The forenoon bells were sounding from the great cathedral. On the open
place, men and women were moving in various directions, carriages
passing along, and priests going to their churches. Ferdinand stood
upon the stairs regarding the multitude, and contemplating those who
went up to be present at high mass. The sunshine glistened on the
white stones; every one sought shelter against the heat; he only had
been long standing in meditation, leaning against a pillar, under the
burning beams, without feeling them; for he was lost amid the
recollections which had risen up in his thoughtfulness. He thought on
his former life, and inspired himself with the feeling which had
penetrated his being, and extinguished all other wishes.
At the same hour he had stood here in the former year, to see the
women and maidens going to service; with listless heart and smiling
eye he had contemplated the various forms. Then there came across the
square a youthful form in black, tall and noble, her eyes modestly
cast before her on the ground; unembarrassed she ascended the stairs
with lovely grace; her silken dress lay around the most beautiful of
forms, and vibrated as in music about the moving limbs. She was going
to mount the highest step, when unconsciously she raised her eye, and
its azure beam met his glance. He was pierced as by lightning. She
stumbled, and quickly as he sprang forward, he could not hinder but
that for a moment she, in the most charming posture, lay kneeling at
his feet. He raised her; she looked not at him, but was all a blush,
nor answered his inquiry whether she was hurt. He followed her into
the church, and saw only the image as she had knelt before him, and
the loveliest of bosoms bent towards him. The following day he again
visited the threshold of the temple; for him the place was
consecrated. He had intended to take his departure, his friends were
impatiently expecting him at home; but now from henceforth this was
his father-land; his heart was inverted.
He saw her often--she did not shun him--yet only for separate and
stolen moments; for her rich family sufficiently watched her, still
more a powerful and jealous bridegroom. They confessed to each other
their love, but knew not in their situation what to counsel; for he
was a stranger, and could offer his beloved no such great fortune as
she was entitled to expect. Now he felt his poverty; yet when he
thought on his former way of life, he seemed to himself surpassingly
rich, for his existence was hallowed, his heart floated for ever in
the fairest emotion. Nature was now friendly to him, and her beauty
revealed to his meditations, he felt himself no longer a stranger to
devotion and religion; and now he trod this threshold, the mysterious
dimness of the temple, with far other feelings than in those days of
levity. He withdrew from his former acquaintances, and lived only to
love. Whenever he passed through her street, and only saw her at the
window, that day was for him a happy one. He had often spoken to her
in the twilight of evening, as her garden adjoined to that of a
friend, who, however, did not know his secret. Thus a year had
elapsed.
All these scenes of his new existence again passed through his
remembrance. He raised his eyes; that noble form was even then gliding
across the square--she lightened upon him from among the mixed
multitude as a sun. A lovely song sounded into his longing heart; and
as she approached, he stepped back into the church. He held towards
her the holy water; her white fingers trembled as they touched his;
she bowed graciously. He followed her, and knelt near her. His whole
heart melted away in melancholy and love; it seemed to him as if, from
the wounds of longing, his existence was bleeding away in ardent
prayers; every word of the priest thrilled through him, every tone of
the music gushed devotion into his bosom; his lips quivered as the
fair one pressed the crucifix of her rosary to her ruby mouth. How had
he not been able to comprehend this faith and this love before?
The priest raised the host, and the bell sounded. She bowed herself
more humbly, and crossed her breast. Like lightning it struck through
all his powers and feelings; and the altar-picture seemed alive--the
coloured dimness of the windows as a light of Paradise. Tears streamed
profusely from his eyes, and allayed the inward burning of his heart.
Divine service was ended. He again offered her the holy font; they
spoke some words, and she withdrew. He remained behind, not to excite
notice; he looked after her till the hem of her garment vanished round
the corner. Then he felt as the weary bewildered traveller, who in the
thick forest beholds the last gleam of the descending sun.
He awoke from his dream, as a dry, withered hand struck him on the
shoulder, and some one called him by name. He started back, and
recognised his friend the morose Albert, who lived apart from men, and
whose lonely house was open only to the young Ferdinand. "Are you
mindful of our engagement?" asked the hoarse voice.
"O, yes," said Ferdinand; "and will you keep your promise to-day?"
"This very hour," replied the other, "if you will follow me."
They walked through the city to a distant street, and there into a
large building.
"To-day," said the old man, "you must give yourself the trouble to go
with me to the back part of the house, into my most solitary chamber,
that we may not be at all disturbed."
They passed through many rooms, then up some stairs, and along several
passages; and Ferdinand, who had thought that he knew the house well,
now could not but wonder at the number of the apartments, as well as
the singular arrangement of the spacious building; but more than all,
that the old man, who was not married and had no family, should occupy
it alone, with only a single servant, and would never let out any
portion of the superfluous room to strangers. At length Albert
unlocked a door, and said, "Now we are at the place." They entered a
large and lofty chamber, hung round with red damask, that was trimmed
with golden listings; the seats were of the same stuff; and through
heavy red silk curtains, which were let down, there glimmered a purple
light.
"Wait a moment," said the old man, as he went into another room.
Ferdinand, in the mean time, took up some books, in which he found
strange unintelligible characters, circles and lines, together with
many curious plates; and from the little he could read, they seemed to
him to be works on alchemy: he knew, also, that the old man had the
reputation of being a gold-maker. On the table lay a lute, singularly
overlaid with mother-of-pearl and coloured wood, and representing
birds and flowers in splendid forms. The star in the middle was a
large piece of mother-of-pearl, worked out in the most skilful manner
into many intersecting circles, almost like the centre of a window in
a Gothic church.
"You are looking at my instrument," said Albert, who had now returned:
"it is two hundred years old; I brought it with me as a memorial of my
journey into Spain. But now leave all that, and take a seat."
They sat down at the table, which likewise was covered with red cloth;
and the old man placed something on it which was carefully wrapped up.
"From pity to your youth," he began, "I lately promised to foretell
you whether or not you could become happy; and this promise I am
willing to fulfil at the present hour, though you recently wished to
treat the matter as a jest. You need not alarm yourself, for what I
design can happen without danger. I shall make no dread incantations,
nor shall any horrible apparition terrify you. The thing which I shall
endeavour may fail in two ways; either if you do not love so truly as
you have wished to make me believe, for then my labour is in vain, and
nothing will shew itself; or if you should disturb the oracle, and
destroy it by a useless question, or by a hasty movement leaving your
seat, the figure would break in pieces. So you must keep yourself
quite still."
Ferdinand gave his word; and the old man unfolded from the cloths that
which he had brought with him. It was a golden goblet, of very costly
and beautiful workmanship: around its broad foot ran a wreath of
flowers, twined with myrtles and various other leaves and fruit,
highly chased with dim and brilliant gold. A similar ring, only
richer, adorned with figures of children, and wild little animals
playing with them, or flying before them, wound itself around the
centre of the cup. The chalice was beautifully turned; above, it was
bent back toward the lips; and within, the gold sparkled with a ruddy
glow. The old man placed the goblet between himself and the youth, and
beckoned him nearer.
"Do you not feel something," said he, "when your eye loses itself in
this splendour?"
"Yes," said Ferdinand; "this brightness reflects into my very inmost
being,--I might say, I feel it as a kiss in my longing bosom."
"It is right," said the old man. "Now let your eyes no more stray
around, but keep them fixed on the glance of this gold, and think as
earnestly as you can on your beloved."
Both sat still awhile, and, absorbed in contemplation, beheld the
gleaming cup. But soon the old man, with mute gesture, first slowly,
then more quickly, and at last with rapid movement, proceeded with
extended finger to draw regular circles around the glow of the goblet.
Then he paused, and took the circles from the opposite direction. When
he had thus continued for some time, Ferdinand thought he heard music,
but it sounded as from without in a distant street. Soon, however, the
tones came nigher; they struck on his ear louder and louder, and
vibrated more distinctly through the air; so that, at last, he felt no
doubt but that they issued from the interior of the goblet. The music
became still stronger, and of such penetrating power, that the heart
of the young man trembled, and tears rose into his eyes. Busily moved
the old man's hand in various directions across the mouth of the cup;
and it appeared as if sparks from his fingers were convulsively
striking and sounding on the gold. Soon the shining points increased,
and followed, as on a thread, the motion of his finger; they
glittered of various colours, and crowded still more closely on one
another, till they rushed altogether in continuous lines. Now it
seemed as if the old man in the red twilight was laying a wondrous net
over the brightening gold, for at will he drew the beams hither and
thither, and wove up with them the opening of the goblet: they obeyed
him, and remained lying like a covering, waving to and fro, and
playing into one another. When they thus were fastened, he again
described the circles around the rim; the music subsided, and became
softer and softer, till it could no longer be perceived; and the
bright net-work quivered, as if in agony. It burst in increasing
agitation, and the beams rained down drops into the chalice; but out
of the fallen drops arose a reddish cloud, which formed itself in
manifold circles, and floated like foam over the mouth of the cup. A
bright point darted up with the greatest rapidity through the cloudy
circles. There stood the image; and suddenly, as it were, an eye
looked out from the mist; above, golden locks flowed in ringlets;
presently a soft blush went up and down the quivering shade; and
Ferdinand recognised the smiling countenance of his beloved--the blue
eyes, the delicate cheeks, the lovely red mouth. The head waved to and
fro, raised itself more distinctly and visibly on the slender white
neck, and bowed towards the enraptured youth. The old man kept on
describing his circles around the goblet, and thereout issued the
glancing shoulders; and at last the whole of the lovely image pressed
from out the golden bed, and gracefully waved to and fro.
Ferdinand thought he felt the breath as the beloved form inclined
towards him, and almost touched him with burning lips. In his
ravishment he could no longer command himself, but impressed a kiss on
the mouth, and endeavoured to grasp the beautiful arm, and quite to
raise the lovely form out of its golden prison. Then a violent
trembling suddenly struck through the image, as in a thousand
fragments the head and body broke together; and a rose lay at the foot
of the goblet, in whose blush the sweet smile still appeared.
Ferdinand passionately seized it, and pressed it to his mouth. At his
ardent longing, it withered and dissolved away in the air.
"Thou hast badly kept thy word," said the old man, angrily: "thou
canst only impute the fault to thyself."
He again wrapped up his goblet, drew aside the curtains, and opened a
window. The clear daylight broke in; and Ferdinand, in a melancholy
mood, and with many apologies, took his leave of the murmuring old
man. He hastened with emotion through the streets of the city, and sat
down under the trees without the gate. She had told him in the morning
that she was to go that night with some relations into the country.
Intoxicated with love, he now sat, now wandered into the wood. Still
he beheld the fair form as it ascended from the glowing gold: he
expected to see her step forth in the splendour of her beauty, when
the fairest of shapes broke in pieces before his eyes; and he was
angry with himself that, through his restless desire and the
bewilderment of his senses, he had destroyed the image, and perhaps
his own happiness.
When, after the midday hour, the pathway began to be crowded, he
withdrew further into the thicket, but watchfully still kept his eye
upon the high-road, and curiously examined every carriage that issued
from the gate. Evening drew on, a red glimmer was thrown up by the
setting sun; when the richly gilded coach rushed out from the gate,
and shone brightly amid the evening glow. He hastened towards it.
Already her eye had sought his. Graciously smiling, she leaned her
fair bosom from the window. He caught her loving look and greeting.
Now he stood by the side of the carriage, her fall glance falling upon
him; and as she hastily drew back, the rose which had adorned her
bosom flew out, and lay at his feet. He hastily took it up and kissed
it; and it seemed to him as if it prophesied that he should no more
see his beloved one,--that now his happiness was destroyed for ever.
* * * * *
People were up and down stairs; the whole house was in commotion; all
were making a noise and bustle about the morrow's great festival. The
mother, as the most active, was also the most joyful. The bride heeded
nothing, but retired, meditating her destiny, into her own chamber.
They were still expecting the son, the captain and his wife, and two
elder daughters with their husbands. Meanwhile Leopold, a younger son,
was mischievously busy in increasing the noise and disorder,
perplexing every thing, while he pretended to further it. Agatha, his
still unmarried sister, endeavoured to make him reasonable, and to
persuade him to meddle with nothing, and to leave the others in peace.
But the mother said: "Do not disturb him in his folly; for to-day more
or less of it does not signify. Therefore I only beg you all that, as
I have already so much to think of, you will not trouble me about any
thing that is not absolutely necessary. If the china should be broken,
or some of the silver spoons be lost, or the strangers' servants break
the windows,--with such trifles do not vex me by recounting them. When
these days of disquiet are over, then we will have a reckoning."
"You are right, mother," said Leopold; "these are sentiments worthy of
a governor. Also, if some of the maids should break their necks--or
the cook get drunk, and set the chimney on fire--the butler, for joy,
let the malmsey run or be drunk out,--you shall hear nothing of such
childish tricks. But if an earthquake should overturn the
house,--that, dearest mother, it would be impossible to keep secret."
"When will he ever become wiser?" said the mother. "What will thy
sisters think, when they find thee again quite as foolish as they left
thee two years ago?"
"They must do my character the justice," replied the lively youth,
"that I am not so changeable as they or their husbands, who, in a few
years, have so very much altered, and not to their advantage."
The bridegroom now entered, and inquired for the bride. Her maid was
sent to call her.
"My dear mother," said he, "has Leopold made known to you my request?"
"That I cannot tell," she replied; "for, amid the disorder now in the
house, one can scarcely retain a reasonable thought."
The bride entered, and the young people saluted each other with joy.
"The request I meant," continued the bridegroom, "is, that you would
not take it ill if I brought yet another guest into your house, which,
in truth, is, for these days, too full already."
"You know yourself," said the mother, "that, spacious as the house is,
I could hardly find another chamber."
"Nevertheless," exclaimed Leopold, "I have partly provided for that,
by having the large room in the back of the house put in order."
"Why, that is not commodious enough," replied the mother; "for many
years it has been only used as a lumber-room."
"It is splendidly restored," said Leopold; "and the friend for whom it
is designed does not regard such matters--he is only anxious for our
love. Besides, he has no wife, and prefers to be in solitude; so that
it will be quite the place for him. We have had trouble enough to
persuade him, and bring him again amongst his fellow-creatures."
"Not, surely, your morose gold-maker and conjuror?" asked Agatha.
"No other," replied the bridegroom, "if you please to call him so."
"Then, dear mother, do not let him," continued the sister; "what
should such a man do in our house? I have sometimes seen him pass down
the street with Leopold; I have been frightened at his countenance.
The old sinner, too, almost never goes to church; he loves neither God
nor men; and it will bring no blessing on so solemn an occasion to
have such infidels under the roof. Who knows what may spring from it?"
"How now thou speakest!" said Leopold, angrily: "because thou dost not
know him, therefore thou condemnest him; and because his nose does not
please thee, and he is no longer young and handsome, therefore,
according to thy notion, he must be familiar with spirits, and a
wicked man."
"Grant, dear mother," said the bridegroom, "a little place in your
house to our old friend, and let him partake in our general joy. He
appears, dear sister Agatha, to have experienced much misfortune,
which has made him distrustful and misanthropic. He avoids all
society, with the exception of myself and Leopold. I have much to
thank him for: he first gave my mind a better direction; yea, I may
say, perhaps he alone has rendered me worthy of my Julia's love."
"He lends me all his books," continued Leopold; "and, what is more,
his old manuscripts; and, what is still more, money upon my bare word.
He has the Christian disposition, my little sister; and who knows but
that, when thou comest to be better acquainted with him, thou mayest
not forego thy prudery, and fall in love with him, odious as he
appears to thee at present?"
"Well, bring him to us," said the mother; "I have already been obliged
to hear so much about him from Leopold, that I am curious to make his
acquaintance. Only you must answer for it, that we cannot afford him a
better lodging."
In the mean while travellers had arrived; they were members of the
family, the married daughters and the officer, and had brought their
children with them. The good old lady was delighted to see her
grandchildren; all was welcoming and joyful talk; and when Leopold
and the bridegroom had also received and returned their salutations,
they went away to look after their ancient melancholy friend. This
latter lived, for the greater part of the year, about three miles from
the city; but he also kept a little dwelling for himself in a garden
near the gate. Here, by chance, the two young men had become
acquainted with him: they now met him at a coffee-house, as they had
previously appointed. As it was already evening, they after a little
conversation returned back to the house. The mother received the
stranger very graciously; the daughters kept themselves somewhat
distant; Agatha especially was shy, and carefully avoided his glance.
After the first general conversation was over, the eye of the old man
turned fixedly on the bride, who had come into the company later; he
appeared enraptured, and it was observed that he endeavoured secretly
to dry off a tear.
The bridegroom rejoiced in his joy; and when after some time, they
stood aside at the window, he took the hand of the old man, and asked
him, "What do you say of my beloved Julia? Is she not an angel?"
"O my friend," replied the old man, with emotion, "such beauty and
grace I have never yet seen; or rather I should say (for that
expression is incorrect), she is so beautiful, so charming, so
heavenly, that it seems to me as if I had long known her; as if she
were to me, stranger as she is, the dearest picture of my imagination,
that which had ever been at home within my heart."
"I understand you," said the young man. "Yes, the truly beautiful,
great, and sublime, when it sets us in astonishment and admiration,
still does not surprise us as something strange, unheard-of, never
seen; but our inmost existence in such moments becomes clear to us,
our deepest recollections are awakened, and our dearest feelings are
made alive."
At the supper the stranger took but little part in the conversation;
his gaze was intensely fixed upon the bride, so that, at length, she
became embarrassed and alarmed. The officer told of a campaign, which
he had served in; the rich merchant, of his merchandise, and the bad
times; and the landowner, of the improvements he had begun on his
estate. After supper, the bridegroom took his leave, to return for the
last time to his lonely habitation; for in future he was to live with
his young wife in the mother's house, in chambers already furnished.
The company separated, and Leopold conducted the stranger to his
apartment.
"You will excuse it," he began, as they went along, "that we are
obliged to lodge you somewhat far away from us, and not so
commodiously as my mother wished: but you see yourself how numerous
our family is, and other relations are coming to-morrow. You will, at
least, not be able to run away from us, for certainly you could not
find your way out of this spacious mansion."
They went through several passages, and at last Leopold took leave of
his friend, and wished him good night. The servant placed two
wax-lights on the table, and having asked the stranger if he should
assist him to undress, which service being declined, he also withdrew;
and the stranger found himself alone.
"How, then, does it happen," said he, as he walked up and down, "that
to-day that image springs so vividly from my heart? I forgot the long
past, and thought I saw herself; I was again young, and her voice
sounded as of old; it seemed to me as if I was awaking from a heavy
dream; but no, now I am awake, and the pleasing delusion was only a
sweet dream."
He was too restless to sleep: he contemplated some pictures on the
walls, and then the chamber. "To-day," he exclaimed, "every thing is
so familiar, I could almost delude myself to imagine that this house
and this apartment are not strange to me." He tried to fix his
recollections, and took up some large books which were standing in a
corner. When he had turned over the leaves, he shook his head: a
lute-case was leaning against the wall; he opened it, and took out a
strange old instrument, which was damaged and wanted the strings.
"No, I am not mistaken," he cried, astonished; "this lute is too
remarkable--it is the Spanish lute of my long-deceased friend Albert;
there stand his magic-books; this is the room where he wished to
awaken for me the happy oracle: faded is the red of the tapestry, the
golden embroidery is become dim; but wonderfully vivid in my mind is
all pertaining to those hours. Therefore it was that I shuddered as I
came hither through those long, complicated passages where Leopold led
me. O heaven, on this very table rose the image, springing forth as if
watered and refreshed by the redness of the gold. The same image
smiled on me here, which this evening has almost made me frenzied in
the hall--that hall where I have so often walked in familiar speech
with Albert."
He undressed, but slept only little. Early in the morning he arose,
and again surveyed the room; he opened the window and saw as formerly
the same gardens and buildings before him, only that in the mean time
many new houses had been built. "Forty years have since then
vanished," he sighed, "and each day of that time contains a longer
life than all the remaining period."
He was again called to the company. The morning passed away in varied
conversation; at length the bride entered in her marriage-dress. As
the old man noticed her he fell into such agitation, that every one in
the company observed it. They proceeded to the church, and the nuptial
ceremony was performed.
When they had returned to the house, Leopold asked his mother, "Now
how do you like our friend, the good morose old man?"
"I had imagined him, from your description," she replied, "to be much
more frightful; he is indeed mild and sympathetic, and might gain from
one a real trust in him."
"Trust!" exclaimed Agatha; "in those frightful burning eyes, those
thousandfold wrinkles, that pale contracted mouth, and that strange
laugh which looks and sounds so scornfully! No, God preserve me from
such a friend! If evil spirits wish to clothe themselves as men, they
must assume such a form as this."
"Probably a younger and handsomer one," replied the mother; "but I
cannot recognise the good old man in thy description. One can see that
he is of a hasty temperament, and has been used to lock up his
feelings within himself; he may have experienced much misfortune, and
so is become mistrustful, and has lost that simple openness which
especially belongs to those who are happy."
Their conversation was interrupted by the coming in of the rest of the
party. Dinner was served, and the stranger sat by Agatha and the rich
merchant.
When the toasts were beginning, Leopold cried out, "Now stop a little,
my worthy friends; we must have the festal goblet for this, which
shall then go the round."
He was about to rise, but his mother beckoned him to keep his seat.
"Thou wilt not be able to find it," she said; "for I have packed all
the plate away." She went out hastily to seek it herself.
"How active and sprightly our old lady is to-day," observed the
merchant, "for all her breadth and weight! and though she reckons full
sixty, how nimbly she can move! Her countenance is always bright and
joyful, and to-day is she especially happy, for she makes herself
young again in the beauty of her daughter."
The stranger applauded his saying, and the mother returned with the
goblet. They filled it full of wine, and from the head of the table
began to pass it round, each proposing the health that was dearest.
The bride drank the welfare of her husband; he, the love of his fair
Julia; likewise every one in his turn. The mother lingered as the
goblet came to her.
"Now quickly," said the officer, somewhat roughly and hastily; "we
know well that you think all men faithless, and not one of them worthy
of a woman's love. What, then, is dearest to you?"
The mother looked at him, as an angry seriousness suddenly overspread
the mildness of her countenance. "As my son," said she, "knows me so
well, and so severely blames my disposition, let me be permitted not
to express what I was thinking, and let him endeavour by his constant
love to falsify what he attributes to me as my conviction." She passed
on the cup without drinking, and the company was for some time in
silent embarrassment.
"It is reported," said the merchant, in an under-tone, leaning over to
the stranger, "that she did not love her husband, but another who
proved faithless to her; they say she was once the handsomest maiden
in all the town."
When the goblet came to Ferdinand, he looked at it with astonishment,
for it was the very same from which Albert had aforetime called up to
him the beautiful shadow. He looked down into it and on the waving of
the wine; his hand trembled; it would not have surprised him had that
form again bloomed forth from the magic bowl, and therewith his
evanished youth. "No," said he, after some time; "that which glows
here is wine."
"What else should it be?" said the merchant, laughing. "Drink, and be
happy."
A thrill of terror struck the old man, as he hastily pronounced the
name, "Francesca!" and placed the goblet to his burning lips. The
mother cast on him an inquiring and astonished look.
"Whence is this beautiful goblet?" said Ferdinand, who was ashamed of
his embarrassment.
"Many years ago," replied Leopold; "even before I was born, my father
bought it, with this house and all the furniture, from an old lonely
bachelor, a reserved man, whom all the neighbourhood considered a
magician."
Ferdinand did not like to say that he had known that man; for his
whole soul was too much perplexed, as it were in a strange dream, to
let the rest look into it, even from a distance.
After the cloth was removed, Ferdinand was left alone with the mother,
while the young people withdrew to make preparations for the ball.
"Sit down by me," said she; "we will rest, for our dancing years are
past; and, if the question is not too bold, pray tell me if you have
ever seen our goblet elsewhere, or what was it that so very much moved
you?"
"O, gracious lady," cried the old man, "pardon me my foolish vehemence
and emotion, for since I have been in your house I feel as if I were
no longer myself; every moment I forget that my hair is grey, that my
loved ones are dead. Your beautiful daughter, who now celebrates the
happiest day of her life, is so like a maiden whom I knew and adored
in my youth, that I regard it as a miracle. But no, not like, that
expression is too weak, she is her very self. Here, also, in this
house have I often been, and once in the strangest manner became
acquainted with this goblet." Hereupon he related to her his
adventure. "On the evening of that day," he concluded, "I saw for the
last time my beloved one, in the park as she went into the country. A
rose fell from her, this I have preserved; but she herself was lost to
me, for she became faithless, and soon after married."
"Merciful God!" cried the old lady, starting with emotion; "surely
thou art not Ferdinand!"
"That is my name," said he.
"And I am Francesca," replied the mother.
They wished to embrace, but immediately started back. Each
contemplated the other with searching glance; both endeavoured to
develop again out of the ruins of time those features which erewhile
they had known and loved in one another. And as in dark tempestuous
nights, amid the flight of black clouds, for a few fleeting moments
solitary stars ambiguously glimmer, immediately again to
disappear,--so shone for the time to these two, lightening from the
eyes, the brow, and lips, a transient glimpse of some well-known
feature, and it seemed as if their youth wept smiling in the distance.
He bowed himself low, and kissed her hand, as two big tears burst
from his eyes; then they embraced each other heartily.
"Is thy wife dead?" asked the mother.
"I was never married," sobbed Ferdinand.
"Heavens!" cried the lady, wringing her hands; "then I have been the
faithless one! Yet no, not faithless. When I returned from the
country, where I stayed two months, I heard from every one, from thy
friends, not from mine only, that thou hadst long since gone away and
been married in thy fatherland. They shewed me the most credible
letters, and pressed me vehemently, availing themselves as well of my
despair as of my indignation; and so it happened that I gave my hand
to another, a deserving man; but my heart, my thoughts, were ever
devoted to thee."
"I never removed from this place," said Ferdinand; "but after a time I
heard of thy marriage. They wished to part us, and they have
succeeded. Thou art a happy mother; I live in the past: and all thy
children I will love as if they were my own. But how wonderful that we
should never since have met!"
"I seldom went abroad," said she; "and as my husband soon after
assumed another name on account of an estate which he inherited, you
could have had no suspicion that we both were living in the same
city."
"I avoided men," said Ferdinand, "and lived only to solitude. Leopold
is almost the only one that has again drawn me forth and led me
amongst men. O my beloved friend, it is like a horrible spectre-story,
how we lost and have again found each other!"
The young people, on their return, found the old couple dissolved in
tears and in the deepest emotion. Neither told what had befallen them;
the secret seemed too holy. But from that time the old man was the
friend of the house; and death alone parted the two beings who in so
strange a manner had again found each other, in order shortly after to
be re-united.