I know not if men would say that the face of Basil Wolgemuth was
beautiful. There were no darkly gleaming eyes, no sculptured features,
no clustering raven locks; all was fair, clear, and sunny as his own
soul. And what a soul was that! It lighted up his whole countenance, as
the sun lights up a landscape,——making that which would else have been
ordinary most glorious. It was mirrored in his eyes; it shone in his
every gesture; it made music in his voice; it accompanied him like a fair
presence, giving life, love, and beauty wherever he moved.
He sat in a low-roofed, half-darkened chamber, whose gloomy recesses
looked almost fearful. Now and then passing sounds of human voices rose
from the street below, and ever and anon the great bell of Cologne
Cathedral boomed out the hours, making the after silence deeper still.
The student——for such he evidently was——leaned his slight and rather
diminutive form in the attitude of one wearied; but there was no
lassitude visible in his expressive face, and his eyes were fixed with a
dreamy and thoughtful gaze on the blazing fagots that roared and sparkled
on the hearth before him.
The fire was his sole companion; and it was good company, in sooth.
Not mute either; for it seemed to talk like a human voice. How the
live juices hissed out, when the damp pine-wood caught the blaze, and
chattered and muttered like a vexed child! How furiously it struggled and
roared, as the flames grew stronger! How it sunk into a low, complaining
sound, and then into a dead stillness, being conquered at last, and
breathing its life out in a ruddy but silent glow. Such was the voice
of the fire, but the student beheld its form too. Quaint and mysterious
were the long fiery alleys and red caverns which it made, mingled with
black hollows, out of which mocking faces seemed to peep; while the light
flames waving to and fro were like aerial shapes moving in a fantastic
dance. Beautiful and mystic appeared the fire.
Basil Wolgemuth was a student and a dreamer. He had pierced into the
secrets of nature and of philosophy, not as an idle seeker, mechanically
following the bent of a vague curiosity, but as an enthusiastic lover,
who would fathom the depths of his beloved’s soul. He knew that in this
world all things bear two meanings; one for the common observer, one
for the higher mind of him who, with an earnest purpose and a steadfast
but loving heart, penetrates into those mines of hidden riches,——the
treasures of science and of imagination. Basil was still young; and yet
men of learning and power listened with deference to his words; wisdom,
rank, and beauty had trodden that poor chamber, and felt honored,——for it
was the habitation of genius.
And was all this sunshine of fame lavished upon a barren tree, which
brought forth at best only the dazzling fruits of mere intellect,
beautiful to the eye but deceptive to the heart as the jewelled apples
of Aladdin, or was it rich in all good fruits of human kindness? Ask the
mother, to whom the very footsteps of her dutiful son brought light and
gladness; ask the sister, whose pride in her noble kinsman was even less
than her love for the gentle and forbearing brother who made the sunshine
of their home. These would speak for Basil. There was one——one more; but
he knew it not then.
The fire sank to a few embers, and through the small window at the
farther end of the apartment the young moon looked with her quiet smile.
At last the door was half opened, and a girlish face peeped in.
“Are you sleeping, Basil, or only musing?”
“Is that you, Margareta?” said the student, without changing his attitude.
“Yes; it is growing late, brother; will you not come to supper?”
“I do not need it, dear Margareta, thank you.”
“But we want you, Basil; my mother is asking for you; and Isilda, too, is
here.”
A bright smile passed over the young man’s face; but his sister did not
see it, and continued:——
“Come, brother; do come; you have studied enough for to-day.”
He rose cheerfully: “Well, then, tell my mother I will come directly.”
Margareta closed the door, and Basil stood thoughtfully by the fire.
At that moment a bright flame, springing up from some stray brand
yet unkindled, illumined his face,——it was radiant with the light of
love. His finely curved lips, the sole beautiful feature there, were
trembling with a happy smile, as they murmured in low tones one beloved
name,——“Isilda, Isilda!”