Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and
dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is. Of these
years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have
advanced and only grown older. While the river of life glides along
smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank
seems to change. But then come the cataracts of life. They are firmly
fixed in memory, and even when we are past them and far away, and draw
nearer and nearer to the silent sea of eternity, even then it seems as
if we heard from afar their rush and roar. We feel that the life-force
which yet remains and impels us onward still has its source and supply
from those cataracts.
School time was ended, the first fleeting years of university life were
over, and many beautiful life-dreams were over also. But one of them
still remained: Faith in God and man. Otherwise life would have been
circumscribed within one's narrow brain. Instead of that, a nobler
consecration had preserved all, and even the painful and
incomprehensible events of life became a proof to me of the
omnipresence of the divine in the earthly. "The least important thing
does not happen except as God wills it." This was the brief
life-wisdom I had accumulated.
During the summer holidays I returned to my little native city. What
joy in these meetings again! No one has explained it, but in this
seeing and finding again, and in these self-memories, lie the real
secrets of all joy and pleasure. What we see, hear or taste for the
first time may be beautiful, grand and agreeable, but it is too new.
It overpowers, but gives no repose, and the fatigue of enjoying is
greater than the enjoyment itself. To hear again, years afterward, an
old melody, every note of which we supposed we had forgotten, and yet
to recognize it as an old acquaintance; or, after the lapse of many
years, to stand once more before the Sistine Madonna at Dresden, and
experience afresh all the emotions which the infinite look of the child
aroused in us for years; or to smell a flower or taste a dish again
which we have not thought of since childhood--all these produce such an
intense charm that we do not know which we enjoy most, the actual
pleasure or the old memory. So when we return again, after long
absence, to our birth-place, the soul floats unconsciously in a sea of
memories, and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves upon the
shores of times long passed. The belfry clock strikes and we fear we
shall be late to school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved
that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs along the street on whose
account we used to go far out of our way. Here sits the old huckster
whose apples often led us into temptation, and even now, we fancy they
must taste better than all other apples in the world, notwithstanding
the dust on them. There one has torn down a house and built a new one.
Here the old music-teacher lived. He is dead--and yet how beautiful it
seemed as we stood and listened on summer evenings under the window
while the True Soul, when the hours of the day were over, indulged in
his own enjoyment and played fantasies, like the roaring and hissing
engine letting off the steam which has accumulated during the day.
Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed at that time so much
larger, as I was coming home late one evening, I met our neighbor's
beautiful daughter. At that time I had never ventured to look at or
address her, but we school-children often spoke of her and called her
"the Beautiful Maiden," and whenever I saw her passing along the street
at a distance I was so happy that I could only think of the time when I
should meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which leads to the
church-yard, I met her one evening and she took me by the arm, although
we had never spoken together before, and asked me to go home with her.
I believe neither of us spoke a word the whole way; but I was so happy
that even now, after all these years, I wish it were that evening, and
that I could go home again, silently and blissfully, with "the
Beautiful Maiden."
Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our
heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have
forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts. Then all at
once, the whole dream-world vanishes, like uprisen ghosts at the
crowing of the cock.
As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, and saw the sentinels
upon their horses, how many memories awakened in my soul, and how
everything had changed! Many years had flown since I was at the
castle. The Princess was dead. The Prince had given up his rule and
gone back to Italy, and the oldest prince, with whom I had grown up,
was regent. His companions were young noblemen and officers, whose
intercourse was congenial to him, and whose company in our early days
had often estranged us. Other circumstances combined to weaken our
young friendship. Like every young man who perceives for the first
time the lack of unity in the German folk-life, and the defects of
German rule, I had caught up some phrases of the Liberal party, which
sounded as strangely at court as unseemly expressions in an honest
minister's family. In short, it was many years since I had ascended
those stairs, and yet a being dwelt in that castle whose name I had
named almost daily, and who was almost constantly present in my memory.
I had long dwelt upon the thought that I should never see her again in
this life. She was transformed into an image which I felt neither did
nor could exist in reality. She had become my good angel--my other
self, to whom I talked instead of talking with myself. How she became
so I could not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her. Just as the
eye sometimes pictures figures in the clouds, so I fancied my
imagination had conjured up this sweet image in the heaven of my
childhood, and a complete picture of phantasy developed itself out of
the scarcely perceptible outlines of reality. My entire thought had
involuntarily become a dialogue with her, and all that was good in me,
all for which I struggled, all in which I believed, my entire better
self, belonged to her. I gave it to her. I received it from her, from
her my good angel.
I had been at home but a few days, when I received a letter one
morning. It was written in English, and came from the Countess Marie:
_Dear Friend_: I hear you are with us for a short time. We have not
met for many years, and if it is agreeable to you, I should like to see
an old friend again. You will find me alone this afternoon in the
Swiss Cottage. Yours sincerely, MARIE.
I immediately replied, also in English, that I would call in the
afternoon.
The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the castle, which overlooked
the garden, and could be reached without going through the castle yard.
It was five o'clock when I passed through the garden and approached the
cottage. I repressed all emotion and prepared myself for a formal
meeting. I sought to quiet my good angel, and to assure her that this
lady had nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very uneasy, and my
good angel would not listen to counsel. Finally I took courage,
murmuring something to myself about the masquerade of life, and rapped
on the door, which stood ajar.
There was no one in the room except a lad whom I did not know, and who
likewise spoke English, and said the Countess would be present in a
moment. She then left, and I was alone, and had time to look about.
The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, and over an openwork
trellis, a luxuriant broadleaved ivy twined around the whole room. All
the tables and chairs were of carved rose-chestnut. The floor was of
variegated woodwork. It gave me a curious sensation to see so much
that was familiar in the room. Many articles from our old play-room in
the castle were old friends, but the others were new, especially the
pictures, and yet they were the same as those in my University
room--the same portraits of Beethoven, Handel and Mendelssohn, as I had
selected--hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw the Venus di
Milo, which I always regarded as the masterpiece of antiquity. On the
table were volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler's Sermons, the "German
Theology," Ruckert's Poems, Tennyson and Burns, and Carlyle's "Past and
Present,"--the very same books--all of which I had had but recently in
my hands. I was growing thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts and
was just standing before the portrait of the deceased Princess, when
the door opened, and the same two servants, whom I had so often seen in
childhood, brought the Countess into the room upon her couch.
What a vision! She spoke not a word, and her countenance was as placid
as the sea, until the servants left the room. Then her eyes sought
me--the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. Her expression grew more
animated each instant. At last her whole face lit up, and she said:
"We are old friends--I believe; we have not changed. I cannot say
'You,' and if I may not say 'Thou,' then we must speak in English. Do
you understand me?"
I had not anticipated such a reception, for I saw here was no
masquerade--here was a soul which longed for another soul--here was a
greeting like that between two friends who recognize each other by the
glance of the eye, notwithstanding their disguises and dark masks. I
seized the hand she held out to me, and replied: "When we address an
angel, we cannot say 'You.'"
And yet how singular, is the influence of the forms and habits of life!
How difficult it is to speak the language of nature even to the most
congenial souls! Our conversation halted, and both of us felt the
embarrassment of the moment. I broke the silence and spoke out my
thoughts: "Men become accustomed to live from youth up as it were in a
cage, and when they are once in the open air they dare not venture to
use their wings, fearing, if they fly, that they may stumble against
everything."
"Yes," replied she, "and that is very proper and cannot well be
otherwise. One often wishes that he could live like the birds which
fly in the woods, and meet upon the branches and sing together without
being presented to each other. But, my friend, even among the birds
there are owls and sparrows, and in life it is well that one can pass
them without knowing them. It is sometimes with life as with poetry.
As the real poet can express the Truest and most Beautiful, although
fettered by metrical form, so man should know how to preserve freedom
of thought and feeling notwithstanding the restraints of society."
I could not help recalling the words of Platen: "That which proves
itself everlasting under all circumstances, told in the fetters of
words, is the unfettered spirit."
"Yes," said she, with a cordial but sweetly playful smile; "but I have
a privilege which is at the same time my burden and loneliness. I
often pity the young men and maidens, for they cannot have a friendship
or an intimacy without their relatives or themselves pronouncing it
love, or what they call love. They lose much on this account. The
maiden knows not what slumbers in her soul, and what might be awakened
by earnest conversation with a noble friend; and the young man in turn
would acquire so much knightly virtue if women were suffered to be the
distant witnesses of the inner struggles of the spirit. It will not
do, however, for immediately love comes in play, or what they call
love--the quick beating of the heart--the stormy billows of hope--the
delight over a beautiful face--the sweet sentimentality--sometimes also
prudent calculation--in short, all that troubles the calm sea, which is
the true picture of pure human love------"
She checked herself suddenly, and an expression of pain passed over her
countenance. "I dare not talk more to-day," said she; "my physician
will not allow it. I would like to hear one of Mendelssohn's
songs--that duet, which my young friend used to play years ago. Is it
not so?"
I could not answer, for as she ceased speaking and gently folded her
hands, I saw upon her hand a ring. She wore it on her little
finger--the ring which she had given me and I had given her. Thoughts
came too fast for utterance, and I seated myself at the piano and
played. When I had done, I turned around and said: "Would one could
only speak thus in tones without words!"
"That is possible," said she; "I understood it all. But I must not do
anything more to-day, for every day I grow weaker. We must be better
acquainted, and a poor sick recluse may certainly claim forbearance.
We meet to-morrow evening, at the same hour; shall we not?"
I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, but she held my hand
firmly, pressed it and said: "It is better thus. Good bye."