'Du Gemisch von Koth und Feuer!'
'Thou compound of clay and fire!'
Why, O child! art thou not, like other children, riding gayly about on
sticks for horses, playing with toys, torturing flies, or impaling
butterflies on pins, that the brilliant circles of their dying pangs may
amuse thy young soul? Why dost thou never romp and sport upon the grassy
turf, pilfer sugarplums and sweetmeats, and wet the letters of thy
picture book from A to Z with sudden tears?
Infant king of flies, moths, and grasshoppers; of cowslips, daisies, and
of kingcups; of tops, hoops, and kites; little friend of Punch and
puppets; robber of birds' nests, and outlaw of petty mischiefs--son of
the poet, tell me, why art thou so unlike a child--so like an angel?
What strange meaning lies in the blue depths of thy dreamy eyes? Why do
they seek the ground as if weighed down by the shadows of their drooping
lashes; and why is their latent fire so gloomed by mournful memories,
although they have only watched the early violets of a few springs? Why
sinks thy broad head heavily down upon thy tiny hands, while thy pallid
temples bend under the weight of thine infant thoughts, like snowdrops
burdened with the dew of night?
* * * * *
And when thy pale cheek floods with sudden crimson, and, tossing back
thy golden curls, thou gazest sadly into the depths of the sky--tell me,
infant, what seest thou there, and with whom holdest thou communion? For
then the light and subtile wrinkles weave their living mesh across thy
spotless brow, like silken threads untwining by an unseen power from
viewless coils, and thine eyes sparkle, freighted with mystic meanings,
which none are able to interpret! Then thy grandam calls in vain,
'George, George!' and weeps, for thou heedest her not, and she fears
thou dost not love her! Friends and relations then appeal to thee in
vain, for thou seemest not to hear or know them! Thy father is silent
and looks sad; tears fill his anxious eyes, falling coldly back into his
troubled heart.
* * * * *
The physician comes, puts his finger on thy pulse, counts its changeful
beats, and says thy nerves are out of order.
Thy old godfather brings thee sugarplums, strokes thy pale cheeks, and
tells thee thou must be a statesman in thy native land.
The professor passes his hand over thy broad brow, and declares thou
will have talent for the abstract sciences.
The beggar, whom thou never passest without casting a coin in his
tattered hat, promises thee a beautiful wife, and a heavenly crown.
The soldier, raising thee high in the air, declares thou wilt yet be a
great general.
The wandering gypsy looks into thy tender face, traces the lines upon
thy little hand, but will not tell their hidden meaning; she gazes sadly
on thee, and then sighing turns away; she says nothing, and refuses to
take the proffered coin.
The magnetizer makes his passes over thee, presses his fingers on thine
eyes, and circles thy face, but mutters suddenly an oath, for he is
himself growing sleepy; he feels like kneeling down before thee, as
before a holy image. Then thou growest angry, and stampest with thy tiny
feet; and when thy father comes, thou seemest to him a little Lucifer;
and in his picture of the Day of Judgment, he paints thee thus among the
infant demons, the young spirits of evil.
* * * * *
Meanwhile thou growest apace, becoming ever more and more beautiful, not
in the childish beauty of rose bloom and snow, but in the loveliness of
wondrous and mysterious thoughts, which flow to thee from other worlds;
and though thy languid eyes droop wearily their fringes, though thy
cheek is pale, and thy breast bent and contracted, yet all who meet thee
stop to gaze, exclaiming: '_What a little angel!_'
If the dying flowers had a living soul inspired from heaven; if, in
place of dewdrops, each drooping leaf were bent to earth with the
thought of an angel, such flowers would resemble thee, fair child!
And thus, before the fall, they may, perchance, have bloomed in
Paradise!
A graveyard. The Man and George are seen sitting by a grave, over
which stands a gothic monument, with arches, pillars, and mimic
towers.
THE MAN. Take off thy hat, George, kneel, and pray for thy mother's
soul!
GEORGE. Hail, Mary, full of grace! Mary, Queen of Heaven, Lady of all
that blooms on earth, that scents the fields, that paints the fringes of
the streams ...
THE MAN. Why changest thou the words of the prayer? Pray for thy mother
as thou hast been taught to do; for thy dear mother, George, who
perished in her youth, just ten years ago this very day and hour.
GEORGE. Hail, Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee! I know that
thou art blessed among the angels, and as thou glidest softly through
them, each one plucks a rainbow from his wings to cast under thy feet,
and thou floatest softly on upon them as if borne by waves....
THE MAN. George!
GEORGE. Be not angry with me, father! these words _force_ themselves
into my mind; they pain me so dreadfully in my head, that I must say
them....
THE MAN. Rise, George. Such prayers will never reach God!
Thou art not thinking of thy mother; thou dost not love her!
GEORGE. I love her. I see mamma very often.
THE MAN. Where, my son?
GEORGE. In dreams--yet not exactly in dreams, but just as I am going to
sleep. I saw her yesterday.
THE MAN. What do you mean, George?
GEORGE. She looked so pale and thin!
THE MAN. Has she ever spoken to you, darling?
GEORGE. She goes wandering up and down--through an immense Dark--she
roams about entirely alone, so white and so pale! She sang to me
yesterday. I will tell thee the words of her song:
'I wander through the universe,
I search through infinite space,
I press through Chaos, Darkness,
To bring thee light and grace;
I listen to the angels' song
To catch the heavenly tone;
Seek every form of beauty,
To bring to thee, mine own!
'I seek from greatest spirits,
From those of lower might,
Rainbow colors, depth of shadow,
Burning contrasts, dark and bright;
Rhythmed music, hues from Eden,
Floating through the heavenly bars;
Sages' wisdom, seraphs' loving,
Mystic glories from the stars--
That thou mayst be a Poet, richly gifted from above
To win thy father's fiery heart, and _keep_ his _changeful love_!'
Thou seest, dear father, that my mother does speak to me, and that I
remember, word for word, what she says to me; indeed I am telling you
no lie.
THE MAN (_leaning against one of the pillars of the tomb_). Mary! wilt
thou destroy thine own son, and burden my Soul with the ruin of both?...
But what folly! She is calm and tranquil now in heaven, as she was pure
and sweet on earth. My poor boy only dreams ...
GEORGE. I hear mamma's voice now, father!
THE MAN. From whence comes it, my son?
GEORGE. From between the two elms before us glittering in the sunset.
Listen!
'I pour through thy spirit
Music and might;
I wreathe thy pale forehead
With halos of light;
Though blind, I can show thee
Blest forms from above,
Floating far through the spaces
Of infinite love,
Which the angels in heaven and men on the earth
Call Beauty. I've sought since the day of thy birth
To waken thy spirit,
My darling, my own,
That the hopes of thy father
May rest on his son!
That his love, warm and glowing,
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, infant poet,
_Forever be thine!_'
THE MAN. Can a blessed spirit be mad? Do the last thoughts of the dying
pursue them into their eternal homes?
Can insanity be a part of immortality?... O Mary! Mary!
GEORGE. Mamma's voice is growing weaker and weaker; it is dying away now
close by the wall of the charnel house. Hark! hark! she is still
repeating:
'That his love, warm and glowing,
Unchanging may shine;
And his heart, little poet,
_Forever be thine!_'
THE MAN. O God! have mercy upon our unfortunate child, whom in Thine
anger Thou hast doomed to madness and to an early death! Have pity on
the innocent creature Thou hast Thyself called into being! Rob him not
of reason! Ruin not the living temple Thou hast built--the shrine of the
soul! Oh look down upon my agony, and deliver not this young angel up to
hell! Me Thou hast at least armed with strength to endure the dizzying
throng of thoughts, passions, longings, yearnings--but him! Thou hast
given him a frame fragile as the frailest web of the spider, and every
great thought rends and frays it. O Lord! my God! have mercy!
I have not had one tranquil hour for the last ten years. Thou hast
placed me among men who may have envied my position, who may have wished
me well, or who would have conferred benefits upon me--but I have been
alone! alone!
Thou hast sent storms of agony upon me, mingled with wrongs, dreams,
hopes, thoughts, aspirations, and yearnings for the infinite! Thy grace
shines upon my intellect, but reaches not my heart!
Have mercy, God! Suffer me to love my son in peace, that thus
reconciliation may be planted between the created and the Creator!...
Cross thyself now, my son, and come with me.
Eternal rest be with the dead!