really is called--I heard an acquaintance address him by that name. We
sat for a long time together on a bench amidst the evergreen shrubs in
the winter garden for underneath the poplars the air is now getting too
sharp. Society seems to have reconciled itself to the unpardonable and
unheard of crime, committed by two candidates for death, in talking to
each other, and no longer disturbs us. So to-day we had a remarkable
conversation. It began, instead of ending, as such conversations when
they are earnest and agitated are apt to do, by the utterance of the
most hidden thoughts which are usually kept back, till, after having
turned over different questions, they suddenly break forth in the
ardour of the contest. It was not the first time that I experienced in
myself a habit of thinking aloud. To my own great astonishment I, this
time suddenly took heart, and poured forth my most hidden and unavowed
thoughts and feelings; so that when the words, I was uttering struck my
ear I felt quite frightened at my audacity in harbouring such strange
ideas, and still more in delivering them to a stranger. It sometimes
really appears to me as if I had two characters within me--the one
spirited, out spoken, and clever, and this one seldom shews itself--the
other, silly and girlishly shy, which sits by in fear and trembling
when the other speaks, and cannot muster courage to interrupt it. I
forget what gave rise to this conversation. I only remember that before
I knew what I was saying I found myself in the midst of an eager, and
passionate sermon. The subject I treated was "the fear of death," which
is so plainly written in many faces around us, and also in his pale
quiet features. I have now forgotten the greatest part of my lecture,
though as the words flowed from my tongue it pleased me much and seemed
to me impossible to be refuted. I only remember that the text of my
sermon were the words of Goethe: "For I was made man, and that means,
that I have striven"----etc. "Why then if we are all combatants," I
began, "Who sooner or later must perish beside their colours, why
should it be a disgrace to those only who bear arms by profession to
meet death with cowardice; why should it not also be considered
repugnant to the esprit de corps, and the honour of humanity in
general, to cling to life with groanings and lamentations when danger
approaches. Soldiers who slink away on the eve of a battle are brought
back dishonoured and disgraced, and are thought too despicable to be
allowed to fight in the ranks of the brave. Why should a dying man who
prays for a respite of days, and hours, and even minutes, not forfeit
our sympathy and obtain only a little pity for his weakness?" So it was
I spoke. I felt like an old trooper who exhorts his men before they
commence the assault on an entrenchment. I believe that at that moment,
if the whole of the society had gathered around me to listen, my ardour
would only have increased. In the midst of my harangue, I cast a look
over the beautiful landscape which lay bathed in sunshine and it seemed
to inquire of me whether it were so very contemptible not to close
ones' eyes readily on all we have learnt to love, when we do not know,
when and how they will open again or whether they will like the change.
But this mute interrogation did not disconcert me; I had an answer all
ready; so I continued: "What you have once enjoyed is yours for ever.
What has time to do with our immortal soul? and if the soul be
immortal, will not the best part of our life, our love, all that we
have striven, and yearned for be purified and increased, and remain
ours for ever. And how few really happy sensations do we owe to that
which we shall leave here below. How many delusions cling to our
dearest friendships, must cling to them for in the midst of our
enjoyment we feel restless, and dissatisfied! Then why not leave with a
serene countenance this dreary world, where the brightest light throws
the darkest shade?"--I could have talked on for ever, had not a
vehement fit of coughing cut short my power of speech. Then only did I
consider what effect all this might have on my silent and melancholy
companion and whether it would not have been better to wait till our
acquaintance had ripened somewhat, before I displayed my small
knowledge of life and death. That which was a specific for me, his
nature might not be strong enough to bear, and then what good would it
do him? Should I not appear to him as hard and obtrusive as the lady
without nerves had appeared to me. Had I the least right to force my
aid and advice on him? However the words had been said and could not be
recalled. He remained buried in thought for full ten minutes, and left
me time to reproach myself bitterly. Then he began in a grave and
affectionate tone to dispel my fears. He said that he agreed to every
word I had spoken, and that as he took a great interest in me, it
pleased him to see me meet my fate so well armed, and with so much
fortitude; but that human destinies were different. "It is unjust," he
continued, "to expect from the sick the same strength and courage,
which we justly demand in a troop of active and healthy men. Do you not
believe that in a soldier who camps in the snow and marches twelve
hours a day, the body and blood which he stakes when he hazards his
life, and limbs must be of a more vigorous nature than those of the
poor wounded man who from the hospital hears the report of the cannon
and shudders. And is he for that to be despised? But there is another
difference which a girl cannot well understand. A man who has any
knowledge of life must perceive that his destiny is not merely to enjoy
himself, but that he has a task to perform, duties to fulfil. Do not
you think that it must be painful to have to leave the world without
having even begun this task? You must not forget this difference
Mademoiselle: The soldier fulfils his duty in dying: every other man in
living except his death be a sacrifice or an example to others. How can
he who has hitherto only lived to neglect his duty die without feeling
his death to be a new fault, a new faithlessness. We have exchanged so
many confessions," he went on, "that it would be foolish to keep back,
one, which to be sure is wholly personal and may not interest you. To
judge from the opinions you have expressed you seem to think that my
gloomy and unhappy humour is the consequence of an unmanly despair at
the prospect of certain death. Perhaps you will be inclined to think
more favourably of me when I tell you that my illness has taught me to
look upon a life of vain amusements, caring and cared for by nobody, a
life of pure selfishness as unworthy of the exercise of great medical
skill, and of the benefit of this much lauded climate. The past would
not hinder me from dying calmly--it was an empty life nothing worse. It
is the future which I had hoped to conquer just when it was too late;
wisdom came but strength left me. It is that gnaws at my heart and
makes it impossible for me to leave life with the same cheerfulness
that you do. Believe me I was not worse than the best of my equals. I
spent my youth in idleness, gambling, travelling and such trifles and
fancied as long as my father lived that it was a life suitable to my
station, and this was also his opinion. I took great pleasure in the
intellectual amusements as they are called. I was present at the debut
of every actor singer and musical composer. I collected fine pictures,
cultivated music and took a part in any amateur quartett, and that not
badly either. Suddenly my father died and his property, his fortune,
his political obligations, and connections were left without a head.
Nobody had dreamt of so sudden an end. Now it was my turn, now I had to
advance to the front and to take an oar, and just at that time
strength, and power to act were taken from me. How this happened and
how much or how little the fault lies with me is not to the purpose.
Let us suppose that this misfortune was not caused by any fault of
mine, but that it came upon me as the stone falls from the roof. Do you
not allow that my feelings on looking at the past may well be different
from yours? and so are the feelings with which I view the future." I
was on the point of answering, _what_, I hardly know, probably it was
to ask his pardon for my hasty condemnation, when I was prevented by an
old woman who offered roses for sale. He took a bunch and gave her a
florin in silver which she held in her hand, and looked at with
astonishment, as here one only meets with dirty torn paper money. He
made a sign to her, that it was all right and laid the bouquet on the
bench between us. A gentleman then approached, and spoke to him. He
rose without taking leave, but did not return to me. Soon after I
walked away leaving the bouquet on the bench. Now I regret it. What
crime have these poor roses committed that I should grudge them even a
short reprieve in a glass of water.
Evening.
I went out again, and as I must confess, only to fetch the roses. It
seemed to me like a wrong towards living beings, to leave them to
wither on the bench. I found them untouched, and now they stand fresh
and flagrant outside my window. I had to place them there, for the
nights are now so cool, that I dare not leave the window open. I will
now read to quiet my agitated thoughts. The roses have brought back to
my mind the epitaph on the tombstone:
So the early fading of the rose
Is to be envied: it is repose?
This sign of interrogation has slipped from my pen and I cannot make up
my mind to strike it out. Truly, it is a question, whether a poor human
creature has a right to envy his fellow men for anything, even for
death.
The 29th
To-day is my birthday; I formerly never took any notice of it, and did
not expect others to do so. This one however as it is my last one on
earth, I resolved to honour and solemnize as much as I could. Quite
early in the morning I summoned the little girls of my landlord and
gave each of them a dress I had made for them, a cake and a kiss. Then
I walked out though the day was chilly and without sunshine.
On the stairs I met Mr. Morrik's servant, who came to ask if I were
unwell, as I had not appeared on the Wassermauer for several days. I
felt pleased that some one inquired for me. After the recent
conversation in the wintergarden I appeared to myself so unamiable,
that I did not think it possible that any one should care whether I
lived or died.
I walked up and down for some time underneath the arcades, for the rain
swept through the narrow streets, and it was disagreeable to be out
there, as a piercing wind which they call here the Jaufenwind had
arisen, and though the Kuechelberg kept it off in some degree still it
now and then blew in gusts round the corner. I felt so dull and
unemployed, so dreary, that by way of pastime, I bought some figs and
peaches and ate them. I soon felt, that in this cold weather, I had not
done wisely, but made bad worse by sitting down beside a woman who was
roasting chesnuts, and eating some of these to warm me, and thereby
only succeeded in nearly making myself ill.
So this is my holiday! It serves me quite right; How can an unemployed
person think of holiday making. "Sour workdays, sweet holidays," that
is a different thing. More and more clearly I see that he was right,
and that I was not only wrong, but have wronged him. It is only the
heartless and selfish who would not feel regret at being called away
from this life without having done any good in it. He was very kind and
forbearing in trying to find a difference between his position and
mine. Have we not all of us duties? Did not my mother fulfil hers till
her last breath? And here am I happy in my unprofitable solitude, and
joyful as a child who has shirked school.
Here are letters from my father, and little Ernest. Birthday
congratulations. I will read them out of doors. The Jaufenwind has
cleared the sky, and the sun shines so warmly that I can no longer
stand the heat of the stove, and have to open both windows.
In the Afternoon.
This day has after all been celebrated; by a reconciliation which
consisted in a second dispute. As the unexpected sunshine brought every
living creature out into the wintergrounds, I walked on from the
Wassermauer towards the west, till I reached the spot where the Passer
flows into the Adige. There I saw at a distance Mr. Morrik sitting on
the trunk of a tree in the sunshine, with his servant at his side. He
observed me also, and rose to meet me. I was much embarrassed, for it
seemed as if I had come in search of him; however it was too late to
turn back; and why should I have done so? Was it not true that I was
pleased to see him, and wished to speak to him. I owed him the
satisfaction of telling him that he had converted me, and that all my
death defying wisdom appeared to me now like the delirium of fever. I
could hardly wait till an opportunity presented itself of confessing
this to him, and so I almost started when he anticipated me by calling
out: "How happy I am to see you! You will wonder at the miracle you
have performed on me. During your heartfelt speech I felt what a deep
impression it made on me; but like the rest of the world though I saw I
was wrong I did not like to acknowledge it, and so I supported my cause
as well as I could. We have not met since then, and in the meanwhile I
had time to recall it to my thoughts, and after a few hours
consideration, I felt I was completely changed and could have sworn
never to desert the colours you carried so valiantly before me."
"What will you say," I replied despondingly, "when you hear that I
myself have turned traitor?" "Impossible," he exclaimed, laughing--and
it was the first time I had seen him, not only smile, but laugh
heartily--"and so even you are affected by human weaknesses; but beware
of me, for I will bring back the deserter, willing or unwilling; not to
pass sentence on him, but to entrust to him again the standard under
which I will conquer or die."
There now arose an absurd contest between us, each defending the very
point he had vehemently disputed a few days ago, and trying to
depreciate his former opinion as much as possible. "You must confess,"
he at last exclaimed, "that in whichever way the wisdom of a Daniel
might theoretically settle our dispute, my opinion, I mean your former
one, is by far the most advantageous. Since my conversion to it, I feel
reconciled to Providence, to the world, and even to myself, as--yes, as
you were before you were led astray by me. Now, although my position,
my sufferings and the few pleasures left to me are the same, they
appear to me tinged with fresh and glowing hues, instead of the dull
grey which shrouded them before. I look on the past as I did then; but
can I win back what I have lost by losing also that which remains to
me? You were so right in saying: in every minute, we can live a whole
life. How many minutes, nay days, weeks, perhaps months still lie
before me, and shall I not employ them? That which I had intended to do
is not of such great importance after all. Humanity will not be much
affected by its failure; but even had it been of the utmost importance,
nothing can now be altered. I cannot go back. I can only advance and
should there be some task for me to perform in the next world, I shall
be better prepared for it by courage and confidence than by the useless
despair of which I now feel heartily ashamed, before you, and should be
still more so if you had not left your position, high above the rest of
mankind, and had shown no human weakness."
I can only write down dryly all that I remember of what he said; but
when he himself utters his thoughts there is so much cleverness,
originality and wit in them that they refresh the mind, like the
inhaling of vivifying salt, and never leave a bitter taste behind.
It was a delightful hour. Had we been two men, or two women, we would
have shaken hands at parting and have fraternized on the spot. We have
now agreed to meet daily on the Wassermauer; we still think differently
on several points and have not much time to decide them.
The letters from home have also pleased me. Ernest is quite impatient
at not seeing me for so long. The poor little fellow does not know how
long it will be before we meet. Meanwhile it has grown dark. I will
have some music and so close the day harmoniously.
The 3rd November.
Pleasant days are rare guests in this world. Since I last wrote we have
only met twice. The day before yesterday the weather was damp and
foggy. I walked in the wintergarden, but he was nowhere to be seen. I
only perceived the malicious inquisitive face of the young lady who
always takes a seat close to Mr. Morrik and me, hoping to hear some of
our conversation. The life preserver also arrived, and looked at me
severely from head to foot, as I passed before and I heard her say to a
lady who sat beside her, intending it for me: "That poor young man; how
he has to suffer for talking so much." I shuddered and was very nearly
going up to the uncharitable sister, in spite of what had passed
between us, to ask her for news of him. Fortunately he sent his servant
in the afternoon, to tell me that he was confined to his room by the
cold weather--it had snowed during the night--and that I ought to take
great care of myself as the transition from autumn to winter was very
dangerous. In spite of this I went out both yesterday and to-day with
the hope of seeing him, but in vain. When two people are isolated among
the rest, how soon they grow accustomed to each other's society! He has
no acquaintances here except the doctor, whom he greatly likes. I
sometimes feel inclined to consult this doctor--not to hear anything
about myself, I know enough of that; but to hear if he really is doomed
or only fancies himself so.
The 5th--Evening.
The wind has changed and now a sirocco is blowing. The whole country of
the Adige is covered with fog, a warm soft rain drizzles against the
window panes. The poplars have lost so much of their foliage that I can
easily trace the outline of the beautiful peak of the Mendola. The
vineyards are autumnally bare, the cattle are now sheltered in the
stables, everything is prepared for winter, and I am heartily glad of a
warm nook. My father writes of much snow and cold, whilst here the
southern wind still brings an Italian warmth with it, and in the little
garden below my windows, the roses bloom as gaily as if they were quite
certain that the snow would never descend from the top of the Muth to
the village of Tirol--still less reside on the Wassermauer.
The 6th--Morning.
The roses really seem to be right. The most beautiful sunshine awoke
me; the stove shall enjoy a holiday. The green meadows in the lower
part of the country are as bright as in May. Half an hour ago I
received a note from Morrik saying that he wished to take advantage of
the fine day, and enjoy a ride over the nearest hills as walking was
forbidden him and he asked me if I would accept his company, and join
him. In that case he would fetch me at ten o'clock with the mules. I
wrote to him without much deliberation that I would be very happy to do
so. Now when I think of it....
In the Evening.
Fortunately I had no time to think over it, or I should probably have
thought many foolish and superfluous things. My landlady came to
announce that the gentleman was waiting for me below, and at the same
moment his servant entered to carry down my plaid and bag, so I had to
hurry away. He had dismounted when I came down, and the pleasure of
seeing him again, after so long a time, looking tolerably well and
cheerful, the mild clear day, the view, and the prospect of a pleasant
ride helped me to overcome my childish embarrassment. Society had at
last got accustomed to see us talk together whilst walking, why should
we not also do so on mules. So we rode gaily through the Laubengasse,
and over the bridge, where to be sure the whole company of strangers
rushed to the railings of the wintergarden, and followed us with their
kind looks and remarks. On the other side of the bridge, the road turns
to the left and ascends the hilly streets of the cheerful village of
Obermais. We soon found ourselves among the leafless vineyards, and in
trotting past the houses, saw the grapes pressed in large tubs, and
barrels filled with their juice, and under the bare trellises,
preparations for next year's harvest. One can hardly imagine anything
more picturesque looking than one of those tall fine looking young
peasants ploughing underneath these bowers with their strong grey oxen,
or as in that beautiful picture of Robert's, resting his cattle while
he leans on the pole between them. The whole surrounded by a frame of
trellis work, which here supports the vine in the form of a vaulted
arcade. They all left their work when we passed--I rode in front on a
very quiet animal, led by the guide; Morrik just behind me, so that we
could exchange the expressions of our delight at all these beauties of
nature, and his servant brought up the rear.
When we had mounted somewhat higher, I involuntarily stopped; the view
was so wonderfully beautiful. The entire valley of the Adige lay far
beneath us, the river glittered between meadows and sands, and the more
distant mountains encircled the whole with their clear and beautiful
outline. But how can words describe a scene which the brush of the most
able painter could not do justice to. Neither of us spoke, we remained
in silent awe, and could only marvel. Had not the mules become
impatient, who can say whether we should not be on the same spot still.
My docile bay who was more sagacious than he looked, pondered, and
shook his head with the conspicuous ears, over the folly of mankind in
stopping where no fodder was to be seen: so he moved on slowly to
supply our want of judgement, and the others followed. We left to our
right a beautiful castle belonging to Count Trautmannsdorf, and the
little church of St. Valentine, which stands quite isolated in a
sheltered valley. Our way then again turned to the north over a hill
which rises at the foot of the Ifinger, whose snowy summit towered in
the clear autumnal sky. The whole ridge of the hill is covered with
solitary farms, intermingled with old castles that are now chiefly
inhabited by rich wine growing peasants who, during the summer months,
lodge invalid strangers. I have forgotten the names of most of them,
only one of them I remember, the castle of Rubein. There in front of
the old battlements stand tall slender cypresses, like guardians round
an old sarcophagus and contrast by their sombre hue with the green and
yellow foliage of the vine. We took a hasty survey of the courtyard.
The small open gallery supported by pillars, the steep stairs,
which lead up to it, and in the comer the old, and now nearly bare
walnut-tree round which myriads of birds were fluttering and singing,
so that it seemed as if they had enjoyed too much of their grape harvest
and were now intoxicated and overmerry. I could fill pages with a
description of the beauties of these heights. Further on, towards the
valley of Passeir, the road gently ascends underneath noble chesnut and
walnut-trees, and the view opens out to the Kuechelberg, and my dear old
Zenoburg, till it rests on the high projecting village of Schoenna with
its old castle.
When we arrived it was just noon. We were both tired by our long ride,
hungry and silent. The sights in which we had revelled still occupied
our thoughts, and here again our eyes hardly sufficed to enjoy the view
which extended far and near from every window. I entered the tap-room,
whilst Morrik talked to the landlord outside, and sat quietly in the
dusk for a while with closed eyes endeavouring to recover my calmness.
The room had a projecting bay window which formed a sort of recess,
where sat, as a hasty glance when I entered had shown me, a young
peasant, and a girl with their dinner and wine before them. They seemed
to notice me as little as I did them. Morrik then came in, and sat down
at a table beside me. He appeared more cheerful than usual, but also
looked paler, as if the air had fatigued him. We talked about
indifferent subjects. Suddenly the young peasant rose from his seat in
the window, and with a full glass of wine in his hand, approached our
table. "With your permission," he said, "the gentleman won't object to
my drinking the health of this lady, as we are old acquaintances." Then
he took a sip, looked at me over the edge of his glass, and gave it to
me to drink from. I took the glass, but looked at him rather puzzled.
He seemed quite unknown to me, and appeared to be flushed with wine,
and in a waggish humour, so that I was really frightened.
"Well, well," he said, as I was silent, and Morrik gave him no
encouragement; the hat of a Saltner, and a beard of three months'
standing certainly give a fellow somewhat more of a diabolical look
than his holiday clothes. But if I did not seem appalling to her then,
there is still less danger of it now, particularly as her brother, or
her sweetheart....