GRIM DEATH.
They held each other firmly embraced, heart to heart. All sorrow and
sadness were forgotten; they were oblivious of the whole world, and of
all that was going on around them. They did not see old Trude standing
near by, with folded hands, her face radiant with delight; they did not
see her follow Mr. Ebenstreit, who had glided noiselessly out of the
room. They did not hear the door creak on its hinges, as she closed it
behind her, and left them alone and unobserved in the silent chamber.
And, though the two had remained, though hundreds and hundreds of eyes
had been fastened on them inquiringly, what would they have cared? They
would, nevertheless, have still been alone with love, with happiness,
and with the joy of reunion.
Her head still rested on his breast; he still pressed her to his heart.
"Marie, the dream of my whole life is now fulfilled; I hold you in
my arms, you are mine! The restless wanderer has at last crossed the
threshold of the promised land, and love and peace bid him welcome."
"Yes, my Philip," she murmured, softly, "love and peace bid him
welcome. Pain has left us for evermore, and we shall be happy!"
"Yes, happy, Marie! Look up, darling, that I may read love in your dear
eyes!"
With his hand he attempted to raise her head, but she only pressed it
the more firmly to his breast.
"No, Philip, let my head still rest on your bosom; let me dream on for
a little while."
"Marie, I have yearned to see these dear eyes for two long years; look
up, my darling!"
"Not yet, Philip," she whispered, entwining her arms more closely
around her lover, her countenance still hid in his bosom. "Let me
first tell you something, Philip! I have been ill, very ill, and it
was thought I would die. If you should find me a little changed, a
little pale, my beloved, it will only be because I have not yet quite
recovered, but am only steadily improving. Remember this, and do not be
alarmed. Look at me! Welcome, welcome, my Philip!"
When she raised her head, a radiant expression of happiness rested on
her features; her lips were crimson, her eyes shone lustrously, and the
death-roses on her cheeks burned brightly. Death had, perhaps, been
touched by the supreme happiness of these two beings, who had been
wandering under a thunder-cloud of sorrow for long years, and who now
fondly believed that they had at last found a refuge from the storms
of life, and a balsam for all pain. Death, who comes from God, had,
perhaps, been moved with divine pity, and had lain concealed behind
these flushed cheeks and crimson lips, permitting joy to illumine
Marie's countenance with a last golden ray of the setting sun, and to
give her for a brief moment the appearance of health and strength.
Philip, at least, did not see the grim messenger; he was deceived by
these death-roses, by this ray of sunshine. He had expected to find
Marie in a much worse condition. Gedicke's letter had carried the
conviction to his heart that he would find her in a hopeless, in a
dying condition, and that nothing buoyed her up, and withheld her from
the clutches of the grave, but her longing to see him once more. Now
she stood before him with rosy cheeks, with a bright smile on her lips,
and with eyes that sparkled with joy.
"Marie, my jewel, my longed-for happiness, how lovely, how beautiful
you are! Why speak of illness and of pale cheeks! I see nothing of all
this; I see you healthy, happy, and beautiful--as beautiful as when I
often saw you in my dreams in the long nights of the past--as beautiful
as I have ever conceived you to be when standing before the Madonnas
of Raphael and Giulio Romano in Rome and Florence. 'Gaze at me with
your dark eyes,' I said to them. 'You would ask me whether I admire and
adore you. True, you are lovely, but I know a Marie who is lovelier
and purer than you all! I know a Marie whose eyes are radiant with the
light of womanhood, purity, and virtue. She is not so coquettish as you
are, Maria della Ledia; her eyes are not so dreamy as yours, Maria di
Fuligno. But they are resplendent with holy love, and noble thoughts
dwell on her chaste brow!' And now I have thee, and now will I hold
thee, my Marie, and nothing can separate us more!"
"No," she said, thoughtfully, "nothing henceforth can now separate us
but death!"
"Death has nothing to do with us, my darling. We shall live, and live a
joyous, happy life!"
"Yes, live, live!" she cried, in such longing, passionate tones, and
with so sad an expression of countenance, that Moritz's heart quaked.
It seemed to him as though a string had broken on the harp on which she
had just begun to play the joyous song of life and of love, and at this
moment he saw grim death peering forth from behind the roses on her
cheeks, and the smile on her crimson lips.
"Come, my darling, let us be seated. There is your throne, and here at
your feet lies he who adores you, looking up at his Madonna, at his
Marie, with ecstacy."
He bore her tenderly to the arm-chair, and then seated himself at her
feet. He looked up at her with an expression of deep devotion, his
folded hands resting on her lap. She bowed down over him and stroked
with her pale little hand his black, curly hair, and the broad forehead
she had once seen so gloomy and clouded, and which was now as clear and
serene as the heaven in her own breast.
"I have thee at last once more, thou star of my life! When I regard
thee, I feel that life is, indeed, beautiful, and that one hour of
bliss is not too dearly purchased with long years of suffering and
want. We paid dearly, Philip, but now we have the longed-for happiness.
We have it and will hold it fast; nothing on earth shall tear it from
us?"
"No, nothing on earth, my beloved! Like Odysseus, I have now returned
from my wanderings through life, and here I lie at the feet of my
Penelopeia; like him, I have driven off the suitors who aspired to the
favor of my fair one. Was it not a suitor, who slipped out at the door
when I entered?"
"A suitor of the past," replied Marie, smiling. "Did you not recognize
him?"
"Have I ever known him? But what do we care, now that he has gone!
I am not compelled to drive him off, nor yet to hang old Trude as a
go-between, as Odysseus did the old woman of whom Homer tells us."
Philip and Marie both laughed. It was the innocent childlike laughter
with which happiness illumines even the gravest countenances, and which
permits those who have been sorely tried, and have suffered greatly,
to find the innocence of youth and the smile of childhood again on the
threshold of paradise regained.
"Marie, how beautiful you are when you laugh! Then it seems as though
all these years of sorrow had not been--as though we had only been
dreaming, and now awake to find that we are again in the little room
under the roof. You are once more my charming young scholar, and
Professor Moritz has just come to give Miss von Leuthen a lesson in
the Italian language. Yes, that is it, we are still the same; and see!
there lie the flowers on your table, just as they were when old Trude
conducted me to your room to give you your first lesson."
He took a handful of flowers from the table and held them between his
folded hands. "You dear flowers! She is your god and your goddess! Like
God she made you of nothing, and, like the goddess Flora, she strews
you over the pathway of humanity; but to-day you shall receive the most
glorious reward for your existence--to-day you shall adorn her, my fair
Flora!"
He sprang up, seized whole handfuls of violets, pinks, lilies, and
forget-me-nots, and strewed them over Marie's head, in her lap, and all
over and about her.
"Let me strew your path with flowers for the future, my darling. May
your tender little feet never more be wounded by the sharp stones!
may you never again be compelled to journey over rough roads! Flowers
shall spring up beneath your footsteps, and I will be the gardener who
cultivates them."
"You are my heaven-flower yourself, my imperial lily," said she,
extending her hands. He took them in his, pressed them to his lips, and
then resumed his former seat at her feet.
"How handsome you are, Philip, and how strong you look, tanned by the
sun of Italy and steeled by the combat with life! Misfortune has made a
hero of you, my beloved. You are taller and prouder than you were."
"And are you not a heroine, Marie, a victorious heroine?"
"A victorious heroine!" she said, sadly. "A heroine who is struggling
with death! Do not look at me with such consternation, Philip--I am
well. It is only that joy and surprise have made me feel a little weak.
You do not find that I look ill, and therefore I am not ill; you say I
will recover, and therefore I will recover. Tell me once more that I am
not ill, that I will recover!"
"You will recover; you will bloom again in happiness and joy."
"You say these words in a sad voice, as though you did not believe
them yourself! But I will not die; no, I will not! I am too young; I
have not lived long enough. Life still owes me so much happiness. I
will not die! I will live--live!"
She uttered this in loud tones of anguish, as though Life were an armed
warrior to whom she appealed to defend her against Death, who was
approaching her with a murderous dagger in his bony hand. But Life had
no longer a weapon with which to defend her; it timidly recoiled before
the king who is mightier than the King of Life, and whose sceptre is
a scythe with which he mows down humanity as the reaper harvests the
grain of the fields.
"Philip, my Philip," cried Marie, her countenance quivering with pain,
"remain with me, my beloved! It is growing so dark, and--There, how my
breast pains me again! Alas, you have scattered flowers at my feet, but
the thorns have remained in my heart! And they pain so terribly! it is
growing dark--dark!--Trude!"
The old woman, who had been waiting at the threshold with the
humility of a faithful dog, threw the door open and rushed forward
to her darling, who lay in the arm-chair, with closed eyes, pale and
motionless, her head resting on Moritz's arm.
"Trude, call the physician!" cried he, in dismay. "Run for assistance!
Run! run! She must not die! She shall not leave me! O God, Thou canst
not desire to tear her from me! Thou permittedst me to hear her voice
when in Rome, when widely separated from her, and I answered this call
and flew here on the wings of the wind. It cannot be Thy will that I am
to be surrounded by eternal silence--that I am never more to hear this
dear voice!--Help me, Trude! Why do you not call the physician?"
"It is useless, dear sir, useless," whispered Trude, whose tears were
still flowing in torrents. "All the physicians say that her case is
hopeless; they told me that this would occur, and that all would then
be at an end. But perhaps this is only a swoon; perhaps we can awaken
her once more."
Was it the strengthening essence with which Trude rubbed her forehead,
the strong musk-drops which she poured between Marie's parted lips,
or was it the imploring voice in which Moritz called her name, and
conjured her not to leave him?--Marie opened her eyes and cast a look
of ineffable tenderness at the pale, horror-stricken countenance
of her lover, who was again kneeling at her feet, his arms clasped
convulsively around her person, as if in a last despairing effort to
withhold her from the King of Terrors, who had already stretched out
his skeleton arm to grasp his victim.
"I am dying, Philip!" murmured Marie, in low tones, and her voice
resounded on his ear like the last expiring notes of an Æolian harp.
"It is useless to deceive you longer; the truth is evident, and we must
both bear it as we best may."
"Marie, I cannot, cannot bear it!" he sobbed, burying his countenance
in her lap. "God is merciful; He will take pity on me, on my agony, on
my love! God will grant you recovery!"
"The only recovery God vouchsafes me is at hand," whispered Marie.
"Recovery is death! I have felt it approaching for many, many
days--in the long, fearful nights I have lain awake struggling with
this thought, unable to comprehend it, and doubting God's mercy and
goodness. My defiant heart refused to submit humbly to God's will, and
still continued to entreat a little more life, a little happiness, of
Him who is inexorable, and upon whose ear the wail of man strikes in
as low tones as the last breath of the insect we tread under foot. I
comprehended, finally, that all complaints were useless--that nothing
remained but to submit, to humble myself, to thank God for each hour of
life as for a gracious boon, and to consider each ray of sunshine shed
on my existence as a proof of His goodness. I have conquered myself; my
stubborn heart has been softened, and no longer rebels against the hand
of the Almighty, to whom men are as worms, and as the grain of sand to
the mighty glacier that touches the clouds. You, too, must be gentle
and submissive, my Philip. Learn to submit to the eternal laws of God!"
"No, I cannot," said he, in heart-rending tones; "I cannot be
submissive. My heart is rebellious; in my anguish I could tear it from
my breast when I see you suffer!"
"I am not suffering, Philip," said she, her countenance radiant
with a heavenly smile. "All pain has now left me, and I feel as
though I floated in a rosy cloud, high above all earthly sorrow.
From this height I see how paltry all earthly sorrows are, and how
little they deserve a single tear. Here below, all is paltry and
insignificant--above, all is great and sublime. Oh, Philip, how sweet
it will be to meet you once more up there! In blissful embrace, our
spirits will soar from star to star, and the glories of all worlds and
the mysteries of all creations will be made manifest to us, and our
life will be bliss and joy unending! The cloud is soaring higher and
higher! Philip, I see thee no longer!"
"But I see thee, my darling," cried Philip, despairingly, as he clasped
her sinking head between his hands, and covered it with tears and
kisses. "Do not leave me, Marie; stay with me, thou sole delight of my
life! Do not leave me alone in the world."
His imploring voice had that divine power which, as we are told by the
Greeks, breathed life into stone, and transformed a cold, marble statue
into a warm, loving woman. His imploring voice recalled the spirit of
the loving woman to the body already clasped in the chilly embrace of
death.
"You shall not be solitary, Philip," she murmured; "it is so sad to
have to struggle alone through life. I must go, Philip, but you shall
not be left alone."
"But I will be if you leave me, Marie; therefore stay! Oh, stay!"
"I cannot, Philip," gasped Marie, in low tones. "You must place another
at your side! Another must fill my place. Hear my last wish, my last
prayer, Philip. Take a wife, marry!"
"Impossible, Marie, you cannot be so cruel as to desire this."
"I have thought of this a great deal, have struggled with my own heart,
and am now convinced that you must do so. You must have a wife at your
side who loves you. Swear that you will seek such a wife. Swear this,
and accord me a last joy on earth."
She raised her hand once more, and her dying gaze was fastened on him
imploringly. He could not resist it; he clasped the pale fingers in his
quivering, burning hands, and swore that he would do as she bade him.
A faint smile flitted over her countenance, and her eyes sought out
the faithful old woman, who had loved her like a mother, and who found
it no longer necessary to conceal her tears, as she had been doing for
many months, in holy and heroic deception.
"Trude," whispered Marie, "you have heard his vow, and you must remind
him of it, and see that he keeps it, and marries within the year. Kiss
me, Trude, and swear that you will do so!"
Old Trude had no other words than her tears, no other vow than the kiss
which her trembling lips pressed on her darling's brow, already covered
with that cold, ominous perspiration which gathers, like the morning
dew of another world, on the countenances of those who stand on the
threshold of the grave, and is symbolical of the new life to which they
will awaken on high.
"Philip, my beloved, you too must kiss me!" whispered Marie, in eager
tones. "Kiss me! Hold me fast! Drive death, grim, fearful death, away!"
He kissed her, entwined his arms around her, and pressed her to his
bosom. Trude stretched out her arms imploringly into empty space, as if
to ward off "grim death!"
But he is king of kings, and claims as his own all who live on earth!
Silence reigned in the little chamber. Holy is the hour of
separation--holy the moment in which the immortal soul is torn from
its earthly abode, and this holy moment must not be desecrated with
lamentations and tears!
After a long interval, the heart-rending cry of a man, and the low wail
of a woman broke in upon the stillness.--Marie had died, but a smile
still rested on her lips.