fall in with little anecdotes, destitute of connection,
difficult to arrange under heads, some of them, when closely examined,
not altogether unobjectionable. Here and there we discover more complete
narratives, several of which, though already known to the world,
nevertheless demand a place here, and at the same time require
exposition and conclusion. Of poems, also, there is no want; and yet it
is not always easy, not always possible, to decide where they should be
introduced with best regard to the preserving and assisting of their
true tone, which is but too easily disturbed and overturned. If we are
not, therefore, as we have too often done in by-gone years, again to
stop in the middle of this business, nothing will remain for us but to
impart what we possess, to give out what has been preserved. Some
chapters, accordingly, the completion of which might have been
desirable, we now offer in their first hurried form, that so the reader
may not only feel the existence of a want here, but also be informed
what this want is, and complete in his own mind whatever, partly from
the nature of the object, partly from the intervening circumstances,
cannot be presented to him perfectly completed in itself, or furnished
with all its requisite accompaniments.
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