improves rapidly. I dared not ask him if he had inquired for me, had
missed me. It appears that he eats and sleeps a good deal.
Rain and snow help me to endure my imprisonment. I shall probably
remain at home for the whole of this week. I do not wish to meet
anyone. I feel a strange uncertainty and anxiety till the answer from
my friend arrives.
I shall not know what face to put on when I meet my fellow creatures.
Shall I appear to them as one who after a short rest among them will
suddenly take up his staff again, or as one who has changed his mind
and is determined to remain. I feel restless and unsettled since that
conversation with Morrik's doctor. My home is neither in this world,
nor in the next; my mind is uneasy. I fancy that every one looks at me
suspiciously, as the police looks on a vagabond whose passport is not
in proper order, and who cannot state from whence he comes nor whither
he is going. And I shall have to pass another week in this disagreeable
state of bewilderment before I can receive an answer, even if he wrote
by return of post.
To-day I ought to write to my father but I cannot bring myself to touch
a pen--my feelings are in such a sad state of confusion, often it
appears to me that my body and soul cry out to me "you _cannot_ live;"
then suddenly the blood flows again so warmly and vigorously through my
veins, that it seems to mock my aching heart, and worn out nerves. In
those moments I take out my drawing as if it were a sure bill of
exchange for a better world, but the doctor treated it with so little
respect, that even this paper has lost its tranquillizing power.
Formerly I was so sure that Death like grim Shylck would insist on the
acquittance of his bond, but now I begin to fear that favour, instead
of justice, will be shown me, but is it a favour to be restored to
captivity?
The 15th.
Still no decision! This cold foggy weather continues. The only ray of
light in my gloomy existence are the daily tidings my landlady brings
me that Morrik's nights are good, and that he is gaining strength
rapidly.
I must here confess a foolish action I have been guilty of. I have
bought a new dress, and a silk neckerchief, just as any other girl
might do. To be sure they were brought up to my room by a grey haired,
half blind pedlar; who came in with his packages dripping with the cold
damp fog. I pitied him when he resignedly tied them up again, after I
had told him that I should hardly wear out the dress I had on. But
could I not have given him some money, as a compensation for his
useless trouble. It is a very pretty summer dress. I wonder who will
enjoy all the blessings and riches of summer in it?
The 1st February.
I have slept on it, and yet have not gained more composure. When the
letter arrived yesterday, I trembled so with excitement that I could
hardly open it, and then at first all the lines danced before my eyes.
When I had perused it all my ideas were in such a state of tumultuous
confusion that I thought I was going mad. Was it pleasure? was it
dread? was it self pity? No it was the certainty that we poor mortals
can have no firm and steadfast support in this unstable world. I
believed that I had at least one faithful, honest, intrepid friend; and
he too has deceived me. I fancied that at least my own unbiassed
instincts, and presentiments could not mislead me, and I find that they
too had conspired against me.
But the more I read this letter the less angry I feel with him. I will
destroy the answer I had begun in the first impulse of my
disappointment. He meant it well, and has done his duty as a doctor but
I always come back to my old maxim, that all of them are bad physicians
for the soul. Did he consider before trying this energetic cure
whether, though it might succeed with the body, it might not do
irreparable mischief to the soul; or had he kept some "heroic remedy"
as he calls it, also for that case. He knows me well--could he not have
known me somewhat better? He is right in saying that without this
deception I never would have consented to leave my home, my family; and
never would have freed myself from those depressing bonds which wore
out my life, never have allowed myself the rest which was so necessary
for my recovery.
Was it not principally to spare my dear father, who already has so many
cares, the additional one of seeing me die without the possibility of
saving me, that induced me to leave him.
I would certainly have forced myself to look happy, and to submit to my
destiny till I had made myself ill beyond human aid. He knew what
suited my character when he deceived me in this cruel way. I have ever
preferred the most dreadful certainty to a hopeful uncertainty. If
peace and quiet were the only remedies which could strengthen my
suffering nerves, and ward off the menacing disease from my oppressed
chest, then I could only be saved by the firm belief that I was doomed.
And the undecided wavering hope of life would only have aggravated my
illness.
How artfully the crafty, malicious, cruel friend brought about what he
thought good for me. This drawing, with; what seeming reluctance he put
it in my hands, in order that I might have impressed on my mind a fixed
tangible vision of my danger, that I might be well armed against all
rising hopes, all glimmering wishes. Then his exhortation not on any
account to consult a doctor who would certainly only seek to delude me,
to spare my feelings, in the way all medical men treated their
patients. His emotion when I left, his praise of my firmness and
self-command--Still I cannot bear him ill-will. He does not know what
sort of life it was, he sought to give back to me, by this stratagem.
After having resigned it, it appears so paltry and valueless; how painful
it is to me to begin anew with all the trifles of this world to which I
had already become dead, and to bear what now seems doubly odious to me
after having lived in a higher and nobler sphere; to fall back into the
dreary drudgery of a girl's life; to be once more tied down to the
narrow, commonplace customs and prejudices of a small town; to be
observed, judged and pitied by one's so-called friends, who know so
little of the characters of their acquaintances, that they invariably
mistake their good qualities for their bad ones.
I must cease! my thoughts are lost in the deep gloom of a sunless
future, in which the dear faces of my father and Ernest are the only
bright spots.
What radiance streamed from the open gate, the entrance of which was
guarded by the angel of death.
February the 3rd.
The doctor has just left me. He has taken the letter with him, as he
thinks it very remarkable, and says he has not yet met with such a
thorough physiologist as my old friend. Perhaps he wishes to show the
letter to Morrik. From him not a word; I did not like to question the
doctor, as I had heard in the morning, that he was getting on well, and
yesterday for the first time, enjoyed the warm sunshine on his balcony.
To-day I fancied the doctor was very absent hurried, and mysterious; I
had to ask him if he permitted me to walk out. He nodded, and said;
"Mind you do not agitate yourself by any exciting conversation." With
whom should I speak?
So I must begin life again, where, and under what circumstances? I
should like to keep a school; but here the people are all Roman
Catholics.
Leave these dear mountains, and return to that dull town to look again
on the monotonous faces of its inhabitants with their air of self
importance, the obtrusiveness of which disturbs my very dreams. However
I cannot leave my father. Fortunately he has not been duped as I have
been. He agreed to the stratagem of our malicious friend.
It appears strange that Morrik should not have made the slightest
inquiry, or sent any friendly greeting to me. He probably feels that
there must be some change in our relations to each other, as it is
decided that we are both to live. But some acknowledgement of our
former friendship.... or does he not feel the pain and bitterness of
having found each other, only to lose one another again for ever.
The doctor says that so severe a crisis often changes the whole nature,
and so his soul which has arisen renewed, and invigorated from the
paroxysm of fever, has probably kept no remembrance of his companion on
the road to death. Well I must submit to it.
Let him forget me; I will always remain to him what I have been.
The 5th--Morning.
Received a letter from my father congratulating me. I shed tears over
it. Whilst every one was condoling with me I felt happy, and now that I
am again given back to life, and ought to rejoice I feel wretched.
These desolate winter-days, the sun shining with the heat of spring,
make me feel miserable in body and soul; it is but a sterile....
February the 6th.
Yesterday amidst all my hopelessness, a spark of courage kindled within
me. I left my writing and walked to the window. I felt heartily ashamed
of my cowardice, my grief, and my ingratitude towards God.
What had become of the sentence which I had once so valiantly used as
the theme for a sermon? "For I was made man; and that means that I have
striven."
The wings of angels which I had expected are not to be mine yet. I must
still be up and doing, and if necessary, must work my way through the
world with these mortal arms of mine, and be thankful if some day I
should be able to twine them round a dear friend and there find rest.
The remembrance that I had once approached a higher sphere and had
learnt to know it, or at least to anticipate it, will always remain
with me for good and for evil. For good, as I carry away with me an
everlasting treasure of golden thoughts; for evil, as many things which
formerly I should have deemed riches, will now appear insufficient to
me. Yet I would not spare the past.
I have written to my old friend this morning and have reconciled myself
with him; and now I will try to be reconciled to myself, for I was
justly angry with my own weakness. Must I not be at peace with myself,
before I can once again engage in the battle of life.
The 8th February.
And where is the free and happy mortal who is permitted to glide
through life as on wings, whose forehead reaches the clouds, who can
say that the dust on the road of life has not touched his soul, no
barrier hemmed in his steps, or obstructed his sight, that every hour
he feels within him an eternal bliss and freedom. To few mortals has
fate awarded such a lot as awaits Morrik after his heavy trials. My
heart beats with joy when I think of the brilliant future that lies
before him. How little I grudge him his happiness; I rejoice in it. It
seems strange to me, that only a fortnight has passed since I stood
beside his bed. How much has occurred since then! When he hears my
name, he will perhaps look up wonderingly, and try to recollect where
he met me.
Here I sit thinking and planning for his future, like an old woman who
after many long years is told that a friend of her youth has thriven
and prospered in life, and who says: "He has well deserved it; his
character was noble and generous; I knew him well when I was young!"
The 12th February.
The wisest thing I now can do is honestly to confess my folly and then
have a good laugh at myself. How long is it since I again resolved to
be a true combattant? And now? What a heroic achievement to lay down my
arms and run away without having even the courage to desert, but to
lose heart when half way, and turn back again. Well done brave warrior!
If I did not look on the whole thing from a ludicrous point of view, I
should feel deeply ashamed of myself.
Well this afternoon the air was so warm and springlike that the sun
drove me from my customary lonely walk on the Kuechelberg. Not a breeze
stirred, the lizards whisked about as gaily as in summer, and there is
no foliage to afford shade; the tendrils which were formerly trained
into cooling bowers have probably a good reason of their own for not
budding as yet.
I turned back, and for the first time for many days ventured on the
Wassermauer, which was not much frequented.
My heart beat as though everyone already knew that I had slipped into
the society of the doomed, under false colours, and had been sent back
with a protest.
I tried to find a ready answer in case anybody should ask me; "and so
you have changed your mind, and are not going to die?" All the small
sins I had committed in the belief that it was pardonable to gratify
every wish, as the wish of one dying, rose in array against me. How
impolite, how regardless of giving offence I had been to every one for
whose good opinion I did not care. There is that stout old gentleman
with a small thermometer in his button-hole, who fastens or unfastens
one of the buttons of his overcoat at every degree more or less of
cold. At first he had lectured me about my health, and I had not only
continued my imprudent courses but even, when I once met the fat
philanthropist, unconsciously let down my veil, to his great
astonishment. There is that young girl, with whom I never exchanged
another word, because after the first quarter of an hour of our
acquaintance she kissed me, and read aloud a poem which her brother had
composed. There is that lady with her two big mustachioed sons, who
with great foresight, had cautioned me against any flirtation with
them, and after all was much offended when I followed her advice and
turned my back on them; and above all the poor little chronicler of
scandal, who can now only come out by means of an arm-chair, but still
has strength enough left to rejoice over the weaknesses of her fellow
creatures. What a character she will give me, when she arrives in the
next world before me! Well I hope He who judges up yonder will be more
lenient than the good people here below. I was thinking over all this,
and feeling very much provoked at my own paltry cowardice which seemed
to flourish again and prevented me from attaining the indifference and
disdain with which I had formerly looked down on the life here, when I
reached the Winter garden, and glancing along the benches and arbours,
what I saw there put the finishing stroke on my remaining courage.
There sat bolt upright, and expanding around her the skirts of a
dazzling toilette, the lady without nerves, and beside her, silently
looking on the ground, and perfectly restored--Morrik! She was eagerly
talking to him, and he listened patiently, a kind smile even
brightening his face. I grudged her that smile, as I would have done to
no one else. I cannot express the misery I felt, the longing to be
away, never to see, or be seen of them again; never to be forced to
speak indifferently to those with whom, in the presence of death, I had
exchanged words full of weal or woe.
I fled across the bridge, and along the highroad which leads through
the beautiful valley of the Adige, and after passing several villages
reaches Botzen sixteen miles off. I soon left the first village of
Untermais behind me, and then sat down on a bench, and there collected
my thoughts sufficiently to devize a plan, which though wiser than the
rest was still exceedingly foolish. If I walk on for several hours, I
thought, I shall reach Botzen to-day, and probably some carriage or
omnibus may overtake me, and give me a lift. Once at Botzen, I can
write to the people with whom I lodged, and apprize them that I was
forced to leave suddenly, send them some money, and beg them to pack my
things and forward them to me. By so doing, I should never again see
them all, and should avoid the trials and pain of leave taking in case
anyone should care about my departure--at least it will not trouble my
rest. And who will care? Perhaps the doctor, and I can write to him. I
need not be uneasy about _him_ whom I once called my friend. He must
have _quite_ recovered, if he can sit beside the lady without nerves,
and smile when she speaks to him in her shrill voice. When I had taken
this resolution, I felt quite satisfied, at least I fancied that I was
so; so I walked bravely on towards the south, and tried to enjoy the
fine scenery around me; the green meadows, the bare rugged mountains
with the snow glittering on their summits, the picturesque houses of
the peasants, the vineyards, the rushing streams which I passed on my
way, and above all, I tried to rejoice in the thought that I had now
put an end to all my doubts and cares, and had depended on no one but
myself. It seemed quite a relief to return home, and to hide my broken
wings. They had been too weak to soar aloft, and had not borne the test
of freedom. Is not that a common misfortune among caged birds?
The sun had now set. I had passed a village the name of which I did not
know, and had there drunk a small glass of wine as, I was shivering in
my light cloak. The air was sharper than was agreeable to a patient
spoiled by the warm sun of Meran. I became more and more uneasy as I
wandered alone, along the highroad, in the twilight. I often looked
back to see if nothing was coming that might give me a lift. An omnibus
passed me, but it was crowded with smoking peasants, and did not look
inviting.
After having walked on for another hour, nearly famished, and with no
shelter in view, the brave heroine who had formed such daring projects,
sat down on a stone by the way-side, and had a good cry, like any other
baby which had strayed from its home. Truly death is easy, and life is
hard!
Heaven knows what would have become of me had not a lucky chance, no,
it was kind Providence, taken compassion on me. Suddenly I heard the
rolling of a light cart, and the crack of a whip, and looking up I
recognized in the charioteer, my friend of the Kuechelberg, Ignatius.
After scanning the lonely figure, with sharp eyes he pulled up. A
touching scene of recognition took place, which ended by Ignatius
lifting me into his cart, and driving me homewards. He had concluded
some wine business in Vilpian and was in high spirits. He was quite
satisfied with my declaration, that lost in thought, I had walked on
and so strayed far from Meran. There I sat wrapped up in coverings, and
conveyed home as speedily as possible. Fortunately we did not approach
Meran before dark, and did not meet anyone except the doctor, who came
out of a house just as we were passing through Untermais, and who
little suspected who was hiding from him in that cloak and veil. During
the drive, kind Ignatius gave me a detailed description of his conjugal
felicity, with a freedom of expression which I had to pardon on account
of the wine of Vilpian which had loosened his tongue. "Certainly," he
remarked, "Liesi still had her old propensity for setting down and
knowing better; but he had at last come to the conclusion that she
really _did_ know better. A single person did so many foolish things,
but when two kept house together all was quite different. Where one was
at fault, the other succeeded, and two pair of eyes saw just twice as
sharp as a single pair could do. Then his Liese was so handy and clever
in every respect, just as he had always wished his wife to be. She
always had a kind word for him, in short, life seemed a paradise to him
since his marriage." Once he asked after the gentleman who had been
with me at Schoenna. When I told him that he had quite recovered his
former health, he hummed a song, and nodded and winked at me so
mischievously that I got quite angry.
The good people with whom I lodge, stared in astonishment when I told
them how far I had wandered. I then informed them that I would leave
after another week. I have been told that the passage over the Brenner
is now free from snow and the cold is not very keen. I must take
advantage of this early, and probably transient, spring for my passage
over the Alps....
I now make a solemn vow that to-morrow I will do public penance for my
childish flight of to-day. I will walk on the Wassermauer, speak to my
few acquaintances and tell them how marvellously I have recovered my
health. I will confront even the lady without nerves, and see if I
cannot be restored to her favour. It would have been really too
disgraceful if I had reached Botzen. To run away like a rogue who dares
not look an honest man in the face. Then I quite forgot too that this
diary would have remained here, and who knows into whose hands it might
have fallen.
The next day--Spring has burst forth.
Can one write down what the heart can neither seize, nor comprehend? I
will try.
When I rose in the morning I did not in the least fear all the trials
which this day would bring me, all the test of courage I should have to
undergo in front of the enemy. Had I known what bliss was awaiting me,
I should have perhaps run away overpowered by its greatness. Yesterday
I wrote that life was hard to bear; but hardest of all for a poor weak
heart to bear, is great happiness when it has never before tasted it
from youth upwards, and is then suddenly crushed and overpowered by its
weight. It cannot cease to ask itself, "Will it not be taken from me
before my strength is equal to it?" There is one comfort however in
this, that no true happiness has to be borne alone. This deep and
heartfelt bliss can only be given us by a fellow creature, who in
bestowing it on us, shares it with us. There lie the first violets they
too bear witness to the spring which has this day come to me. I had a
refreshing rest after my long wandering of yesterday; softly rocked to
sleep by a conscience which had grown quite easy since I had firmly
resolved not to be ashamed before the world of the crime I had
committed in returning to life.
When I rose the day was far advanced. While dressing my hair before the
glass I perceived that my colour was returning, and when I put on my
dress, I remarked that I could no longer wear my funereal clothes; they
have become much too tight for me and confine my chest. The old hoary
headed pedlar came in good time! It is long since I have had a fit of
vanity. But if one is to live, why not do like other women? When I had
done plaiting my hair, I came to the conclusion that after all, I did
not look so very old. I do not know how it happened, but my thoughts
then suddenly turned to the young Pole, and I began to consider what
charm was attached to me, that anyone could fall in love with, at ten
paces distance. Probably it is all a matter of taste.
For the first time I was ashamed of my old-fashioned clothes, and when
putting on my hat, determined to have a new ribbon for it, before I
ventured out on my thorny walk among the strangers. And so it came to
pass that as I was going to leave my room, my head filled with finery
like that of a silly Miss in her teens, the door opened and in walked
Morrik. I verily believe that he had forgotten to knock. I was somewhat
startled, but he did not seem to notice it. He was quite absent and
shy.
He did not even sit down, but walked at once to the window, and admired
the view; then examined the writing-table, and talked about rococo
furniture with the air of a connoisseur. All at once he burst forth,
and begged my pardon for the liberty he had taken in calling on me, but
that he was starting for Venice tomorrow morning, and wished to take
leave of me. He wanted also to excuse himself to me and to thank me.
I sat down on the little sofa, and could find no word in reply but:
"Won't you sit down." I still had my hat on which did not appear very
hospitable but he seemed to think of nothing but how to express in
words, what weighed on his mind.