wait patiently till to-morrow comes, or perhaps till the day after. It
has become quite a necessity with me, not to let the least breath of
untruth, or misunderstanding come between us.
Edgar Allan Poe with his morbid discontents; his bitter and hopeless
sarcasms, is now congenial to me. There is a frame of mind when wisdom
is repugnant to us, as a bowl of sweet milk is to a man in a fever.
Only that....
Two hours later.
Are calm and peace really only words void of meaning in this troubled
world? Cannot even those retain them inwardly who had won them. I begin
to think that I should not be secure from the events, and storms, which
harass my last moments, even were I shut up in a walled in tower, where
the ravens brought me my food through the barred windows. If no other
catastrophe were possible, an earthquake would root up my place of
concealment, and break through the walls, and I should be again cast
out into the world among strangers, whose affection would distress me,
when I had ceased to care for their aversion.
A visitor disturbed me this morning; the last person in Meran whom I
should have expected to see in my room! No less a personage than the
Burghermeister of the town. He came to spare me the disagreeable
surprise of a solemn summons, and disclosed to me that he had been
entrusted with a letter for me, and with the testament of the writer,
who names me his sole heiress.
I looked helplessly at the Burghermeister. The thought of my father's
death did not occur to me. If this dreadful event were to happen; if I
should lose him before my hour had arrived, at least the pain of
inheriting from him would be spared me. But who in the whole world--?
I glanced at the letter which the Burghermeister had with some
hesitation laid on the table, and saw a handwriting that was quite
unknown to me. "I don't know this handwriting," I said wonderingly,
though a sudden misgiving seized me, as I remarked that the direction
was in French. My evident astonishment seemed to relieve him. He
probably had supposed that a more intimate acquaintance had existed
between me, and the writer of the letter, and was prepared for a
painful scene. "Do you wish to read the letter now or later?" he asked.
I opened it at once, and read it with a beating heart but without any
outward show of emotion, at least I believe so. The letter was filled
with the rhapsodies which I had before spurned from me with horror.
They were hardly subdued by the approach of death, though the
unfortunate man must have felt it coming. I have not as yet deciphered
much of it. The indistinct French hand seems to have trembled at every
stroke with violent emotion.
But not a word of the legacy; only wretchedness and accusations against
fate which had rent asunder the fetters of passion, instead of
loosening them; confused tumultuous words, and ideas, written in order
to lighten the burden of one heart, and to weigh down the other with
it.
When I had laid down the letter, the kindly old gentleman turned to me,
and seemed to ask for an explanation which I could not give. When I had
told him that I was just as much astonished as he was, he departed,
leaving me a copy of the will for further consideration, but he
seriously advised me not to refuse so considerable a property in the
first moment of excitement, though I was of age, and need not consult
the wishes of my father. He would call again in a few days.
I will take a walk, I feel as if I could no longer remain in the room
with those papers; as if they impregnated the air with the fever heat
from whence they proceeded. I did not even require to read them a
second time to come to a decision; I--, or the poor of Meran--can there
be a doubt which of us will outlive the other, and will need the
fortune most.
In the Afternoon.
Truly this is a disastrous day. I wish it were past. Who can tell what
the evening may bring!
I went out with the foolish hope of meeting Morrik, instead of whom, I
encountered all the strange though well known faces in the winter
garden. I can generally now pass them with indifference, but they were
this day again to wound me deeply.
I perceived that they laid their heads together and whispered as I went
by. On one of the benches sat the young _chronique scandaleuse_ whom I
have long ceased to bow to, as she tosses her head whenever I come near
her. The place beside her was the only unoccupied one, but hardly had I
sat down, when up she started and moved towards another bench, begging
two ladies to make room for her. The blood rushed to my face but I was
not conquered. At last the life preserver, who had not deigned to
address a word to me for weeks past, rustled into the arbour. This time
her heart was too full; she came up to me and said, so loudly that
every one could hear her, "Well my dear, I suppose we are to
congratulate you. The young Pole has bequeathed to you, his large
fortune. Poor young man! To be sure you always kept him at a great
distance. It is no wonder that he soon died. It is really quite
touching that even after his death he offered his broken heart to you."
"You are mistaken," I said. "I have not accepted the legacy which was
only left to me by the error of an unsound mind. But even if it had
been clearly the intention of the deceased to appoint me his heiress, I
would not have accepted it. I am not moved, either by the kindness, or
the malevolence of strangers, but generally turn my back on both." Then
I quietly read on. There was a great silence in the arbour, and I could
hear the quicker breathing of the fat old lady without nerves, as well
as that of the little lady who hates me. I did not take any further
notice of what they whispered and tittered around me, only I several
times distinguished the name of Morrik, purposely pronounced very
distinctly. Even that cannot hurt me. But as I walked home, shivering
in the damp foggy air, and feeling inwardly as sunless and gloomy as
the sky was outwardly. I should have liked a good hearty cry. I feel so
weary, that not even tears will flow. Life, happiness, sorrow,
everything, seems stagnant within me.
The 25th November.
And now this! this verily is the last drop in the cup of bitterness.
This blow strikes at the very roots, and no storm is needed to level to
the ground the falling tree a child could overturn it. And that this
blow should come from the hand, from which I least expected it. That
just where I had hoped to ease my heart, I have brought it back more
heavy still. To-day I at last found him on the Wassermauer. The sun
shone brightly; I felt revived and hoped to gain peace and relief from
the conversation I had so long wished for. I thought I could easily
explain to him this last occurrence, and I was not disappointed; he
smiled when I told him how sorry I was for my want of truth towards
him. He took my hand and before releasing it he pressed it to his lips.
I felt strangely moved. He had heard of the legacy of the young Pole
but had never doubted that I would refuse it. Everything now I thought
was smoothed and settled, and I cast a grateful look at the sun as if
his kindly beams had cleared it all.
How came it that we again turned to that unlucky theme? Alas it was my
fault. I wished to convince him more fully still that my feelings for
the poor madman had always been cool, and indifferent; so I began again
by saying, how the bare thought of that meeting filled me with horror;
how inexcusable it was to let people who were so evidently deranged
walk about unwatched. He looked straight before him, and said: "You are
mistaken dear Marie, he was not more deranged than I am who sit beside
you, and I hope I do not inspire you with fear. He even has the
advantage over me, for he has eased his heart of the burden which still
oppresses mine."
"I do not understand you," I replied, and I spoke the truth.
"Then I will continue silent;" what good could speaking do me?
After a pause: "But no, why should I remain silent you might then only
fancy something worse. Is it so contemptible, if a few steps from the
grave we once more look back on life, and there perceive a happiness
which would render it loveable and worth having if only it were not too
late, and if then one grows distracted with misery and longing, and
with rage against fate? If though dying one longs to press to one's
heart the dear one who is denied to us, and breathe our last breath on
her lips? That is what happened to the poor lad who now sleeps a
dreamless sleep--and so...." He paused and looked at me. There was not
a soul to be seen underneath the poplars and he again took my hand.
"You tremble! before me too," he said. "Forget my words."
I could not speak. I felt that my last and best happiness was
destroyed; the harmless confidence, the warm cheerful intercourse to
which my heart clung. Again I was alone, I felt it must be so, if I
would not add remorse to my other sufferings. "I will go home," I said,
"I feel unwell; you must remain here, and enjoy the sunshine which
makes my head ache to-day. I will write a few hues to you in the
afternoon to tell you, if I feel better." Then I rose, gave him my hand
for the last time; entreated him by a look to say no more, and left
him.
I will see if I can collect my thoughts sufficiently to write to him.
In the Evening.
I lay the copy of my letter to him between these leaves, and feel
relieved now that it is over; physically relieved, but the weight on my
heart still oppresses me. This is the letter:
"Meran, the 25th November.
"My dear friend!
"Let me to-day, bid you farewell for the last time in this world, and
express my hope of a happy meeting in the next, towards which we are
tending. It will be easier for both of us to take leave of each other
now, while we are still under the impression of a pure and friendly
intercourse, than it would be later when we should have felt that we do
not agree in higher matters, and this I fear would sooner, or later
have been the case, for your last words still sadden and dishearten me,
as I never thought words spoken by my dear friend could have done.
"How I wish we still lived in the past; then I was happy and hoped that
you were so. Why did you speak, why could we not calmly have awaited
our destiny, and stood firmly by each other as true comrades till the
end came.
"I hope that this calm and premature farewell, though it may cause you
a momentary pain, will in time soften your thoughts, and give you back
the clear-sightedness with which we a short time ago looked on the
past, and hoped for the future. We cannot avoid meeting now and then;
let us pass one another with a silent bow, as if already we were
shadows moving in a higher sphere.
"I need not tell you that I shall always retain the warmest friendship
for you, and I beg you to keep yours for me, though at one time it
seemed overshadowed by darker passions.
"Farewell my dear friend; show me that these words, which come from the
heart, are understood, by not answering them."
"Marie."
The last of November.
I long for snow and ice for the cold winter air of my home. This sun
that shines day after day in the clear blue November sky makes my eyes
and my heart ache. This morning I woke with a pleasant surprise; it had
snowed in the night and the soft snow still lay unsullied, and pure on
the roofs and on the road. Now it has melted away, and only a few
traces of it are left. People again walk about in light cloaks, and
with dry feet under the leafless poplars.
My father wrote yesterday that he fully approves of my decision
regarding the legacy. I immediately informed the Burghermeister of
this, and have already received a vote of thanks from the
administration of the poorhouse funds, which I would willingly have
dispensed with. I now write rarely in this journal. One day resembles
the other; they are like the leaves of a tree in the late autumn; all
of them are brown, only one falls to the earth sooner than another.
The 1st of December--at Night.
A shooting festival has taken place and enlivened the quiet town of
Meran. Early in the morning I was awakened by the band of music which
accompanied the shooters from the Sandplatz in front of the Post to the
targets. Then the whole day long the report of the rifles was heard and
made me feel quite nervous, and later the shouts and jodles of the
peasants who arrived rather the worse for wine. In the evening
fireworks were displayed on the left bank of the Passer, and it was
very pretty to see the population of the town, and the strangers
walking up and down, and enjoying the mild air by the light of torches
which were placed along the Wassermauer. Then a strong sirocco arose,
and wildly swept the rockets across the water, made the torches
flicker, and drove the spectators into their houses by bringing on the
rain. I saw the spectacle from my window, and remained there till the
last spark had died out in the dark starless night.
How long it is now since I have spoken to any one except to the people
of the house where I lodge. The wish that my lips might be closed for
ever grows stronger every day. Oh for an hour of the cheerful,
confidential talk I once enjoyed with Morrik, and then to go to sleep
and dream that same dream on to Eternity! But I must endure till my
time comes.
The 4th December.
When my time has come, shall I find courage to resist my longing to see
him once more, and in spite of my resolve, bid adieu to life with my
eyes fixed on his. I think he too would wish it, whatever his present
thoughts may be regarding my sudden rupture with him. Sometimes the
idea torments me that he may have possibly misunderstood my letter and
think that I drew back because I feared gossip. I should like to tell
him once more that this is not the case; that I only did it for his
sake, for his peace of mind, and indeed for mine also.
How is he now? Can he walk out? Who will help him to bear the long
solitude of the day. I am truly grateful to him for having granted my
wish in not having answered my letter. Still something seems missing in
my life, now that I no longer see him, and cannot judge for myself
whether he is cheerful or melancholy; how he bears his sufferings, what
he reads, what he thinks--his thoughts even, I could once read in his
face, his countenance is so clear and open.
Yesterday I met his servant. The faithful creature bowed to me; I
should have liked to ask him how his master was; however it is better
not.
The 11th.
Took a walk to the Zenoburg; that dear walk of former days, but not
with my former spirits. As I passed by the house where he lodges, he
was just coming out; he perceived me and stood still and motionless to
let me pass. I dared not look at him, but the first glance told me that
he had become pale and grave--nearly as much so as when I first saw
him. He did not bow, but remained in the shade of the doorway as if
fearing to frighten me; so I passed him with my eyes fixed on the
pavement.
The hill seemed much steeper to me than when I walked up the first
time--probably I have grown weaker--and then I was happy. What is it
that hinders me from being so again, in spite of all my efforts and
self-command. Is it merely compassion for him, and the want of that
intercourse which had become a necessity to me. No, it is not that
alone; it is as if I had been infringing on some duty. But how could I
have acted differently? Can one trifle with the hopes and happiness of
this life, when death is so near.
The 16th December--Evening.
A trying but pleasant day has passed. I have packed a small
Christmasbox which I intend to send home. When all the trifles I had
worked for my father, Ernest, and my step-mother were laid together;
the pretty wood carvings, the picture of Meran, and the figure of a
Saltner which I had dressed up for Ernest as like the real ones as
possible, I was as happy as a child with its own Christmas presents.
And then the packing of it all; as the box was not quite filled, I
crammed in all I could get hold of; some pomegranates, a box filled
with dried figs, another one with chesnuts, and one of those sweet
Christmas-cakes made of honey and raisins. The box will tell its own
tale of Meran.
My landlord's apprentice carried the box to the post. Then for the
first time for several weeks, I walked on the Wassermauer. The
strangers sat on the benches as they had always done, only foot-rugs
had become more general. Morrik arrived soon after me. This time we
silently exchanged salutations as had been agreed between us. He looked
kindly and calmly at me probably to see whether I appeared well and
cheerful. I was much heated by my Christmas packing. When I got home I
looked at myself in the glass and perceived that it was only a
transient flush of agitation, perhaps of pleasure. Now that we have
again met so unconstrainedly I fancy that the future will seem easier
to me. I need only imagine that I never exchanged a word with him but
that I have simply read a story in which one of the characters had
attracted me--that I now meet a stranger whose face recalls my idea of
this character, and therefore that I take great interest in him. We did
not sit down beside each other. I walked several times up and down the
Wassermauer with a lady who was very kind to me, inquired why I had so
persistently remained at home, and then told me all about herself and
her children, from whom she had been separated for the sake of
tranquillity. Tears started to her eyes as she said. "To be separated
from those dear to us in order to enjoy quiet and peace of mind!" Oh
you good doctors I what bad physicians for the soul you are.
Christmas Eve.
What am I to think of this! An hour ago a Christmas-tree beautifully
decorated with oranges, pomegranites, and sweet meats, and covered with
wax-lights was brought into the room by my landlady. The tree is so
high that I was obliged to place it on the floor and yet it nearly
reaches the ceiling. A strange maidservant brought it, my landlady
tells me, and would on no account say from whom it came. I have now lit
all the tapers and am writing by their light, after having given my
landlady's children some Christmas-presents, for the people here never
have Christmas-trees.
Now that I am again alone, I ransack my brain to find out who could
have sent the tree. The kind lady who may also feel the want of
Christmas joys, and Christmas lights? But surely she would have written
a letter to say so, and then our acquaintance is so short. Many other
kind faces have passed by me in my daily walks, but to whom of these
would it have occurred to brighten my Christmas eve. I must confess
that in my first irritation, I wronged many of them, and might
certainly have found some pleasing acquaintances among them, if my
first longing for solitude had not expressed itself so repellantly. Now
no one would willingly speak to me.
Can the tree have come from _him_? but that would be contrary to our
agreement. One who must and will keep silence cannot offer presents. It
is easier to give than to receive silently, and yet how is it possible
to express one's thanks after having already bid farewell.
The more I think of it the more uneasy I become. It is not all as it
should be; something unnatural and indefinable seems to have come
between us; something pernicious that would revenge itself on us.
Here come letters from my dear ones, from home! But I must first put
out the tapers and light my little lamp. Some of the twigs are already
crackling and glimmering. The last spark has died out on my last
Christmas-tree. The church bells are ringing while I am writing these
lines by the light of the moon which is now keeping me company, my lamp
having died out.
December the 28th.
We have met again, our hands have touched, and our eyes have
encountered each other; but what a sorrowful meeting. The vengeance I
expected has come.
The program of a concert was brought to my lodgings. A player on the
cither was going to perform in the Assembly rooms at the Post. I am no
longer displeased at being roused from my own thoughts; so I went, as I
very much like the cither, and have always wished to hear a virtuoso
perform on it. When I arrived the first piece had begun, and only three
seats in the front row were unoccupied; they seemed to have been kept
for some expected personage of distinction: I found myself compelled to
take one of these seats of honour, and did not do so, unwillingly for
the tone of the instrument was rather low, and there too, I could
observe the movement of the performer's hands. The air soon became
oppressive; the heat of the stove, the crowded room and its low ceiling
all combined to make it so. I was much flurried at first, but I soon
grew calm, and listened with delight to the charming and touching
sounds. Suddenly the door was opened softly and quietly, and Morrik
entered. He stopped when he saw the room filled, but did not like to
turn back. Some gentlemen near the door pointed out to him the empty
seat beside me. He slowly moved up the room, and arriving at my side,
sat down with a slight inclination of the head. My breath stopped and I
feared he would perceive the trembling which seized me, as the arm of
his chair touched mine; however he appeared to be much calmer than I
was, and to listen to the music with more attention; so after a time I
mastered my agitation, and listened too, absorbed in an exquisite and
sweet reverie. I felt as if the melody were a celestial atmosphere in
which our mutual thoughts and feelings rose and intermingled; a
harmonious communion of soul with soul banishing all that had hitherto
divided estranged and tormented us. I cannot describe how this sort of
visionary dream comforted me. I felt persuaded that the same thoughts
touched him also. Our eyes were fixed on the cither, and yet it seemed
as if they met in one long book.
Even the applause and shouts of bravo! hardly roused us from this
ecstasy. The pauses between the pieces only lasted for a few minutes,
and at the end of one of them the cither-player put by his cither, and
brought out an enormous instrument which he called the divine Kikilira,
explaining in a few words that it was an instrument peculiar to the
Tyrol, and had been constructed by a simple peasant. It is a sort of
wooden harmonium--the notes are formed of very hard wood, and the tones
are produced from them, by the sharp and rapid blows of two small
hammers. It has a harsh shrill sound, and one could hardly have found
an instrument more opposite to the cither. It rudely put to flight all
my exalted thoughts and feelings, and seemed to outrage my very soul. I
would willingly have left the room, had I not been afraid of offending
the performer. I feared for Morrik, for I knew how exceedingly
sensitive he was with regard to every noise. I slightly glanced at him.
He sat with closed eyes his head reclining on his right arm, as if
trying to shield himself from this sudden attack.
All at once I perceived that his lips grew still paler, his eyes opened
partially and lost all expression; then his head sank heavily against
the back of his chair.
Several of the audience also observed this, yet no one moved to assist
the fainting man. I fancied, judging by the scornful expression on
their faces, that they with malicious pleasure, purposely left this
benevolent charge to me. I got up and begged the performer to stop, as
a gentleman was unwell. I sprinkled his forehead with eau de cologne,
which I always carry with me, and let him inhale the vivifying perfume.
Part of the company had risen, but none of them left their places:
it was only to observe the spectacle more at their case. Only the
cither-player came to me, and helped me to support Morrik, when his
senses had returned; and to lead him the few steps to the door. Once out
of the room, where the fresh December-wind blew across his face, he
recovered completely. He looked inquiringly at me, then remembered what
had occurred and leant slightly on my arm as I led him down stairs. "I
thank you;" was all he said, and we walked on together as his servant
was nowhere to be found. I accompanied him up the _kleine_ Lauben, as
the street leading past the Post is called, and as far as the church
from whence we could see his lodgings. "Do you feel better?" I asked.
He bowed his head and made a movement as though he now wished to walk
alone. Ere we parted he pressed my hand endeavoured to repress a sigh,
and silently turned towards the house. I watched him till he had
reached the door; he walked with firm slow steps, and did not once look
back. When he had disappeared, I too went home.