saw nor heard anything of me, after that night when you, and the doctor
watched by my bedside. But I am not quite so bad, so heartless, so
ungrateful, as you must have supposed me. The truth is that I can
recollect no more of what happened during my illness than I can
remember of an uneasy dream. I certainly fancied that I had seen you at
my bedside, that I had received the medicines from your hands, and that
it was you who had arranged my pillows. I had also a vague impression
of some strange scene between you and my bete noire, the lady without
nerves. But when I had considered it all, it appeared to me, so strange
that I quickly banished it from my mind. Had I not received the letter
from you, in which you so seriously and decidedly bade me farewell. To
be sure your landlady came daily to inquire for me, but then many other
persons did the same. Why should you not have been civil, though
everything was at an end between us. So I feared to act against your
stringent orders, by trying once more to approach you. I even doubted
whether you would not consider it as an offence if I were to write a
line to you before leaving, and send you a bouquet as is customary in
this country. You will now understand my astonishment when having
accidentally met the life preserver, I heard from her that all that had
seemed to me a dream, had actually taken place; that you had really
been my deliverer and faithful guardian, and with noble generosity, had
taken pity on my sufferings and not resented all that had estranged us,
and had so suddenly put an end to the bright and happy days of yore.
Now I can hardly thank you sufficiently. I feel quite unhappy, and
bewildered when I think of the past. I wished to tell you so yesterday,
and to clear up all that must have seemed incomprehensible to you, but
you were out when I called. Were you not told that I had been here
twice? Perhaps you would rather leave everything unexplained, as it was
before; quite without my knowledge and will. Your interest was only for
the dying man. Now that it is decided that I am to live, I am perhaps
quite as much estranged from you as when I rashly uttered the words
that pained you so much. Well, I am to leave Meran to-morrow, and you
will be freed from the constraint which my presence has caused you."
What I answered; what he said, when he spoke again; how it came that
his hand held mine, and that he again called me "Marie," as he formerly
had done, how can I tell?
The air seemed suddenly filled with intoxicating music, my eyes were
dazzled with the rays of heavenly light which appeared to stream
through the room. How long this ecstasy lasted I know not; all I know
is that Eternity opened before me. I had died happy and without agony,
and now I was awakened to a new life, in heaven and yet in this world;
dead to all the small cares and faintedheartedness of human life, and
arisen to the full glory of peace, everlasting trust, and the eternal
knowledge of the truth.
"Come," he said at last, "you are ready for a walk; let us make our
bridal visits."
I took his arm, and he first led me across the passage into the
workshop of my landlord, where the good old Meister and his apprentices
stared at us, and the Frau Meisterin hearing the news, rushed into the
room, with a frying pan, which she was just going to put on the fire,
still in her hand; she loudly sang my praises, and congratulated Morrik
on having secured such a treasure as a wife, till I at last burst out
laughing through my tears. Then we walked through the town, and he now
and then entered a shop, and bought most useless things only for the
pleasure of saying. "Send it to the lodgings of my betrothed, you know
the house of the tailor, three stairs high, next door to heaven," and
he said it all with perfect gravity.
When we arrived on the Wassermauer, all the strangers were assembled as
if by appointment. The band was playing, and for the first time, it
seemed to me, that the instruments were in tune, and the musicians
keeping time.
At first I felt rather embarrassed, as all eyes were upon me, but that
soon passed off, and I was infinitely amused to see how amiable and
friendly every one had suddenly become, and how pleased I was with
them. We first turned to the life preserver, and actually something
like a tear glistened in her small unmeaning eyes when Morrik kissed
her hand and told her she was as yet the only woman who had made me
jealous. This speech procured me a gracious kiss on the forehead and
the assurance that my behaviour was to be overlooked in consideration
of my jealousy, and weak nerves. Then came the lady with her two smart
sons, the sister with her brother the poet and even the fat gentleman
with the thermometer at his button-hole. From them all we received
congratulations, and they all assured us that they had known it long
ago; to which Morrik answered that in that case they had known more
than we ourselves had done; he even joked with the little _chronique
scandaleuse_, who alone persisted in treating me with icy coldness. To
a child who offered me a bunch of violets he gave his whole purse. The
sun shone, the trumpets seemed to call the spring from its winter
sleep. And yonder in the churchyard where I had chosen a sunny little
corner for my grave, the flowers were blooming, as if after having
taught us to live, death had disappeared for ever.
After that, we sat together for a long time and only took leave of each
other when the sun was setting.
"Darling," he said, "I have solemnly promised our tyrant the doctor,
not to see you again before next spring. Nothing he says is so
pernicious to the health of convalescents as a long betrothal between
two solitary young people. That was the reason he would never speak out
about your nursing me in my fever; although I several times very
plainly alluded to it. But you have learned how to write as I know to
my own cost, and so we shall still be united. How I shall rejoice at
the first letter from you which does not speak of leave taking but of
meeting, never to be parted again; not of death, but of a life full of
happiness."
We were standing on the stairs in the twilight. We clasped each other's
hands and promised to bear this last trial cheerfully. I pressed him
once more to my heart before I had to surrender him again; but we both
firmly trusted that He who had granted us this happiness would also
grant us a future to enjoy it. We shall not in vain have passed from
death to life....
I now close this journal: I will send it to you to-day, my dearest
friend, perhaps it may amuse you to peruse it on your lonely journey
when your thoughts are with me. Is not all I possess, are not all my
thoughts yours for ever? The pages contain your name more than once.
May it be a clear mirror in which our united images are reflected. I
lay this poem between the leaves, I have copied it for you, and have
placed beside it one of the violets you gave me to-day. When they bloom
again, we shall be once more united, if God permits it--and He _will_
permit it.--
Thou shall't not weep but gladdened be
And bless thyself at noon, at night,
When free thy soul with wond'ring glee
Shall joyful taste love's deep delight.
Of life, the tumult all is o'er;
No sounds to us from earth can soar,
As heav'nward now our eyes we raise,
And on the glorious stars we gaze.
Softly the waves of peace shall flow
O'erwhelming every grief at last;
And to our senses the bright glow
Of endless love o'er all is cast.
BEATRICE.
BEATRICE.
Night was far advanced and yet we three sat together in the cool
summer-house, conversing over some bottles of wine from Asti, which we
had discovered by a lucky chance, and were now emptying to the health
of our friend who had just returned from Italy. He was, by several
years, our senior, and had reached man's estate, when we first met him
twelve years ago, on our southern journey. His manly appearance, the
nobility of his demeanour, and a certain pensive charm in his smile had
attracted us from the first. His conversation, his universal knowledge,
and the unassuming way in which he displayed it, confirmed us in our
first impressions, and at the end of the three weeks, which we passed
together in Rome, we were united in as firm a friendship as ever
existed between men of such different ages. Then he suddenly left us;
he was summoned back to Geneva, where he was at the head of a large
commercial establishment.
During the succeeding years we never missed an opportunity of meeting
again, so he had not hesitated this time to take the longer route
through our town for the sake of spending twenty-four hours in our
company.
We found him unchanged in his outward appearance; he was still a
handsome man, his hair was hardly sprinkled with grey; his high
forehead was white and smooth, but he was more silent than formerly.
Sometimes he was so absent that he did not hear our questions, but
apparently absorbed in his own thoughts gazed at the wine-bubbles in
his glass, or holding a lump of ice to the candle watched it slowly
melting. We hoped to render him more communicative by making some
inquiries respecting his last journey, but finding that even this
favourite theme could not arouse him we left him to himself, and kept
up the conversation between us, happy to have him at least in the body
with us, and patiently waiting for the time when his spirit also should
return.
In the meantime I poured forth all the ideas which had lately occupied
my mind. They were crude and superficial and would at any other time
have provoked a contradiction from our friend who was a sharp and keen
logician. The condition of the Italian theatre had given occasion to
this discussion. I maintained that it was not in any way surprising if
the Italians, in spite of all their pathos and passion, could not equal
the dramatic literature of Greece, England, and Germany; nor does it
stand higher in France and Spain, formerly so renowned for dramatic
glory. The temperament of the Latin races, their nature and
cultivation, are so restrained by conventionalities that the tragic
element which consists in concentrating all our interest in one single
individual is quite unintelligible to them. Nor do they venture to
liberate themselves from the trammels of form and give free course to
the spontaneous accents of nature which can alone awaken a tragic awe
in our hearts.
Like every conversation on elevated subjects which does not blindly
grope on the surface of a question, so the present one soon led us to
the discussion of the most mysterious depths of human nature.
Whilst Amadeus drew figures with his silver pencil in the spilt wine,
Otto warmly defended the conventionalism I had condemned, and
maintained that even fiction should be subjected to strict moral laws.
My proposition that the drama should deal with individual, and
exceptional cases, rather than with generalities, and exalt natural
laws above social ones, seemed to him pernicious and full of danger,
for, he said, the conception of a dramatic crime would then be like the
harbouring of a demon in our bosom, instigating to the contempt and
intolerance of every thing that clashed with our individual feelings
and passions. You would thereby destroy the whole social system, which
after all must have some reason for existing, in favour of the
boundless liberty of the individual. The only merit you appear to
recognize in poetry is that which is beyond the pale of every law. I
tried to make him understand that the point in question did not only
apply to the collision of the drama with outward forms; in a word that
heroic and noble souls were wont to solve the problems of duty,
otherwise than those timorous and commonplace formalists who are always
restrained by petty customs and considerations. Highly gifted natures,
who set an example proportionate to their inward strength and
greatness, extend by their actions the limits of the moral sphere; and
just so, the artist of genius breaks through, or at least extends the
limits that confine his art.
If those noble souls are often actuated by pride and excessive
self-reliance, do they not atone for it by their tragical end? at least
in the eyes of those formalists who regard life as the most precious of
gifts, and who for that reason will never engage in any action, or be
led away by any opinion, which according to the laws of society must
end in death. Such, however, as are capable of understanding the
thoughts and feelings by which those noble natures are impelled, will
never resign the right of exalting them, for they cannot be meted with
the common measure of morality. They who condemn as immoral, what in
our wretched and deficient social organisation ought only to be
considered as the sacred self-defence of free and strong characters,
will never be sensible of the beautiful, or sympathize with what is
generous, they will only discern what is profitable.
Thus had I spoken when suddenly Amadeus looked up from his reverie and
stretched out his hand to me across the table.
"Thank you," he said, "for these true and noble words you have spoken;
they have pleased me much. Amongst us there can be no difference of
opinion as to the fact that custom is not the true standard of
morality, and that the mission which poetry fulfils lies beyond the
pale of human ordinances. I only protest against your assertion that
the deficiency of great tragical poets in Italy is to be accounted for
by the conventional fetters which restrain the character of the nation.
As if capacity of mind, fancy, morality, and the sense of the beautiful
must necessarily be equally developed; as if the one did not often
outstrip the other.
"If a great tragic genius, such as they once possessed in Alfieri were
to be born again to the Italians, the spirit of the nation would not be
slow to welcome him, and academic prejudices of style, could no more
keep their ground, than enforced conformity to the law can oppose the
rights and duties of a free born soul.
"No," he continued, visibly moved, and the tears glistening in his
eyes, "the hollow pathos of their tragedies is not the touchstone by
which we can judge the soul of that noble nation. I cannot hear you
say this without protesting against it, for if ever there existed a
self-dependent character, in feelings, and actions; that character was
my wife's, and she was an Italian."
He paused, while we sat mute and breathless with surprise. Though we
had always presumed ourselves to be well acquainted with him, and all
related to him, we now heard for the first time that he had been
married to a woman he so highly esteemed, and yet whose existence he
had concealed as one conceals a wrong. He rose and paced the narrow and
now dusky room, and we did not disturb him either by questions or
inquiring looks.
At last he stood still, and began in his deep and mellow voice: "I
never told you this because the remembrance of it has always
overpowered me, and the mere recalling of these events caused me a
fever which laid me prostrate for a week. Still it always seemed to me
as if I were wronging you, when I used jestingly to evade your
railleries on my bachelorhood. Believe me, it was principally to
redress this wrong, that I sought your society when I this time
returned from my yearly visit to her grave. Let me therefore simply
tell you all that my heart dictates to me; but first I must open this
casement; the air here is so oppressive that I breathe with difficulty.
So, now, go on with your cigars and your wine, while I walk up and
down.
"A quarter of a century has passed since those events, yet they are as
present to my memory as if they had happened only yesterday; they will
not let me rest."
What he confessed to us in that night, till the day dawned--and even
then we could not part--I wrote down the following day, keeping as much
as possible to his own words. Then I little thought that they were to
be his last ones, his last bequest. He had rightly judged of the power
these recollections still exercised over him; they brought on a fever,
which clung to him during his homeward journey, and was aggravated by
his exertions during a night conflagration, and a few weeks after our
meeting the news reached us that we had then seen him for the last
time.
The following record is now doubly precious to me, and I can with
difficulty bring myself to allow indifferent eyes to peruse his secret.
Then again I feel it a duty to bring to light the strange fate of those
two hearts. Are not the expressions of noble and generous souls the
rightful property of humanity?...
* * * * *
I had reached my twenty-fifth year when my father died. Standing at his
death-bed, after witnessing his painful agony, it seemed to me that ten
years had passed over my head. My only sister who was very dear to me,
had shortly before married a young agent of our establishment, a
Frenchman, whose family had long ago settled at Geneva, and who now
entered into partnership with our firm.
He was like a brother to me, and so when he and my sister urged me to
travel for several months with the hope of rallying my depressed
spirits, I took their advice in this, as in all things, and set out on
my journey, the more readily that I felt how necessary to me was some
outward diversion to my thoughts.
The change of scene soon realized the hopes of my relations. Youth and
vitality were restored. I was again able to enjoy the beauties of
nature, and my taste for the fine arts, which had been awakened by my
former journeys through France and Germany and now found ample food in
Venice and Milan, whither I at first directed my steps, intending to
proceed southwards by slow journies.
Above all I was impatient to reach Florence. The marvels I expected to
find there caused me to look with indifference on the many beauties of
art which I met with on my way thither. Thus I reserved only one day
for Bologna, where I took a hasty survey of the churches and galleries
in the morning, and in the afternoon I drove out to the old convent of
St. Michele at Bosco, in order to quiet my conscience by obtaining a
complete view of the wonderful old town from the summit of the hill.
It was one of the hottest days in midsummer, and though I am generally
little affected by any temperature, yet the suffocating air on that
occasion completely overpowered and exhausted me. The road which leads
from St. Michele back to the town was entirely deserted. Above the
walls of the gardens the trees and bushes projected their dusty boughs.
The wheels of the carriage sank deeply into the burning sand. The
coachman drowsily nodded on his seat, and with difficulty kept his
balance. The tired horse crawled with drooping head and ears along the
edge of the road, in the hope of enjoying the scanty shade which now
and then was cast across it by a villa, or a garden-wall. I had
stretched out my weary limbs along the back seat of the carriage, and
after forming a tent above my head by means of my umbrella I fell into
a dose.
Suddenly I was roused from my repose by a rough blow on my face, as if
some overhanging bough had grazed me as I passed. I started up, and
looking around, discovered a blooming spray of pomegranate lying beside
me. Evidently it had been thrown at me over the neighbouring wall. The
movement I had made seemed to be a signal to the horse to stop. The
coachman quietly slept on, so I had ample leisure to examine the spot
from whence the branch had been thrown at me. I did so all the more
carefully that I had heard from behind the high garden wall a
suppressed girlish titter at the success of the merry trick. I was not
deceived; after waiting a few moments, standing upright in the
carriage, and stedfastly gazing at the wall, I perceived a curly head
shaded by a large florentine straw hat, arise from behind it. A pair of
dark eyes, sparkling with fun underneath the solemn eyebrows, turned
towards me, and seemed to regard me as some strange animal. But when I
raised the sprig of pomegranate, and pressing it to my lips, waved it
towards the young waylayer, a deep blush suffused her face, and in the
next moment the fair vision had disappeared, so that without the branch
in my hand I should probably have believed it to be a dream. I left the
carriage and pensively walked along the side of the wall, till I
reached a high trellised gate which closed the entrance to the garden.
Between the old iron bars of massive mediaeval workmanship, I could
perceive a part of the grounds of the house which stood with closed
Venetian blinds among groups of elm-trees and acacias. I shook the lock
of the gate, but it would not open; my hand had already grasped the
bell rope, when I was seized with sudden shyness at the thought of
entering these strange premises. What a figure I should cut were I
asked the reason of my intrusion. So I contented myself with patiently
waiting for several minutes in the hope of once more seeing the
youthful thrower of sprigs. In the meantime I scanned the house, which
was in no way remarkable, as attentively as if I had intended to draw
it from memory. At last the heat of the sun became unbearable, and I
returned to my umbrella tent. This roused the coachman, he jerked the
reins and away we crawled; I with my head still turned backwards,
though no trace of the fair one was to be discovered.
When I reached the hotel of the three pilgrims, a heavy shower
freshened the oppressive air, and during the night the streets were so
deliciously cool and damp, that I never wearied of sauntering through
the long arcades, now stopping to drink a glass of iced water at some
coffee house; now admiring the portal of some church in the dim light
of the lamps. But in spite of the fatigue caused by this continual
walking and standing, I could find no rest till the morning dawned. I
would not believe that it was the fair young face that kept me awake,
though it continually rose before my eyes. I had always considered it a
fable that the spark from a single glance could set fire to the heart,
so I believed my restlessness to be caused by overstrained nerves.
The next morning however when my hotel bill which I had ordered the
evening before was brought to me, I perceived, now that departure was
at hand, how painful it was to tear myself, away. I became pensive;
then I suddenly recollected that a friend of our firm lived in Bologna
whom I ought to visit. Generally my conscience was not over sensitive
in these matters, but now it seemed to me that this civility was of
great importance. I also reproached myself for the superficial way in
which I had looked at Raphael's St. Cecilia, not to mention several
other sins of omission. I discovered that Bologna was a most remarkable
town, and that after all Florence would always remain within reach.
I finally succeeded in persuading myself that the pretty thrower of
flowers had not the slightest share in this sudden change in my plans.
Strange to say the outlines of her face, when I tried to recall them
vanished more, and more from my mind, and at last I could only remember
the expression of her eyes. During the day time while I fulfilled my
duties as a tourist, I did not feel any particular agitation, but when
the intense heat had subsided, and I directed my steps towards the
villa, as though it were a matter of course, I felt a strange
uneasiness, and I can even now recollect the songs which I sang to
raise my spirits.
I soon reached the spot and found everything just as I had seen it
yesterday. The house looked more cheerful, now that the Venetian blinds
were drawn up, and on the balcony stood a little dog, who when he saw
me stop at the gate, barked furiously. I could not muster courage to
ring the bell. It seemed as if a secret presentiment warned me, and I
almost wished never to see that fair face again, and to depart early
next morning with an unscathed heart. Nevertheless I once more walked
round the boundary wall which extended for some distance, and was
bordered on the further side by some peasants' huts, and a few fields
of maize, nowhere a living creature was to be seen. I had now reached a
point where a low hedge touched the garden wall; I could easily climb
upon it, and from thence overlook the garden. As nobody appeared. I
boldly ventured. The boughs of a large evergreen oak-tree projected
beyond the wall, and I hastily scrambled up and clung to the lowest
branch for support. I could not have chosen a better place; at a
distance of hardly fifty paces I saw on the parched up lawn which now
lay in the shade, two young girls who were playing at battle door and
shuttle cock quite unconscious of being watched. One of them wore a
white dress and the broad brimmed straw hat which I had remarked the
day before. She was of middle height with a figure as straight and
slender as a young poplar tree. She moved like a bird with a graceful
agility such as I fancied that I had never before seen. Her black hair
loosened by her lively movements, flowed freely over her shoulders. The
face was very pale, only lighted up by the eyes and teeth. Suddenly the
shuttlecock was thrown awkwardly, and she burst into a merry laugh
which made my heart throb violently, and the hedge appeared to tremble
under my feet. Her play fellow was dressed like her; only with less
elegance; she seemed to be of an inferior rank.