melancholy, and Elizabeth poured forth, with a truly heavenly voice,
the clear light tones, which thrilled bliss into my heart. Suddenly
she stopped, and was again seized with that violent hysteric fit of
weeping which had so often terrified me. ‘I cannot,’ she cried, deeply
moved, ‘all these sounds rise up before me like fiends; I always feel
my sister quite near me, her dress rustling against mine, and her anger
terrifies me.’ I felt clearly that my peace of mind as well as hers
was destroyed.
“Our physician, a very judicious man, and a friend of ours, when she
confessed all these feelings, her trembling, and the anxiety which
almost incessantly preyed on her and undermined her health, applied
every remedy to calm her, physically and mentally. This honest and
judicious persuasion had a good effect, and his medicines proved
salutary. When summer came we were much in the open air. We were once
taking a drive to the estate of an acquaintance who told us that he
intended to give a musical festival, composed of friends and some
virtuosi. My wife’s great talent for music being known, we were
invited, and she promised to play and sing; being then surrounded by
strangers, flattered by both sexes and in a cheerful mood. I was the
more rejoiced at this as our physician made it a part of his advice
that she should forcibly combat these gloomy feelings and this
hypochondriacal anxiety. She determined to follow his advice. Very
pleased and rejoiced, we returned to our humble residence. Elizabeth
with spirit went through the difficult pieces of music, and the idea
that she might in this way, perhaps, recover her youthful vigour
delighted me.
“A few days after this, while I was reading a letter, that had just
arrived, the door was suddenly burst open, and Elizabeth rushed in,
deadly pale, and fell as if dead in my arms. ‘What is the matter?’ I
cried, seized with horror. Her eye wandered wildly round, her heart
palpitated almost to bursting, and she was some time before she
regained her voice and breath.
“‘Oh! heavens,’ she at length exclaimed, every word being expressive of
horror, ‘in there, while I practised--in a cheerful mood--I accidently
cast a look in the glass--and I saw behind me Ernestine looking at me
with that strange smile, and having her withered arms folded across her
chest. I know not whether she is still there, I hardly know how I
reached here.’
“I gave her in charge of her maid; she retired, and the doctor was
immediately sent for. I went into the other room, and found the music
books scattered under the instrument. Elizabeth must have thrown them
down in her fright.
“‘Of what avail are reasoning, joke, and consolation, diet and
medicines against perfect madness,’ said I to myself, and yet I could
not help thinking of the words with which her dying sister had
threatened us.
“The news of my wife having been taken ill reached our friend’s ears,
and was likely to prevent the musical festival taking place. His wife
came a few days afterwards with a female singer to inquire after
Elizabeth’s health. Not having said any thing, even to the doctor, of
the apparition which my wife imagined she had seen, we of course did
not mention this singular circumstance to our visiters. To all
appearances my wife having quite recovered from her fright, we walked
in our small garden with our friends conversing about the festival, and
the baroness and the singer at length proposed to practise some music
in my wife’s presence, that they might have her opinion, though she
might not perhaps be able to join.
“We therefore returned to the drawing-room, and as it became dark,
candles were lighted. The singer sat at the instrument to accompany
herself, on her right was the baroness, I was just behind, and my wife
was on her left. We could not help admiring the voices and the style
of the singers. The music by degrees became more animated and
impassioned, and I had once already omitted turning the page, when,
just as the next leaf was played, a long bony finger appeared on it,
quickly turned the leaf at the right time, and the melody proceeded. I
looked round and beheld the terrible Ernestine standing close by me
behind the baroness; I know not how I kept my composure, but I looked
searchingly and almost unmoved at the terrific apparition. She smiled
at me with that malicious expression which, even when living, made her
countenance repelling. She wore her usual dress, her eyes were fiery,
and her face was white as chalk. I felt almost a satisfaction in the
gloomy sensation of awe, remained silent, and was glad that Elizabeth
did not perceive the spirit. Suddenly there was a shriek of terror,
and my wife fell fainting on the ground, while the withered finger was
just going again to turn the page. The music of course ended, my wife
was in a fever, and our friends who had not seen the spectre returned
home.”
Here the invalid paused. The physician looked significantly at me,
shaking his head.
“And you have,” he at length said, “never before told your present
doctor any thing of that apparition.”
“No,” replied Francis, “you may call it shame, or fear of his cold,
searching understanding; you may call it weakness or what you please;
suffice it to say I could not prevail on myself to make this
confession.”
“But it was very necessary,” said the physician, “for how could he
judge correctly of your illness without that information?”
“From that time,” resumed Francis in a faint voice, “we determined to
quit the neighbourhood in hopes that the furious spectre would not
follow us beyond the mountains. But while we continued in our house we
often saw her, mostly in the music-room. Our doctor being with us one
morning, he sat down to the instrument and played some passages
extempore. Suddenly the terrible spectre again stood by my wife’s
chair, and laid her cold withered hand on her shoulder. Hysterics and
faintings again followed.”
“And did your doctor see it also?”
“No,” said Francis, “she appeared behind him, but I saw her distinctly
then, as I often did afterwards by broad daylight. We had only to
touch the keys of the instrument when she immediately appeared, so that
to strike a note was a summons. When I once revisited the ancient
Klausenburg, I found her sitting upon a stone staring at me. Thus
persecuted, terrified, and in constant fear and anxiety, we have become
ripe for death, and the physician despairing of our recovery advised us
at last to visit this watering-place, as a last resource for restoring
our shattered health. But hitherto we have not found any beneficial
result. And who can assure us that the spectre may not here haunt us
also. She intends to destroy us, and the most inconceivable things are
possible to her strong will. I believe we need only sing an air, or
play a sonata even at this distance, and she would make her appearance.”
“I will answer for that, count,” cried the doctor in a firm voice, “our
faculty knows how to keep such malicious spirits at a distance.”
Here our conversation ended; we sent the patient home in a sedan chair
to his hotel, and I accompanied the physician.
While walking in the quiet of night through the dark avenues of trees,
he said to me, “Dear sir, we are too much excited to sleep, favour me
with your company to my lodging; a powerful aromatic cardinal[2] will
keep up our spirits, and I will there tell you my opinion respecting
our two invalids, of whose recovery, after what I have heard, I no
longer doubt. I would almost promise that in two months I shall send
them home in tolerably good health.”
I was astonished at this, as I had given up all hope of the recovery of
my friends. Our strongly-spiced beverage much enlivened us; and the
doctor continued: “The mental disease of your friend is to me one of
the most interesting psychological phenomena that has ever passed under
my observation. He, as well as his wife, are labouring under a
singular madness; and if we once succeed in attacking it rightly, then,
in weakening, and finally in eradicating it altogether, the physical
recovery will follow of itself. Though I did not know your friend
formerly, yet, from his communications, I can exactly and truly
construe his character and fate. He is naturally good and tender, the
latter rather preponderating; and, like most men of this disposition,
is more subject to vanity than those of firmer character. He has been
handsome and amiable, possessed of talents, and persuasive manners, and
has, therefore, been everywhere well received, so that, being a general
favourite, and naturally pliant, he may have turned the head of many a
pretty girl. Meeting, at last, with his beautiful wife, he determined
to change his condition, and her naturally sensitive and nervous nature
was delighted to call so amiable a gentleman her husband. And, as
usually happens to enthusiasts, so is it in this case; they do not find
in matrimony that transcendant felicity which they anticipated; a
slight discord takes possession of the tender cords of the nerves,
which impatiently look forward to new vibrations. The ugly, deformed
sister felt, like most persons of the sort, jealousy and envy against
the preferred, flattered, and fondled wife. She plainly showed her
indignation, and confessed that she hated the count. This amiable
conqueror of hearts now employed all his art to overcome this hatred.
He succeeded, and the poor deluded creature even fancied that she had
excited his affection, while his vanity exulted in the triumph. This
heartlessness could not but mortify and shock the unfortunate
Ernestine. An inward rage consumed her, she fell a victim to her
unfortunate passion; and, dying, she uttered the menace to persecute
them in every possible way. This is plainly madness. This madness, as
has often been observed, is hereditary, and relations, brothers,
sisters, and children, are seized with it whenever it is manifested in
a member of the family. So in the case of your friend. Perhaps the
affectionate count has not been quite silent on the subject to his
wife; and she, being already in a delicate state, has indulged these
fancies, and with anxious curiosity pursues the gloomy feelings
produced by her nerves. Thus, what is more natural than that she
should soon find an occasion on which she fancied she really saw her
sister? The fears of his wife were communicated to him, anguish of
mind at his misfortunes heated his imagination, and he also sees the
apparition. Thus they go on, until both have nearly destroyed
themselves by a mere phantom. If we can dissipate this phantom, they
may be restored to health.”
“Dear doctor,” I replied, “I know not whether I have a particular
propensity for superstition, but your reasons do not satisfy me. Much
that has been handed down, both by tradition and writing, on this
curious subject, cannot be mere fancy or invention, however much our
reason may be opposed to it. There are, no doubt, states of the mind
and of the nerves, as well as diseases, during which certain persons
see what is veiled from all others. What is spirit? What notions does
this word suggest? Do we know the nature, talent, or power, which
these millions of differently constituted souls possess, after having
shaken off their earthly frame? Do we know by what possibility this or
that strong mind, by the power of his will, or anxious repentance, or a
secret tormenting yearning after home, forms from his imagination a
visible frame, such as he used to wear?”
“And supposing you to be quite right, what would you profit by it?”
exclaimed the zealous doctor. “If any one who is in a discontented
mood, or state of excitement, sees any thing, it is, indeed, only and
always his own fancies, his own internal phases, which appear before
his bodily eye. This may happen to any one at times. We have in the
morning a vivid dream; we certainly awake, and still, for a moment, we
see the child for whom we yearned, the lily or rose which delighted us,
or an old friend who is a hundred miles distant. Perhaps it never yet
happened that, to one of the many ghost-seers, his aged father or
grandfather appeared as a youth or bridegroom, the murderer as a boy in
his innocence, the wild spectre of an aged prisoner as a blooming
virgin. Why, then, do not these spectres, for once, change their
shape?”
“Because,” rejoined I, “they perhaps can express their imagination only
in the last state immediately preceding their change.”
“Ah! this is idle,” exclaimed the doctor, impatiently; “yield the point
quietly rather than vainly endeavour to refute me. Assist me rather in
restoring your friend.”
“In what way can I do so?”
“It is only by some violent means that a happy beginning can be made.
Believe me, in the deepest recesses of our minds there are still
growing some weeds of vanity, concerning which we fondly deceive
ourselves, by fancying that the external surface is the proper soil for
them to luxuriate in. Even in moments of terror, in the horror of
death, or during tormenting disease, we are tickled by the
consciousness that, notwithstanding these, we experience something
apart--that we see apparitions which awaken anxiety. Nay, we go
further; we wish them back again, and as it were call them forth; our
plastic and pliant nature, and our almost inconceivable fancy obey, and
again such a bugbear is conjured up. Assist me then in persuading and
disposing our invalid to have music in the count’s or your own
apartments; let us procure an instrument, and as the countess cannot
sing, she will at least play. That they may not cause an excitement,
should they again be seized by this mania, no one but yourself and I
must be present, or at most her attendant in case of a relapse. But it
will not happen in my presence, as I shall have my quick eyes
everywhere. By these means our patients will gain confidence and
tranquillity, and by a daily repetition, and the use of stronger
remedies we shall cure their wild fancies.”
“And if not?” I replied, with anxious doubt.
“Well then, by heavens!” he replied, with a loud laugh, “if I, without
having previously taken too much, see any thing, then--”
“Then?”
“Then, baron, you shall call me a fool, which, viewed in the proper
light, we are all by nature.”
Thus we parted, and it required much persuasion to prevail upon my
afflicted friend to consent to our experiment. His wife, to my
astonishment was more easily persuaded. She said, not without reason,
“I feel it, my life is drawing to a close, all help is vain, the nearer
death is, the better. So much the better if a new terror can crush me
like a stroke of lightning. And if the event which I anticipate does
not take place, then my last days will at least be free from this fear
and anxious horror; I shall be able to amuse and divert myself, and it
remains in the hand of Omnipotence whether I and my husband shall have
further hope of recovery.”
The third day was fixed upon for music, and a late hour in the evening
was appointed, because the countess, like most persons suffering from
fever felt it strongest at that time, and would thereby shorten the
night, as she seldom slept till morning. An instrument had been placed
in the room; more lights than were required were burning, and the
adjoining chamber likewise was brilliantly lighted, in order that no
doubtful shadow might be produced in the dark. Besides the easy chair
and sofa in the sitting-room, there was a couch, on which the countess
reposed in the day. The piano was placed against the wall, between two
windows, looking over the garden and some vineyards beyond. After tea,
the door being locked, the waiter and servant were dismissed; no one
remained but the countess’s attendant, a strong young woman, whom we
begged to keep up her spirits.
The countess took her seat at the instrument. The doctor stood beside
her, in order to observe her, as well as to overlook both rooms, while
I sat and stood alternately on the other side. Francis, in his
morning-gown and slippers, walked slowly up and down behind us, and the
attendant leaned against the open chamber-door.
At first the countess played faintly, uncertainly, and timidly. But by
degrees the beauty of the composition, and the consciousness of her
talent inspired her, and she played with precision and fire a humorous
and melodious fantasia. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed,
and a smile, full of soul, played upon her once beautiful mouth. The
doctor cast a triumphant glance at me, and by the strong light, the
mien and feature of every one in the room were distinctly visible. All
praised the performer, and the doctor gave her something to revive her.
She was as if inspired with new life, and confessed that she had not
felt so well for the last year. Poor Francis was in raptures, and his
tearful eyes were full of hope.
With the same arrangement we proceeded to the second piece, while she
played still more confidently, and with less exertion. Bravos and
applause accompanied her--when suddenly--a terrible shriek was
heard--how shall I describe it? Never were my ears rent by such
terrific sounds--it was some time after that I perceived that Francis
had uttered it--the candles burned with a blue flame, but yet there was
light enough.--And what a spectacle!--Francis, with foaming mouth, and
eyes starting from their sockets, was clasping a horrible spectre; and
wrestled with the withered hideous form. “You or I,” he now cried, and
it clasped him with its bony arms so firmly, pressed its crooked
deformed body so strongly against his, and its pale face so firmly
against his chest, that we all heard how in this struggle his bones
were crashing. The attendant had hastened to assist the countess, who
had fainted. The doctor and myself approached the count, just as he
threw the spectre with gigantic force on the couch, which creaked under
her. He stood erect. It lay on the couch like a cloud, like a dark
cover, and as we approached, it was gone.
Francis now felt all his bones broken, his last strength was
annihilated. In three days he was no more, and the physician found his
body much bruised. The countess never recovered from her state of
delirium, and two days afterwards she followed her beloved and
unfortunate husband to his early grave.
C. A. F.
[1] It is not impossible that this extraordinary speech may be intended
for an exposition of the doctrine of Fichte.--J. O.
[2] A beverage usually prepared of wine, brandy, sugar, and
pine-apples, or other fruit.
THE MOON.
BY JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER.
When, Oh Eugenius and Rosamond,--you, whom I may no longer designate by
your right names,--I was first about to tell your short history, my
friends and I walked into an English garden.[1] We went by a
new-painted coffin, on the foot-board of which was written: “I pass
away.” Above the verdant garden rose a white obelisk, with which two
sister-princesses had marked the spot where they now met and embraced,
and the inscription on which was: “Here we have found each other
again.” The point of the obelisk was glittering in the full moon, and
here I told my simple story. But do thou, gentle reader, draw--which
is as much as coffin and obelisk--draw, I say, the inscription on the
coffin into the ashes of oblivion, and write the letters of the obelisk
with pure human heart’s blood in thy inmost self.
Many souls drop from heaven like flowers; but, with their white buds,
they are trodden down into the mud, and lie soiled and crushed in the
print of a hoof. You also were crushed, Eugenius and Rosamond. Tender
souls like yours are attacked by three robbers of their joys--the mob,
whose rough gripe gives to such soft hearts nothing but scars; destiny,
which does not wipe away the tear from a fair soul full of brilliancy,
but the lustre should perish also, as we do not wipe a wet diamond,
lest it should grow dim; your own hearts which rejoice too much, and
enjoy too little, have too much hope, and too little power of
endurance. Rosamond was a bright pearl, pierced by anguish--parted
from all that belonged to her, she only quivered in her sorrows like a
detached twig of the sensitive plant at the approach of night--her life
was a quiet warm rain and that of her husband was a bright lost
sunshine. In his presence she averted her eyes, when they had just
been fixed on her sick child, that was only two years old, and was in
this life a wavering thin-winged butterfly, beneath a pelting shower.
The imagination of Eugenius, with its too large wings shattered his
slight, delicate frame; the lily bell of his tender body could not
contain his mighty soul; the place whence sighs originate, his breast,
was destroyed like his happiness. He had nothing left in the world but
his affectionate heart, and for that heart there were but two human
beings.
These persons wished, in the spring-time, to quit the whirlpool of
mankind, which beat so hardly and so coldly against their hearts. They
had a quiet cottage prepared for them on one of the high Alps opposite
to the silver chain of the Staubbach. On the first fine spring morning
they went the long road to the high mountain. There is a holiness
which sorrow alone can give in its purity; the stream of life becomes
white as snow when it is dashed against rocks. There is an elevation
where little thoughts no more intrude between sublime ones, as when
upon a mountain one sees the summits close to each other without their
connection in the depth below. Thou hadst that holiness, Rosamond, and
thou that elevation, Eugenius.
A morning mist was gathered round the foot of the mountain, and in that
three fluttering forms were suspended. These were the reflections of
the three travellers, and the timid Rosamond started, thinking she saw
herself. Eugenius thought, “That which the immortal spirit hath around
it is, after all, but a denser mist.” And the child snatched at the
cloud, and wished to play with its little misty brother. One single
invisible angel of the future accompanied them through life and up this
mountain. They were so good and like each other that one angel was all
they needed.
As they ascended the angel opened the book of fate, one leaf of which
contained the sketch of a three-fold life--every line was a day--and
when the angel had read the line that belonged to this day, he wept and
closed the book for ever.
The travellers, in their delicate condition, required nearly a day to
arrive at the desired spot. The earth crept back into the valleys, the
sky rested itself on the mountains. The waving, glimmering sun seemed
to our Eugenius a mirror of the moon, and he said to his beloved, when
the icy summits had already cast their flames upon the earth: “I feel
so weary, and yet so well. Will it not be as if we left two
dreams--the dream of life and the dream of death--if we enter the
cloudless moon as the first shore beyond the hurricanes of life?”
“It will be still better,” replied Rosamond, “for in the moon, as thou
hast taught me, dwell the little children of this earth, and their
parents remain with them till they themselves become as mild and
tranquil as children.” Then they proceed further.
“Ay, from heaven to heaven--from world to world!” said Eugenius,
ecstatically.
They ascended as the sun declined; when they climbed more slowly, the
mountain summits like rising, loosened branches, concealed them from
the luminary. They hastened on into the evening glimmer, which was
already advancing, but when they had reached the mountain where their
cottage stood, the eternal mountains stepped before the sun;--the earth
then veiled her graces and her cities, adoring heaven, before it looked
upon her with all its star-eyes, while the waterfalls laid aside their
rainbows,--and the earth spread higher for heaven, which was bending
over her with out-stretched cloud-arms, a gauze of golden exhalations,
and hung it from one mountain to another, and the icebergs were set on
fire, so that they glared even to midnight, while opposite to them on
the grave of the sun was raised a towering funeral pile of clouds,
forming the evening glow and the evening ashes. But through the
glimmering veil kind heaven let its evening tears fall deep into the
earth, even upon the humblest grass and the smallest flower.
Oh, Eugenius, how great then did thy soul become! The life of earth
lay at a distance and far below thee, free from all the distortions
which we see in it, because we stand too near it, as the decorations of
shorter scenes change from landscapes to mis-shapen strokes when we
look at them closely.