When Klytia was sufficiently restored to health to be able to sit up
with outstretched foot on a chair specially constructed by her father,
the visits of her friends who where most anxious to hear all the
details of the accident began, thereby greatly tormenting the poor
child. Frau Belier especially wished to know so exactly how it all came
to pass that finally nothing was left for Lydia but to avail herself of
Barbara's device of the open turnip-pit. Happily private affairs
remained still uppermost in the minds of these busy women and maidens,
and Lydia was endued with sufficient feminine cunning to parry a
disagreeable question by referring to another topic. "I am nothing but
a false serpent," she used to say reproachfully to herself, "and repay
all this love with deceit." She received more visits than she cared
for,--only one remained away, one whom she so much feared, one for whom
she so much longed. What could have prevented Paolo from coming to the
very place chosen by himself? What prevented him even now from at all
events asking her father about the health of his pupil? Had the miller
not confirmed the fact that the note had been sent by Laurenzano, she
would have preferred to think, that her rivals at the Stift had been
making game of her, but after what the old Werner had told her she was
forced to believe in Paolo's guilt. "He has no heart," she murmured,
"otherwise he would have been here long ago." The less the news that
could be obtained of him, the more did his conduct appear inconceivable
to her. Had he quitted the town forever, in which he had caused so much
misery? In that case he would never return! A feeling of horror crept
over her at such a thought. Then she heard in the lofty echoing passage
a well known elastic step and the voice of her father as he quietly
approached. Erastus' head appeared at the door. "My child, Herr
Laurenzano wishes to pay thee a visit. Remain lying down so that thy
foot may not suffer." Lydia turned first pale and then red. At that
moment she saw the figure of the architect, and with the disappointment
her composure returned. Smilingly did she stretch out a small white
hand to the Maestro. After that the handsome dark-eyed Italian had
congratulated her gracefully on her recovery, he told her, that owing
to the state of her health he had not up to the present time occupied
himself with the repairs necessary to be made on the row of windows of
Erastus' apartments. If she permitted it he would now begin the work.
Lydia thanked him for his kind consideration. The work would not
disturb her in any way; she would retire to the back rooms. The
architect looked as childishly sad at her, as would a boy to whom a
long wished for pleasure had been denied.--That she should not deny
herself the bright sunshine so necessary to every sick person, was the
very cause of his visit, he began with hesitating voice and maidenlike
blush. It would be utterly impossible for him to undertake the work
with any comfort and happiness if he had hourly to reproach himself
with having delayed her convalescence. He would in that case prefer
leaving the windows as they were, Erastus smilingly sided with him; in
short Lydia had to capitulate and agreed neither to leave the room, nor
to shut out the health-bringing pure air. Thus it happened that the
merry Maestro appeared daily on the scaffold and seized every
opportunity of coming to Lydia's window. He used then to tell her about
the work, to complain of the laziness of German workmen who wasted half
the day in eating, drinking and sleeping, and to praise the frugality
and diligence of his Italian countrymen. Smilingly did the maiden
bending over her work listen to the complaints of the Neapolitan, whose
great delight seemed to consist in talking. As the neighbours however
took to looking up at them, she reminded him half-seriously that he was
no diligent Italian. "You say that a German eats and drinks as much as
ten Italians, but it seems to me that an Italian chatters as much as
twenty Germans. Now let me see for once how industrious you can be."
Felix retired feeling rather ashamed, whilst she could not help
thinking how much the brothers resembled each other. "I am afraid of
the Magister," she thought smiling, "and yet long to see him. I am
amused at the architect and yet dismiss him from me. Thou foolish heart
to prefer sorrow to joy."
One morning the Maestro mentioned his brother to her. He was staying
with the Bishop at Speyer where he had some friends. It was then as she
feared. He had become Brother Paulus once more and returned to the
Jesuits. Sad, and with beating heart did she stoop over her sewing
whilst two large tears fell on her work. The Maestro pretended not to
perceive this, but whilst angry with Paul on account of these tears, he
himself became suddenly aware of how his own heart yearned towards this
beauteous fair maiden.
Klytia herself could no longer be in doubt, that the worthy Maestro,
whom she preferred to any one after Paul, earnestly sought her love,
but her heart was filled with grief for him whom now she must reckon
among the dead. Had he not abandoned her insultingly to her fate,
disgraced her in her own eyes, was he not continuing on his own crooked
dark paths, and had he not ceased to love her if indeed he had ever
done so? What would she have given, not to have been daily reminded of
him by his brother, and yet she was never so attentive, as when the
latter told her of his youthful days in Naples, how he, Paul, and their
little sister had played at ball with the golden fruit of the orange
groves, sought for colored shells on the shore, hidden themselves in
the hollow trunks of olive trees, looked for antique bits and marble
splinters among the laurels and mountain-shrubs; of their adventures
with huge earthworms, small snakes, scorpions and butterflies; then she
saw standing out so distinctly before her the dark elder and the yet
more swarthy younger brother, that she felt for them as a sister, and
in her dreams she often imagined herself to be that deceased sister of
the Laurenzanos. "Take the brown one, the dark one will render thee
unhappy," had said the old witch, and Lydia had become superstitious
since that terrible evening at the cross-roads on the Holtermann. The
magic words of the old woman seemed to be too true. The maiden's heart
could not free itself from the demoniacal priest, and it remained after
Paul's faithless flight, in the trusty brother's power. Quite
involuntarily, in her dreams, these innermost thoughts, still unknown
to herself assumed expression.
Above the door of the Ruprecht building where dwelt Felix, might be
seen a beauteous piece of artistic work of old German architecture,
before which Lydia had as a child often stood in delighted wonderment.
Two lovely angels' heads mutually o'ershadowed by each other's little
wings; holding in brotherly affection within a wreath of roses, a pair
of compasses, the sign of the masons. The Builder's guild had evidently
thus intended to go down to posterity. The common people however
related, that these two lovely twins had been the delight of the
architect who had built the Schloss. To have them continually at
his side he had taken them up on the scaffold, rejoicing in his two
fresh-looking courageous boys. One day however one of them stumbled and
dragged the other down with him. The architect became almost deranged,
so that the building did not proceed. Instead of looking after the
work, the sorrowful father daily made a wreath which he adorned with
white roses and carried to the cemetery near the Peter's Church where
were buried his darlings. The Emperor Ruprecht however became angry at
the length of time the building continued, and ordered the Priest, who
had buried the children to urge on the architect. He answered that all
was ready, but that in his grief he could not conceive a proper
ornament for the gateway. The Priest exhorted and consoled him to the
best of his ability; the same night the twins appeared as bright angels
to the father bringing back with them the wreath of roses which he had
laid that morning on their grave. When the architect was roused the
next morning by the light of the rising Sun, he thought of his dream,
it seemed to him that the perfume of the roses still filled his room,
and on rising, behold there lay the wreath fresh and fragrant, which he
had the previous morning laid on the grave of his little ones, and
which he had seen withered the evening before, but the white roses had
turned to red. It was immediately plain to the architect how he should
decorate the gate-way. He chiselled his children as angels as they had
appeared to him, bearing a rose-wreath, and in the middle he placed a
pair of compasses, the symbol of an art, to which he now bade a lasting
farewell. On St. John's day 1408, the key-stone of the gate-way was
fixed in, and the Emperor Ruprecht himself spoke the dedicatory
oration. When he wished however to return his imperial thanks to the
workmen, the architect had disappeared. Whilst all the bells were
pealing loudly and filling the Neckar valley with their deep notes, the
Master whom they were honoring, trod along the Michaelspath over the
mountains to the monastery on the Heiligenberg. He became a monk and
gazed from his cell at the tower, reared over the graves of his darling
children, till his two boys once more appeared to him, crowned him with
roses and bore away his soul into Abraham's bosom. This was the story
as told to Lydia by her nurse, and when she thought of angels, the
beauteous bearers of the wreath over the gate-way before which she
daily passed always presented themselves to her memory. None of the
noble statues wrought by Master Colins on the magnificent Otto Heinrich
building had ever come near the impression made by these angels' heads.
One evening after Felix had again been speaking about the games he and
his brother Paul had played in their garden fragrant with roses at
Naples, Lydia dreamt that night, that she was flying in the air above
the Holtermann in the direction of the castle, and just as she was
about to settle down the two angels of the Ruprecht building came
towards her. The one was grave and cold, whilst the other which
resembled Master Felix smiled on her joyously. Presently the one with
the earnest, beauteous expression, which Magister Paul always wore when
teaching opened his mouth and said: "Take Felice." On this she woke up,
hearing also the witch saying distinctly: "the fairer one is the right
one;" frightened she raised her head from the pillow and saw how the
moon shone clearly into her room. Long did she think over this wondrous
dream, in which the dearest impressions of her childhood and the
terrible experiences of the previous weeks were so mixed together, then
she fell asleep once more. The following morning she could not
withstand the temptation of seeing whether the two angels' heads really
resembled the brothers? Everything was quiet and peaceful in the court.
This was the first time she had ventured out since her accident. She
took a glass to draw water from the well-house, supported by the
pillars taken from Charlemagne's palace in the Palatinate near
Ingelheim. Whilst lowering the bucket she gazed at the beloved images
at her ease. No one was there to disturb her at her early task. The
glass filled with the pure water of the well sparkled in her hand.
Clear shone the morning-sun on the Ruprecht building, and to see the
images better the maiden was forced to approach closer. She protected
her eyes against the light with her hand and looked intently at the
well-known figures. Gently and kindly seemed the angels to smile back
on her. The younger one to the left might stand for the grave Paolo,
the older one to the right the joyous artist. Right! "He is the right
one," the words of the witch kept dinning in her ears. And did not the
compasses in the middle refer to Felice's art? Not the breviary, but
the implement of the Maestro is surrounded by the roses of love. "But
they are both clad as choir-boys." The thought distracted her. The
angels' heads seemed to float, to nod to her, to greet her. Dazzled by
the light it seemed to her confused eyes as if the wreath were coming
away. Suddenly a full blown rose fell at her feet. Surprised she looked
around whether she could see anyone. She picked up the flower. It was
the same kind of deep-red rose as was sculptured on the wreath round
the angels. With a feeling akin to superstition she looked up to see
whether the beautiful rose had not fallen out of the wreath encircling
the lovely children? But none was missing. The windows on the whole of
that side were closed, with the exception of a single one, and that
belonged to Felice's room. Smilingly she placed the flower in her
glass, and hurried back as fast as her lame foot would permit, for just
at that moment a servant maid inclined to question her about her early
appearance in the court came out of the house. She did not however feel
attracted towards the "red-haired Frances," who in admiration for the
rose pressed too familiarly at her side.
Lydia felt mentally and morally perplexed and confused. She could not
bring herself to see in her wondrous dream and the extraordinary
morning salutation received on her first appearance abroad a mere
accident. Thus she sat, dreamingly pondering over these events near her
seat at the window, when her father entered and for the first time
alluded to her relations with Felix. He praised the architect's
knowledge of art and lofty sentiments, he reminded her that though he
himself was not so old, yet he was in delicate health and wearied of
work. What would become of her, if it pleased God to call him suddenly
away, he asked. Lydia wiped her eyes and kissed her beloved father.
Erastus did not insist on an answer, but he left her in sweet confusion
once more alone in her room, she looked more kindly at the rose and
said to herself, "God must know why it is better thus. The demoniacal
attraction for the Magister has precipitated me in the fullest sense
into an abyss, the more quiet sympathy of the kindly Maestro has guided
my feet not to serpents, but to roses," and blushingly she bent her
face over the flower and inhaled deep draughts of its perfume.
That very morning Felix had proceeded so far with his work as to have
reached Lydia's window. He noticed his rose on her table in the glass
of water and looked gratefully at the maiden. Then he set to work
repairing the cornices and pilasters over Lydia's window, and it seemed
as if these required the most strict attention, the work took so long
completing. In the meanwhile the Maestro related amusing anecdotes to
the fair patient, who sat sometimes at the window, at other times
supported on a pillow she stretched out her injured foot, and however
timid Lydia had felt in the presence of the Magister, she did not let
herself be overwhelmed in any way by his chatty brother. It was a proud
feeling for her to be thus able to completely subjugate such a man, for
a handsome horse renders even a timid rider bold and blithesome. "I
wish Signorina," he said, "you would advise me about my work; Master
Colin's figures seem to me, if I only look in at your window, to become
daily stiffer and more inanimate. To you who live now so long under
them, have not the aged gentlemen perhaps confided some secrets of
their inner life, to which I could give expression on their empty
faces?"
"O yes," said Lydia seriously. "Quiet nights they have great quarrels."
"They quarrel, _corpo di Venere_, you must tell me about this."
"No, I do not betray the secrets of the companions of my home."
"But you nevertheless say, that they quarrel."
"Are you astonished at that? You must see for yourself that they are
not on a friendly footing."
As Lydia remained firm in refusing to betray the quarrels of the
Statues, Felix rubbed his brows. "As a fact I remember that I myself
fell once asleep up here. If I relate to you what I heard in my dreams,
you must also tell me what you overheard."
"Perhaps," said Klytia, "let me only hear your story."
"I had been thinking of a fair-haired angel, who dwelt higher than many
planets, and soon began to nod." "The angel thanks you," interrupted
Klytia pertly. "After a while I suddenly heard, Faith, Hope, and
Charity saying close to me: 'We alone are related, in this mixed
society, and will have nothing to do with the Heathen world on either
side of us.' Then Justice yawned so loud that it could be heard all
over the Court and sighed saying: 'How lonely I feel here in the
corner near to these dreary virtues. What has Justice in common with
self-righteousness? Now if I were only over there next to Strength, I
could at least carefully watch to see, that it did not break more
columns than were necessary as schoolboy proofs of his juvenile
strength.' Hercules next wanted to enter into conversation with
Sampson. 'Sir Brother,' said he with a rap of his club, 'it was better
fun for us when we were chasing lions, not to mention the honey.' But
wasn't he snubbed, 'I am no brother of yours,' answered the proud
Jewish hero, 'you are one of the Philistines whom I thrashed, and I
will have nothing to do with you.' Next I heard Jupiter sneeze. I
looked upwards to see whether the Greek father of the Gods was about to
enter into conversation with the Egyptian Serapis? But they both looked
different ways and did not deign to exchange a friendly word. Once
indeed Zeus cast a look down at Mars and Venus and then sighed:
'Gracious Heavens, how thin they have become.' Is it not true that you
meant something of this sort when you said that Colins' figures could
not endure one another? You have indeed a quick hearing, bellezza, and
a poetical mind."
"Now," replied Lydia, curling up her nose, "do you suppose that when we
sit at work all day we think of nothing but the cross-stitch. But it
was ever clear to me, even as a child, that a totally different harmony
and unison of mind was expressed in the two angels' heads on the
Ruprechtsbau, than by any of the figures exhibited here by Master
Colins, some of which he took from the cloister-school at Malines, the
others from Italy, where you still remain semi-heathens."
"You are right, Signora, but in my home we are accustomed to this
mixture."
"Your head is perhaps furnished in such a manner, Sir Artist," said she
teasingly, "that the characters of the Bible and the Greek Gods meet
each other therein as they do on Master Colins' facade!" Then she
blushed at her own boldness, but Felice's boundless veneration was too
great a temptation to a little naughtiness on the part of this young
Thing just fresh from school, who missed not a little her daily
scrimmages with the aristocratic young ladies of the Stift.
"When you speak of a want of harmony," said the Artist, a little
excited at Klytia's want of veneration for his learning as a man, "you
allude above all to the insipid German texts in monkish verse, which
the deceased plump Count Palatine stuck under the Gods and Heroes, in
place of which I would willingly read a classic epigram in the latin
language. But you are quite right, the entire facade is an emblem of
the contention which takes place in our mortal life. The beauties of
Greece and the virtues of Christianity strive for mastery in our
hearts. And not only are the figures in contradiction, but the Antique
and Gothic forms are at variance with one another. The harmony of
construction, which composes true classic architecture is wanting. How
discordantly do the Gothic arms and shields contrast with the Antique
lines of the portal. The highest beauty consists in the artistic
blending of the red sandstone and the blue sky, and when the Kurfuerst
lately stated that he wished he could burn down the, to him, hated
sculptured casket, I could not help involuntarily thinking, how
beautifully the ruin would stand out, when the blue sky should be seen
through the voided casements."
"Gracious powers," cried Lydia. "As long as we live up so high, do not
try such an experiment; and now go on with your work; I do not want to
hear any lecture which may end by your falling down and breaking your
neck."
Pale and hurt Felix drew back. His hopes nevertheless stood higher than
he thought; but Lydia had remarked, how the neighbours were craning
their necks to look up at the scaffolding, on which Felix was carrying
on his assault, and she heard the "red headed Frenz" say that Lydia's
windows must have needed an extraordinary amount of repairing, as the
Italian gentleman never seemed to leave them. "They will make a
handsome couple," Herr Bachmann now asserted in no low tones, "the tall
dark Italian, and the fair haired maiden. I shall be rejoiced, Frau
Barbara, when they make their first appearance in church together."
This then was the cause of her dismissing Felice in so summary a
manner.
The beauteous morning was succeeded by a close afternoon. Since that
dream the images of the brothers came up before her so continually that
she could hardly tell them apart. But the present moment maintained its
right. The gloomy priest disappeared in the joyous artist, and from the
moment that Lydia had accustomed herself to the thought, that the
Magister could never be hers, and that he had only played a sinful part
towards her, she sadly compelled herself to find once more her idol in
the happy trusty friend. Thus there remained much that was true in her
unfaithfulness. In reality she only cared for Felix for Paul's sake.
The artist in the meanwhile stood outside on his scaffold in a pensive
manner. The oppressive heat, precursor of a storm weighed him down, and
Lydia's dismissal had deeply affected him. He made no effort to resume
his jokes of the morning, and could not even hum an air. "Could I have
offended him?" thought the kind-hearted child within, "he has become so
silent;" as she looked upwards at the streaky sky, a gust of wind blew
the dust in her eyes, and whirled the loose leaves high up into the
air. "May the storm not break forth before that he is safely down from
his scaffold," thought she anxiously as a heavier gust burst forth. The
windows rattled, the shutters blew to, slates fell from the roof,
boards were carried off and crashed into the court beneath; slates,
panes of glass, bricks, came tumbling from above, and noise and
confusion were heard on all sides of the court. Lydia rushed to shut
the window, and then saw Felice clinging convulsively to the shaking
scaffold. "Come in here, in here," she cried in her fright to him. He
shook his head sadly, and made a motion to show that he would slide
down the poles so soon as the wind abated. A more violent gust caused
the bricks to shower down from the roof and shook the whole scaffold.
"Felix, Felix," cried the terrified maiden stretching out her arms
towards him. A happy smile played over his features, and with one bound
the active youth was at her side. As she closed the window, he had
already folded her within his strong arms. "I have won thee by storm,"
he cried rejoicingly, but she was silent and loosed herself from his
embrace. "You called me in, now keep me," he said earnestly, "you
wished to save my life, save it in reality." She gazed on him long and
earnestly. It was, as if the image of some departed friend was before
her, and she was endeavoring to find some similitude. Then blushing she
sank her head. Thoroughly happy he shouted for joy, laid his arms
around her neck, his lips sought hers. The storm outside, which now
burst forth, did not disturb his happiness. The rain streamed down into
the court below. What mattered it to him? At every sheet of lightning
he kissed her quivering eyelids, at every clap of thunder he pressed
his lips to hers. "I have wooed thee by thunder and lightening, may it
strike me if ever I prove unfaithful to thee." Suddenly her father's
voice was heard outside, as he himself had likewise been driven home by
the storm. Lydia drew back terrified, but Felice seized fast hold of
her hand and thus went with her to meet the physician. Astonished
Erastus drew back for a moment, and then said smilingly, "Ah, is this
so," and kissed Lydia's pure forehead. She remained silent and
blushingly laid her innocent head on her beloved father's breast. "You
are welcome to me," said Erastus turning to Felice, "provided only that
you abjure papistry." The Maestro bounded like a shying steed. "It
cannot be your meaning, noble Sir," he said, "that I must confess a
belief, which my heart does not admit."
"Such is not my meaning," answered the physician, "but when you stole
my child's heart, you must have well known, that Erastus would never
choose a papist for son-in-law. What I oppose here in Olevianus' church
discipline, is the power of the priesthood, the subjugation of
conscience, how could you therefore expect, that I should ever permit
my child to confess to one of your priests?"
"That she shall never do, noble Sir. She shall live in her faith, as I
in mine."
"Where could that be possible? Certainly not here in Heidelberg. You
would never be accepted as citizen, and in your country my child would
certainly be imprisoned by the Inquisition."
"In Austria it is however possible," replied Felix. "I shall return to
Master Colins in Innsbruck. The noble minded Kaiser Max admits both
confessions, and marriages between members of the two religions are not
uncommon there." Erastus shook his head thoughtfully. Lydia's resigned
calm also led him to ask himself, whether his child was not in reality
acting in obedience to his wishes, and whether this young heart was
really ripe enough for binding vows? He at last said, "I will seek more
information as to how matters stand in Innsbruck, do you likewise seek
to know more about our faith. Lydia is still young. Let us put off the
final word to a later day." Thus it remained. Master Felice would have
willingly appeared in the character of an accepted lover, but as
Erastus permitted him to visit Lydia as before, he declared himself
satisfied for the time. When his work was over, he hastened to Klytia,
and sat joking and lounging at her side. She was ever gentle and kind
to him, but never cast her thoughtful quiet manner aside. She had
assumed a timid reserve, which forbade any too demonstrative love. The
excitement of decision once over the poor child felt herself to be
inwardly divided against herself. She loved, but whether Paolo, or
Felice she knew not; she was engaged, but the father forbade any public
acknowledgment. Good and gentle of disposition she suffered Felice to
love her, without however granting him the slightest rights. Usually,
when the artist visited her of an evening, her Dante lay ready, and by
compelling him to read aloud, she held his passion in due bounds. But
even the majesty of Dante's poetry became melodious song when read by
the loving artist, and we may well imagine what verses he most looked
forward to, in the hope, that the narrative of Francesca da Rimini
would serve to thaw her icy reserve. But Lydia had wisely looked over
the book beforehand, and was prepared against this would-be adopted
means. The fifth canto containing the story of Rimini's unhappy lovers,
lay open in its usual place, on the evening so much longed for by
Felice, but Lydia received him with maidenlike sedateness. He had
that day carefully curled his locks and held in his hand one of those
dark-red roses which had first told his love, but he had not the
courage to offer it to her, for she had moved her seat further from him
than on any previous evening. It is true he read beautifully that day,
or nearly as beautifully as "he," but as he was just about to begin the
story of the lovers, who also read together, "how Lancelot wrapped in
pure love," to "often did their eyes meet and lovingly rose the color
in their cheeks, and often did he kiss the smile of his beloved," she
closed in maidenly scorn the book and her "we won't read any more
to-night" dispelled in an exasperating manner Felice's hopes. Out of
humor and disappointed he sat near her turning over the leaves of
Lydia's prayer book. He found pressed therein a blue flower. It stabbed
him to the heart, for the maiden had thrown his rose out of the window
the moment it withered. Hastily did he close the book which only hid
Paolo's flowers. The following evening Lydia begged him to read to her
one of the sonnets of his beloved Michel Angelo. He noticed with joy
whilst he read, how tenderly her blue eyes were fixed on him, but when
he left off, to return her gaze, she murmured as if in a dream: "He is
paler." Thus it became clear to him that she only sought Paolo's
features in his own. She grew more and more sad and still. It appeared
to him as if the blooming color on her cheek paled. "She has deceived
herself," he sighed. "When the sunflower is forcibly prevented from
gazing at the sun, it withers away. Paolo will ever be her Apollo. Poor
child!" But a colder feeling entered into his own heart, he could never
rejoice in a love, which he owed to another, and which through him was
bestowed upon his brother. "She wished to marry Paolo _in effigie_," he
murmured angrily to himself, "and she does not even find the image
resembling."