persuade me to take a walk and not to sit so much at home. It was so
fine on the Wassermauer. So many people were to be seen there; she was
sure it would divert me. I could not make her understand that all I
wished was to collect my thoughts, and not to divert them; and that I
did not feel the slightest desire for the company of strangers. At
last, I convinced her by declaring that I was still so weak and so
tired with the journey that the two steep stairs were as yet too much
for me. Then she left me, and I continued to write.
I have been obliged to put aside my embroidery; it now hurts my chest.
I had even to send away my landlord's little girls to whom I had
intended to give sewing-lessons.
To-day a doubt weighs on my mind. It seized me suddenly for the first
time on waking this morning, and came upon me with great force and
persistence. I want to solve it now. Strange, that it should not have
struck me sooner. I was so fully convinced that I was doing right! I
knew that no one would miss me at home, that my father felt pained at
every unkind look my step-mother gave me, that I could no longer be of
use even to Ernest, since my step-mother had insisted, in spite of his
tender age, on sending him to school, only to avoid seeing him, and
having to take care of him.
My father shed tears when he clasped me for the last time in his arms;
still my departure relieved him. He wished what is best for me, but
what can he do?
This morning, however, the question suddenly occurred to me, whether I
had not left other duties; whether any human being, not utterly
disabled, has a right to sit down idly or go holiday making for a whole
winter. Only since I have felt happy; since the littlenesses of the
empty commonplace provincial life have ceased to oppress me, have I
begun to question myself as to what right I had to enjoyment, more than
all those thousands to whom death is not more distant, than it is to
me, and who are forced to strive and wrestle to their last breath, and
here am I closing a truce with the enemy, and celebrating a festival as
if I had been victorious.--
7th October.
That question for which my poor head could find no answer, I have
solved to-day when I came home as shattered from my first walk as if I
had laboured for a day in chains. No, I am fit for nothing but rest,
and if it taste sweeter to me than to many, that cannot be a cause for
self-reproach. Am I not more easily contented than others? If I am of
no use, am I a burden to any one? Even if I did not avail myself of the
small inheritance left me by my mother, but kept it intact for my
brother Ernest, would it exempt him from the necessity of supporting
himself by his own exertions? Part of it will probably remain for him,
for as I experienced to-day, my strength is already scantier than I had
imagined. Who can tell how short my winter in the South may be? I shall
not frequent the walk under the poplars. To-day I felt uneasy among
those poor, coughing, dressed up people, who tottered about with their
baskets full of grapes, and seemed eagerly to imbibe new hope with each
berry. By those whose faces expressed hopelessness, I felt still less
attracted. It may sometimes be soothing to frequent the society of
fellow-sufferers; but when the same fate creates totally different
feelings, then that which could otherwise unite only separates, and one
feels all the more forcibly the difference of character. Not to one of
them, would I have ventured to speak of the peaceful and grateful mood
I enjoyed. They would either have looked upon me as an eccentric
enthusiast, or thought me a hypocrite.
Can they be blamed for it? Possibly I too might have feared death had I
loved life more. And why was my life so little loveable?
Only a few can understand the deep feeling of immensity, and peace with
which nature fills my soul. For two and twenty years I never set foot
beyond the walls of a small uninteresting commonplace town. In these
days people travel much. But for the long illness of my mother, and
after her death, the care of my little brother, I too would probably
have wandered forth from that desolate little place. This beautiful
valley already seems to me like the world to come, like a true Garden
of God. The first time I inhaled this air, I felt as if I already
glided over the earth, borne on the wings of my soul. It was certainly
a pity that they did not support me better as I toiled up the steep
narrow stairs, but what business had I to descend them, when every
glance through my windows is an excursion into Paradise.
The people with whom I lodge are very poor. The man works till late at
night, and his wife has enough to do, attending to the wants of her
large family. The inside of the house looks dusky and gloomy. When the
porter of the hotel who from the simplicity of my dress inferred great
meagreness of purse, first took me through the long dark passages, and
the gloomy courts, and we scrambled up the delapidated staircase, over
the landing where dusty furniture, old spinning-wheels, beds, earthen
ware and provisions of maize lay in confused heaps, and the spiders,
undisturbed for many years, spun their webs, I felt oppressed and my
heart beat so that I had to rest at every third step. But the first
glance at my small low room reconciled me quickly to the thought
that this was to be my last earthly habitation. That old fashioned
writing-table with the brass mountings looks like the twin-brother of
the one which stood in my dear mother's room. That arm-chair is just as
high and heavy, and as brown with age, as the one she used. A few bad
prints on the wall, which disturbed me, I immediately took down, and
hung up the portraits of my parents instead. It now seems to me as if I
had been at home here for years. In one of the corners on a black
wooden console stands a crucifix which though I have not been brought
up to it, causes me deep reflection. I have received all my books. My
father sent them after me and now I want nothing more. At the same time
he wrote me just such a letter as I expected from him. That trait of
conforming oneself to what is unalterable without further struggle, I
have inherited from him. Six lines from Ernest to tell me that he is
very happy at school with his little comrades, and a greeting from my
stepmother; at least, the letter contains one, but probably my father
has added it without asking. Now I will write home. How much more
freely could I do so, if I knew that my letters reached my father's
hands only.
The 10th--Evening.
What strange people one meets with! An hour ago I was sitting, quite
unsuspicious of any interruption, at my window reading, and enjoying
the mild evening breeze--the sun now sets at five o'clock behind the
Marlinger mountain, yet the air retains the mildness of a summer
evening, and the tips of the high mountains to the East, a ruddy glow,
for many hours longer--when there came a knock at the door, and a short
stout lady, quite unknown to me, entered coolly, and introduced herself
to me, expressing a most cordial desire to make my acquaintance. She
had seen me on the Wassermauer the only time I had walked there, and
had immediately taken a great interest in me, for I was evidently very
ill and very lonely, and she had resolved to speak to me the next time
we met, hoping to be of some use to me.
"For you must know, my dear child, that I, as I stand before you, am
fifty-nine years old, and have not been ill for one day, except during
my confinements. My two sons, and three daughters are also, thank
heaven, perfectly healthy, and are all of them married and settled in
life. But you see I have always had a passion from my earliest youth
for helping those people who were not so well off as I am, for nursing
the sick, and for rendering the last offices to the dying. My late
husband used to call me the privileged life preserver; you cannot
imagine a better nurse than I am, for you see I am of a generation when
professional ones were as yet unknown. I can easily do without sleep,
and can even assist at any operation without the least show of
weakness. I have come here with a friend of mine who cannot last much
longer. When the poor thing is released from her sufferings, I shall
have more time at my disposal than now; she has always to entreat me to
leave her and take some exercise--and so my dear child if you want
support, advice, or help, apply to no one but me; you must solemnly
promise me this. Of course I will no longer allow you to spend your
days all alone. I will often come to see you. I never stand on ceremony
with my friends, and so you must take it kindly if I tyrannize over
you--it will be all for your good. I understand nervous complaints as
well as the best of doctors--amusements, air, excitement, are the
remedies I prescribe. _A propos_, which doctor have you consulted
here?" I answered that I had not applied to any, neither intended to do
so as I knew that my malady was incurable. She shook her head
incredulously, so I took from my portfolio a sheet of paper on which
our doctor had drawn a sort of representation, to shew how far the
disease in my lungs had spread. She examined it with experienced eyes.
"My dear child," she at last said, "this is all nonsense, the doctors
are all the same, the more they talk, the less they know. I could lay
any wager that your interior has a totally different aspect from this."
I told her that she had every prospect of being able to ascertain this,
but that I declined the wager, as unfortunately I could not win it
whilst alive. She only partly listened to what I said, and she
continued in so loud a voice that it pierced to my very marrow, to give
me an account of different illnesses which tended to shew how little
doctors were to be relied on, accompanying it with so many details,
that it would have made me sick, if I had not had courage and presence
of mind enough to cry for mercy. At length she rose, and in taking
leave she made a movement as if to embrace me, and was evidently
surprised when I coldly and stiffly gave her my finger tips. She
rustled out of the room in great haste, and with many promises to
return soon. I had to sit for half an hour with closed eyes to calm my
nerves. A sharp odour of acetic ether which surrounded her and which
she strongly recommended to me as a powerful neurotic, is still
prevalent in the room, and those sharp peering eyes, and the determined
expression of philanthropy in her broad face still haunt me. Only the
thought, that for some days at least, I was safe from another invasion,
gave me some consolation. But my former _tete-a-tete_ with destiny;
that which gave a peculiar charm to this place are now lost to me,
unless I speak to her yet more intelligibly; and that, even in a case
of self-defence, would be most painful to me.
And is this human sympathy! The few who love us pain us by it, because
we see that they suffer with us--and those who do not love us--can they
please us? "Only beggars know, what beggars feel" I once read in
Lessing. But can beggars give alms?--
The next Morning.
I have had a restless night. I am so little in the habit of speaking,
and being spoken to that the shrill voice of the charitable lady still
resounds in my ears. In my dreams I had a fierce quarrel with her, till
at last she took off her fair front and threw it in my face--I woke up
with a shudder and bathed in perspiration. What rude things I had said
to her, among others that I would bequeath to her my lungs, preserved
in spirits of wine. How exceedingly impolite we are in our dreams!
I dressed myself hastily, but even now I am in terror of another
invasion--my humble little corner, where I had hoped to die
peacefully--this too has been disturbed. Even here I cannot find quiet!
I really must go out and try to find some safer hiding-place.
In the Afternoon.
To-day I have met with great events and have boldly surmounted
them--first a high mountain then an adventure with a savage--finally I
have revelled in nature, and solitude to intoxication. And although I
am so tired that I have to summon all my energy every time. I raise my
hand to dip my pen in the ink, yet I have renewed my inward strength,
and have got over the effect of last night's encounter. Now I could
boldly confront a whole company of coffee drinking sisters with false
fronts.
How beautiful is my burial place, how marvellous the light that streams
on it. I fancied that I had already remarked the magical effects of
this light, but find that only to-day the scales have really dropped
from my eyes. Seriously I believe that what we in the north call
_sunshine_ is only an imitation of it, a cheap mixture of light and
air, a sort of gilded bronze in comparison with the real solid
priceless gold which is lavished here.
I moved slowly up the cool and gloomy Laubengasse[4] where a shiver
always seizes me and a peculiar oppression stops my breath. Then I
reached the small Platz with the fine old church. The Platz appeared
all black and red with the costumes of the peasants of the
neighbourhood, and of the valley of the Passer. Their trim holiday
dress consists of a short dark jacket with red facings, red waistcoats,
and broad brimmed hats. Most of the people are fine-looking and
stately, the men however, much handsomer than the women. Of the latter,
I have only remarked since I came, two pretty faces with regular
features.
As it was a peasant's holiday, they stood about in dense groups and
none of them took the least notice of the suffering stranger who glided
past their clumsy elbows. Over the whole Platz hung a thick cloud of
acrid tobacco smoke, which gave me a fit of coughing, so I preferred to
go round the church rather than endeavour to push my way through the
uncivil crowd.
In the buttresses of the church, old tomb stones were immured. On one
of them I read an inscription so full of meek resignation that I was
greatly touched by it. One, Ludovica, was buried underneath it in the
year 1836. I will write down the inscription, I learnt it by heart:
"Separate they lived, and lonely,
Father, mother, and only child
Till death had them together bound.
In blessedness themselves they found,
For aye and ever now united.
So the early fading of the rose,
Is to be envied; it is repose."
The quiet and fervent tone of these verses accompanied me for many
hours. I walked pensively along the narrow streets up to an old gateway
which leads through a weather-beaten tower, scarred with French
bullets, into the valley of the Passeier. The view which from thence
suddenly opened before me filled me with awe, by its strangeness,
beauty, and grandeur. I sat down for half an hour on a large stone
beside the gateway, from whence a steep path leads to the Kuechelberg,
and up to an old tower, formerly a powder-magazine, which now
peacefully keeps watch over the vineyards like a pensioned veteran.
Just before me on a rock which projects from the Kuechelberg, I
perceived the ruins of Zenoburg, and considered whether my strength
would carry me thus far on the broad and uncared for road, or if I
should content myself with crossing the stone bridge from whence I
could see the cheerful village of Obermais. A woman approached me with
a basket of grapes and peaches on her head. I bought some fruit and
after eating it felt invigorated. So I set off, pausing at every step
to look down on the Passer whose water now dark blue, now flaked with
white foam, flowed through the arch of the bridge. How boldly yet
lightly the vines hang from the rugged rocks on the banks of the river;
among them grows the wild fig-tree covered with purple fruit. Running
water conducted in canals refreshes the leaves, and now and then turns
a wheel. Large chesnut-trees rise from the depths. Everywhere luxuriant
growth and rejoicing nature meets the eye. Mine rested with especial
pleasure on the varied colouring of the rocks; here of a warm brownish
tint, there of a silvery grey. How picturesque those peasants, in their
bright costumes look, coming down from the Kuechelberg, and that cart or
rather two wheeled sledge, drawn by strong whitish grey oxen, and laden
with vine-leaves, descending the Zenoburg. And above all a sky the
colour of which, I had held till now, to be a fiction of poets, and
painters. While I so walked on and wondered, I said to myself this is
all mine this is my joy and no one can take it from me. Could it be
more mine if instead of, for one moment, I had looked on it for
centuries? Who can say if the best part of every pleasure does not
consist in its transientness; how otherwise could the happy ever grow
tired of their bliss....
I had probably walked on too fast while thinking of all this, so that
when I reached the top of the hill, I had to rest on a bench which
stood before a pretty house. My eyes closed in involuntary slumber. All
was still around me, only the Meran church bells which deafened me
below sounded softly up here and lulled me to sleep. How pleasantly we
dream in the mid-day sunshine, when the light penetrates our closed
eyelids, and blends in our fancy, with the marvellous colours and rays
which have nothing tangible or earthly in them. Sitting quite still for
some time, I probably went to sleep, but suddenly I started up as I
felt something cold and moist touch my hand; it was nothing worse than
the nose of a large dog, who standing beside his master, watched me
curiously. But the appearance of the latter was so horrible, that I
would willingly have believed it to be a dream, to be got rid of by
speaking and moving. It was a tall bearded man whose age I could not
define. His hair hung over his forehead, he wore a heavy and enormous
hat, covered by a wilderness of cock's feathers, fox tails, and strange
furs, casting a fierce shade over his eyes, which however as I remarked
afterwards, had a most innocent and harmless expression. Probably I
plainly showed my terror, for the mysterious apparition, which seemed
to have risen from one of the old tombs of the Zenoburg, laughed
good-naturedly, holding a very small pipe between his even white teeth,
he told me not to be frightened. He was only a Saltner, who watched the
vineyards, and as I had entered his district he requested a penny for
tobacco. In my consternation, I gave him half a florin in silver, and
hastily turned away, as I did not feel quite secure in the close
proximity of his bright spear. But the piece of silver which is scarce
here, or perhaps a holiday humour made the giant quite tame and
officious. He walked without ceremony by my side, and noticing that I
climbed with difficulty, he energetically supported my arm with his
great paw. I had to put a good face on the matter, and indeed; ended by
being thankful for his help, as I could hardly have managed to ascend
alone the last steep bit on which the ruins of the castle stand. It
struck me how reserved he was in his questions, and how communicative
about his own affairs. Comparing this charitable brother with the
uncharitable sister, who had visited me yesterday, how much more
elevated was the natural feeling of this peasant, than the obtrusive
refinement of the so-called higher classes.--On the top of the hill it
was indeed beautiful. With the exception of a small chapel and a
solitary tower which remain intact, the castle is in ruins; only a few
fragments of walls, thickly covered with ivy, are standing. Luxuriant
grass grows beneath them, tribes of lizards rustle over the sunny
stones. Tangled creepers of every description hang over the walls, and
far below, so that a falling stone would dash perpendicularly into the
water, the unruly Passer flows underneath the shelving rocks at the
foot of the hill.
My armour bearer pointed out to me, on the opposite heights towards the
south, many old castles and small villages, where the vine cultivators
live, and told me the names of the different mountains, as I
comfortably sat on the grass with his dog lying beside me.
At noon the church bells rang; he ceased talking took the three
cornered hat off his head and the pipe from his mouth, and crossing
himself devoutly, he prayed in silence. When the sounds had died away,
he put his hat on again, puffed at his pipe, and asked me if I were
hungry.
I answered in the affirmative, but said I was still too much exhausted
to undertake my homeward journey. Without a word he descended the hill
with stalwart strides, and disappeared.
Ten minutes later a little girl carrying a basin of milk, some bread
and a piece of the fete-day roast, hurried up the hill and looked about
for me, then silently and timidly placed the very welcome refreshment
before me. After many vain attempts, I at last coaxed the child to
speak to me. She told me that the Saltner had ordered it all for me in
the house below; he himself was busy in the vineyards, and would not
come again. The child then ran away and left me alone to feast in this
delightful solitude. Never had I eaten a more delicious meal. I was
quite ashamed of having consumed all, and having to carry back the
empty dishes.
With difficulty I persuaded the good people to accept some money;
probably the Saltner had forbidden them to take any. In vain I looked
for him on my back. I do not even know his name.
Is this not quite an adventure? and have I not reason to note this day.
October the 12th--Morning.
This morning on waking, I thought how strange it is, that each
different class should envy the supposed freedom of the other, although
no true freedom can be found where the sense of this difference of
classes exists. Perhaps while I am casting a longing glance at the life
of these poor peasants who pass their days among vines, fields of
maize, and mulberry-trees, and who know as little of the hundred narrow
conventional considerations of propriety which rule the so-called
refined classes than the silk worm knows of the glittering misery which
may one day be covered by his web; to them the life of a town lady who
if she chose might spend her days in waltzing may seem a life of
supreme happiness and freedom. They are tied to their labour hour after
hour, and when they rest on Sundays they can as little free themselves
from the tedious customs which confine their enjoyments, as they can in
the heat of a summer-day, exchange the heavy woollen skirt with the
hundreds of plaits, for a lighter dress.
The educated classes certainly have this advantage that they _can_
emancipate themselves when they will, but still would such a one not be
blamed by his equals, just as peasant is blamed when he goes out
shooting in the harvest time? Altogether....
1 _o'clock_.
No I will not bear this any longer, if I had to challenge the whole
world for it. The dying surely need not lie, need not submit to be
tormented, and smile complacently all the while. I am so revolted and
harassed--my nerves are so bruised, that I wish for a speaking trumpet
to be able to declare through it at the open window, my most solemn
renunciation of all society; unfortunately my tormentors are dining at
this moment, but this must happen sooner or later.
I will have an iron bolt to my door of an hundred pounds weight, and an
iron mask for my face when I take a step out of my room.
The landlady has just brought up my dinner; well it may get cold, I
have no appetite for it. My heart is beating fast with anger and
agitation.
I am sick to death of all the talking that has been buzzing in my ears,
and could no more be stopped than the stream which turns that wheel
beside the bridge. That at least legitimates its noise by its useful
activity.
Among all the good things I had to say of yesterday, I forgot to
mention the vain attempt of "the life-preserver" to see me. Now I
thought she will have at all events remarked that I do not wait for her
permission to breathe the fresh air and for the future will let the
light of her charity shine on more grateful beings. I little knew her.
Whilst I was writing I heard her step coming up the stairs, and laying
aside my diary, I quickly took a letter which I had begun from my
portfolio, and intrenched myself behind it, determined to defend myself
to the last drop of ink.