MARIE VON ARNIM.
With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes her ladyship passed on, not to the parlor, but through a side door and into a small chamber. It was a plainly-furnished bedroom. It contained two uncurtained beds and a bureau, which stood in front ofthe only window through which but little light penetrated the room from the narrow side street into which it opened. A young girl of extraordinary beauty was sitting before the bureau, on which a single candle burned. Her small, lovely oval head was that of a Venus; the tall, slender and graceful figure, that of a Juno. In conformity with the fashion of that day, her dark-brown and shining hair was arranged in hundreds of little curls, encompassed with a golden band, which terminated on her forehead in a serpent’s head. Her eyes—the large blue eyes which contrasted so wondrously with the dark hair—were gazing at the mirror. A sad smile played about her beautiful, crimson lips, as she looked at the reflection of her own figure, at the lovely, rosy countenance, the full and rounded shoulders, the arms of dazzling whiteness, and at the tapering waist, brought out to great advantage by the closely-fitting blue silk bodice. She wore no ornament but the golden band in her hair; her jewels were her youth and her beauty; the tears which trembled on her eyelashes were more precious gems than were ever mined for in the depths of the earth, for these came unsought from the depths of her heart.
She was so completely absorbed in her sadly-sweet dreams that her mother’s entrance was unobserved; and not until now, when her mother stood at her side, was she awakened from her reverie.
“What do you wish, mamma?” she asked quickly. “Have our guests arrived? Am I to go down?” She was about to rise, but her mother motioned her back with an imperious gesture.
“Remain where you are, no one has come yet. Lisette will announce the arrivals as they come. I desire to speak with you.”
Her daughter sighed, folded her hands on her lap, and let her head fall on her bosom in mute resignation. “I think I know what you wish to speak about, mother,” she whispered.
“That I can readily believe, nor is it at all surprising thatyou should,” said her corpulent ladyship, as she seated herself at her daughter’s side. “I wish to speak to you of our future and of your duties. This state of things can continue no longer! I can no longer endure this life of plated poverty. I must no longer be exposed to the humiliations I am compelled to suffer at the hands of shoemakers and tailors, grocers and servants, and the host of others who are dunning me for a few paltry groschens. My creditors have compelled me to run the gantlet again to-day, and I have been so annoyed and harassed that I feel like crying.”
“Poor mother!” sighed Marie. “Ah, why did we not remain in quiet, little Pillnitz, where we were doing so well, where our modest means were sufficient for our support, and where we were not compelled to gild and burnish our poverty!”
“For the hundredth time I will tell you why we did so,” rejoined her mother, impatiently. “I left Pillnitz, and brought you to Dresden, because in Pillnitz there were only pensioned revenue officials, invalid officers, and a few gray-headed lawyers and judges, but no young gentlemen, and, least of all, no marriageable, wealthy gentlemen, for you.”
“For me, mamma? Have I ever expressed any longing to be married?”
“Perhaps not, for you are a simple-minded, foolish dreamer; but I desired it. I recognized the necessity of making a wealthy and a suitable match for you.”
“If you had recognized this necessity, mother,” cried Marie, bursting into tears, “it was very cruel of you to let any other than such wealthy, marriageable gentlemen come to our house. If this is really a matrimonial bureau, we should have permitted only those to register themselves who possessed the necessary qualifications.”
“I see you are becoming quite sarcastic and bitter,” said her ladyship, shrugging her shoulders. “You have profited somewhat by your interview with Schiller.”
Marie drew back with a quick, convulsive movement, and a sigh escaped her lips. “You should not have mentioned thename of this noble man at such a time, at a time when I am again compelled to deceive him.”
“Enough of this sentimentalism, Marie,” rejoined her mother. “Monsieur Schiller is a very pleasant and agreeable man; he may be a great poet besides, but a suitable husband for you, he is not! He can scarcely earn enough for his own support, and his clothing is not respectable. How did he look when he came here yesterday? You will admit that it is impossible to bring him into the society of rich cavaliers and elegant officers, in his disorderly costume.”
“He looked just as he did when we first met him at Madame Albrecht’s, and yet you then begged him to visit us. And you it was who afterwards encouraged his visits.”
“Nor do I regret having done so,” remarked Madame von Arnim, quietly. “Councillor Schiller is a man of high respectability and eminence. Our intimacy with him is of great advantage to us. It proves to the world that we are wise and intellectual ourselves, for otherwise, so intellectual a man would not have selected us as associates. Believe me, this intimacy has greatly advanced our social position; it has called great attention to us, and placed your youth and beauty in the proper light. Gentlemen of the highest standing and greatest wealth now consider it a great honor to be permitted to visit at our house, since they know that Frederick Schiller adores you, each one of them is anxious to achieve the renown of supplanting the celebrated poet in your favor and making you his wife. You have a great many suitors, Marie, and you owe them, in a great measure, to your intimacy with Schiller.”
“But that is wrong, that is criminal!” cried Marie, bursting into tears.
“Why so?” rejoined Madame von Arnim, laughing. “He was the alluring bait we used to catch our gold-fishes with; I can see nothing criminal in that. Why was this wise man foolish enough to fall in love with you, as he must have known that a union between you and him is impossible?”
“Why impossible?” asked Marie, quickly; she dried her eyes, and looked defiantly into her mother’s complacent, smiling countenance.
“Why impossible? Because you are of too good, too noble a family to ally yourself with a man who is not a nobleman, who has no preëminent rank.”
“Mother, Frederick Schiller’s rank is higher and more illustrious than that of counts and barons. There are hundreds of princes, counts, and barons, in the German empire, and but one poet, Frederick Schiller. Happy and highly honored throughout all Germany will the woman be to whom Frederick Schiller gives his name, whom he makes his wife.”
“Well, that may be,” said Madame von Arnim, contemptuously, “but one thing is certain, and that is, that you will never be this woman.”
“And why not?” asked Marie, passionately. “If Schiller really loves me, and offers me his hand, why shall I not accept it? Because he is not wealthy? He will know how to convert the treasures of his intellect into millions of money. Until then I can practice economy. My wants are few, and you well know, mother, that I can make a little go a long way. Then, permit me to be happy in my own way. I will tell you the whole truth, mother, I love Frederick Schiller, and, if he asks me to be his wife, I shall be the happiest of God’s creatures.”
“Nonsense!” rejoined her ladyship. “You will be kind enough to give up all thought of this foolish love, and make up your mind to marry the noble and wealthy gentleman selected for you by your mother.”
“Mother,” cried Marie, imploringly, “do not be so cruel, have pity on me! Do not compel me to destroy my own happiness, for I tell you that I can only be happy at Schiller’s side.”
“And why should you be happy?” asked her mother, coldly. “What right have you to happiness above the rest of mankind? Do you suppose I am happy?Ihave never been,and have never imagined I had arightto be. Life is a pretty hard nut; in attempting to crack it we break our teeth, and when we at last succeed, we find that it is empty, after all. Whether we are personally happy or not, is a matter of small moment—the one thing is to do our duty to others; and your duty it is, to repay your mother for her sacrifices for yourself and your brother. At your father’s death you were both young children, and of course his lieutenant’s paltry pension was not sufficient for our support. But I could not let you starve, and it was my duty to give you an education that would qualify you to take the position in society to which your rank entitles you. I did not hesitate for a moment, and, although I was still young, and might have made a second and an advantageous marriage, I gave up all such plans, sold my handsome and costly trousseau, and retired with you to the little town of Pillnitz, where I devoted myself wholly to the education of my children. You know that this is so, do you not?”
“I do,” replied Marie, as she grasped her mother’s hand and carried it to her lips. “You sacrificed yourself for your children, and they are indebted to you for all that they are.”
“Unfortunately, that is not a great deal as yet,” said her mother. “Your brother is only a poor second-lieutenant, whose salary is not sufficient for his support, and you are only an indigent young lady of noble birth, who must either become a governess or marry a fortune. My means are now entirely exhausted. Little by little I have sold all the valuables I possessed, my diamonds, my jewelry, and my silver-ware. I finally parted with my last jewel, the necklace inherited from my mother, in order that we might live in Dresden a year on the proceeds. But the year is almost at an end, and my money also. We cannot maintain ourselves here more than four weeks longer, and then the artistic structure of our social position will crumble over our heads, and all will be over. You will be compelled to earn your own bread, your poor brother will be reduced to the greatest extremities,and your mother will have to take up her abode in a debtors’ prison, as, after her well-considered plans have failed, she will have no means to meet the demands of her numerous creditors. All this will be your work, the responsibility rests with you.”
“O my God, have pity on me!” sobbed Marie. “Show me the result of all this trouble!”
“The result is, governess or countess,” said Madam von Arnim, quietly. “In your weakness you may suppose there could be a third alternative, that of becoming Councillor Schiller’s wife. Yet I will never give my consent to such a misalliance; a misalliance is only excusable when gilded over with extraordinary wealth. But Councillor Schiller is poor, and will always remain poor; he is an idealist, and not a practical man. I should like to know what advantage I should derive from having the poet Schiller as a son-in-law. Can he compensate me for my sacrifices? can he replace my jewels, my trousseau, and my silver-ware? You know that he cannot, and never will be able to do so. It is your sacred and imperative duty to compensate and reward me for the sacrifices which I have made for you, and to secure to me in my old age the comfortable existence of which care and solicitude for yourself and your brother have hitherto deprived me. You will marry the rich Count Kunheim. You will receive his attentions in such a manner as to encourage him to offer you his hand, which you will then accept. I command you to do so!”
“But, mother, this is impossible, I do not love the count, I cannot marry him! Have pity on me, mother!” she sank down on her knees, and raised her hands imploringly. “I repeat it; I love Frederick Schiller!”
“Well, then, love Frederick Schiller, if you will,” said her ladyship, with a shrug of her shoulders, “but marry Count Kunheim. It is given to no woman to marry the object of her first love, to make the ideal of her heart her husband. You will only share the common lot of woman; you will haveto renounce your first love and make a sensible marriage. I can tell you, however, for your consolation, that marriages of the latter sort generally prove much happier in the sequel than these moneyless love-marriages. When hunger stalks in at the door love flies out at the window. On the other hand, the most lovelorn and desolate heart will finally recover, when given a daily airing in a carriage-and-four. Drive in your carriage, and accord me a seat in it; I am weary. I have been travelling life-long on the stony streets, and my feet are wounded! Marie, I entreat you, my child, take pity on the poor mother, who has suffered so much, take pity on the brother, who must give up his career in life, unless we can give him some assistance. He would be compelled to leave the army, and perhaps his only resource would be to hire himself out as a copyist to some lawyer, in order to earn a subsistence. Marie, dear Marie, I entreat you, take pity on your family! Our happiness is in your hands!”
She made no reply, she was still on her knees, had covered her countenance with her hands, and was weeping bitterly. Her mother gazed down upon her without an emotion of pity, her broad, fleshy face and little gray eyes expressed no sympathy whatever.
“Be reasonable, Marie,” said her ladyship, after a short interval, “consider the happiness of your mother and brother, rather than the momentary caprice of your heart. Cast aside these dreams, this sensitiveness, and seek your own happiness in that of your family.”
“It shall be as you say,” said Marie, rising slowly from her knees. “I will sacrifice my own happiness for your sake, but I make one condition.”
“And that is—?”
“That all these little mysteries and intrigues be discontinued, and Schiller be told the whole truth. No more signs are to be given requesting him not to come; he is no longer to be made use of and yet denied at the same time. He must not be permitted to hope that his addresses will beaccepted; he must learn that they will be rejected. If he should then still desire to visit us, our door must be open to him at all times, and the light must never be placed in my window again to warn him off. This is my condition. Accept it, and I am ready to cover my face with a mask, and play the rôle which the necessities of life compel me to assume.”
“I will accept it,” replied Madame von Arnim, “although I consider it very impolitic. Schiller’s nature is violent, easily excited, and deficient in that aristocratic cultivation which represses all the movements of natural impulse. For instance, if he should come here this evening, a very disagreeable scene might ensue; he would be capable of reproaching me or yourself quite regardless of the presence of others.”
“And he could reproach us with justice,” sighed Marie, “I am resolved rather to bear his anger than to deceive him any longer.”
“But I am not,” rejoined her ladyship, “I have a perfect horror of thesescènes dramatiques. But you will have it so, you made it your condition, and nothing remains for me but to accept it. And now, be discreet, be sensible; induce Count Kunheim to declare himself this evening, if possible, in order that Schiller may hear of your betrothal as afait accompli.”
“I will do your bidding,” said Marie, with a sad and yet proud smile. “Give yourself no further care, the sweet dream is at end, I have awakened. It is a sad awakening, and I will have to weep a great deal, but my tears shall not accuse you; if I am unhappy, I will not say that you were the cause of my unhappiness. It was God’s will, this shall be my consolation; God wills it and I submit!”
“And you do well, and will live to thank me for having prevented you from becoming the wife of a poor German poet. And now, that we have disposed of this disagreeable affair, come to my heart, my daughter, and give me a kiss of reconciliation.”
But, instead of throwing herself into her mother’s extended arms, Marie drew back. “No,” said she, “do not kiss me now, mother; we could only exchange a Judas kiss. Come, give me your hand, mother, and let us go to the parlor to receive our guests. Let us, however, first extinguish this candle.”
“Yes, we will, or rather I will carry it with me to the kitchen, where a little more light would not be amiss,” said her ladyship, taking the candle from the bureau. “Go to the parlor, my daughter, and receive our guests, I must first go to the kitchen to see if every thing is in order.”
They both left the chamber; Marie repaired to the parlor, and her mother passed on to the kitchen, to see if the new grocer had furnished the butter and sugar. To her great relief, she learned that he had, and, elated by this success, she determined to send to the accommodating grocer for a few bottles of wine to replace the broken ones. Nothing more was now wanting for the completion of her soirée! She hastily gave the cook a few instructions, and then returned to the bedchamber with the candle.
“He must not come this evening,” said her ladyship to herself; “he might frustrate the whole plan, for Marie is transformed into another being in his presence, and Count Kunheim would not fail to observe that she did not love him. No, the light must be burning—Schiller must be kept away. As the rich Countess Kunheim, Marie will some day thank me for not having kept my promise. Yes, she certainly will!”
She hastened forward to the window and placed the light in a conspicuous place. But what was that! At this moment, a loud peal of laughter resounded in the narrow street beneath the window—a peal of laughter that was so bitter, so mocking, that it startled even her ladyship’s fearless heart; it seemed almost like a threat.
Her ladyship now repaired to the parlor to receive her guests, who had begun to arrive, and this disagreeable sensation was soon forgotten. Madame von Arnim greeted eachone of her guests with the same stereotyped smile—the same polite phrases. She quietly conducted the few old ladies, who had been invited to give dignity to the occasion, into the adjoining boudoir, and recruited an invalid major to play whist with them. And now, after having satisfactorily disposed of these guests, and rendered their gossiping tongues harmless, she returned to the parlor, and displayed to the assembled officers and cavaliers the smiling, pleasant countenance of a lady who is ready to become a loving and tender mother-in-law.—For propriety’s sake, a few young women had also been invited, having small pretensions to good looks, and of modest attire; such ladies as are commonly termed friends, and who are nothing more than the setting which gives additional lustre to the gem. To entertain these friends was the mission of the second-lieutenants, while the officers of higher rank and the wealthy cavaliers congregated around the goddess of their adoration—the lovely Marie von Arnim.
She was now once more the radiant beauty; her countenance was rosy and joyous, her blue eyes were bright and clear, and bore no evidence of the tears which had flowed back to her heart. A smile played about her rosy lips, and merry, jesting words escaped the mouth which but now had uttered wails and lamentations. Count Ehrhard von Kunheim was completely captivated by her grace and beauty; his gaze was fastened immovably on her lovely countenance. The homage she received from all sides was a flattering tribute to the lady of his choice—the lady he now firmly resolved to make his bride. It was very pleasant to see his future wife the object of so much adoration. He would gladly have seen the whole world at her feet, for then his triumph would have been so much greater in seeing himself favored above all the world.
He gazed proudly at the array of rank by which his love was surrounded; the expressions of admiration were sweet music in his ear. He mentally determined to address her this very evening; in a few brief hours it would be in his power to cry out to his rivals: “The lovely Marie von Arnimis mine! She is my bride!” How great, how glorious a triumph would that be! It was a pity thathewas not present! To have carried off this prize before him would have crowned his triumph.
“Miss Marie,” asked the count, interrupting the joyous conversation which she was carrying on with several officers, “you have graciously promised to make me acquainted with your protégé, Mr. Schiller? Is he likely to come this evening?”
The smile faded from her lips, the lustre of her eyes was dimmed, and she looked anxiously around, as if seeking help. Her eyes met the keen, threatening glance of her mother, who at once came forward to her assistance; she felt that escape was no longer possible—the hand of fate had fallen upon her.
“I fear Councillor Schiller is not coming,” said her ladyship, in her complacent manner.
“No, he is not coming,” repeated Marie, mechanically. Regrets, and many praises of the genial poet they so much admired, and whose latest poems were so charming, now resounded from all sides.
“It is really a pity that you have never been able to gratify us by producing this celebrated poet,” said Count Kunheim to the beautiful Marie.
With a forced smile, she replied, “Yes, it is really a pity.”
“And why is he not coming?” asked several gentlemen of Madame von Arnim. “Pray tell us, why is it this councillor only comes when you are alone, and is certain of meeting no company here?”
“He avoids mankind, as the owl does the light,” replied her ladyship, smiling. “We gave him our solemn promise that we would not receive other visitors when he is with us; we promised, moreover, that we would let him know when we had company in the evening by giving him a signal.”
“And do you really give him the signal, my lady?” asked Count Kunheim.
“Yes, we do,” replied Marie, in a low voice.
“And may I ask in what the signal consists that announces to the man-fearing poet that other mortals have approached his goddess?”
“It is no secret,” said Madame von Arnim. “I will tell you, count. The signal is a lighted candle placed at the window of our dressing-room. When he sees this light, he beats a retreat, and turns his back on our house.”
“Will he come if no light is burning for him?” inquired Count Kunheim, quickly.
“He will,” replied Madame von Arnim, laughing.
“Therefore, if no light should burn in the window, he would come this evening?”
“Certainly he would. He vows that he only lives and thinks when in my daughter’s presence; and he would undoubtedly have come this evening if I had not given him the signal.”
“But, mother,” exclaimed Marie, “you are mistaken; we did not give the signal to-day.”
“Then, as you gave no signal, he has simply declined to avail himself of your invitation for this evening,” remarked Count Kunheim.
“No, no, count, he has not come, because I gave the signal.”
“Not so, my lady,” observed a cold, quiet voice behind her; “true, you gave the signal, but he has come nevertheless.”
“Schiller!” exclaimed Marie, turning pale, and yet she smiled and her eyes sparkled. She was on the point of hastening forward with extended hands to meet him, but her mother had already interposed her colossal figure between her and the poet, and was gazing at him defiantly, as if to signify her readiness to take up the gauntlet if he should meditate warfare.
“You are heartily welcome, Councillor Schiller,” said she, in dulcet tones. “We feel highly honored and are particularlypleased to have you join us at last on an evening when we have company. These gentlemen will all be delighted to make your acquaintance. We were speaking of you when you entered, and all were regretting that you were not here, and—”
“Of that I am aware,” said Schiller, interrupting her. “I had been standing in the doorway for some time, but you were conversing so eagerly that no one noticed my presence. I saw and heard all.”
Schiller’s voice trembled while uttering these words, and his countenance was deathly pale.
“Then you heard us all express an ardent desire to make your acquaintance,” said Count Kunheim, stepping forward. “I esteem myself highly fortunate in being able to gratify this desire. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count von Kunheim.”
Schiller did not seem to observe the count’s extended hand, and bowed stiffly; he then looked over toward the window-niche, to which Marie had withdrawn, and where she stood trembling, her heart throbbing wildly. How angry, reproachful, and contemptuous, was the glance he fastened on her countenance! But his lips were mute, and as he now withdrew his gaze, he erected his head proudly, and a derisive smile quivered on his thin, compressed lips. With this smile he turned to the gentlemen again, and greeted them with a haughty inclination of his head, like a king who is receiving the homage of his subjects. “You expressed a desire to see me, gentlemen, I am here. The conversation which I overheard, compelled me to show myself for a moment, in order to correct a little error imparted to you by Madame von Arnim.”
“An error?” said her ladyship, in some confusion. “Really, Mr. Schiller, I am at a loss to understand exactly your meaning.”
“I will make myself understood, Madame von Arnim. You told these gentlemen that I avoided mankind as the owl avoids the light. But this is not the case, and I beg these gentlemen not to credit this statement. I do not avoid mankind,and I do not hate my fellow-creatures, but I love them. I love and revere the human countenance, for the spirit of God is reflected in the human eye. I love my fellow-creatures, and although they have sometimes caused me pain, and rudely awakened me from my dreams of happiness, yet, my faith in humanity is unshaken, and—”
“Oh, Schiller,” cried Marie, stepping forward from the window-niche, and no longer able to conceal her agitation, “Schiller, give me your hand, tell me—”
“Miss von Arnim,” said he, interrupting her, “I have nothing to say to you, I only desire to speak to these gentlemen! I do not wish you to consider me a foolish misanthrope, gentlemen, and therefore, I take the liberty of correcting a second erroneous statement made by Madame von Arnim. She told you that I had exacted of her the promise, to warn me by a signal-light when the ladies were entertaining company, because social intercourse was burdensome and repugnant to me. This is, however, not the case, but exactly the reverse. These ladies, and particularly Miss Marie von Arnim requested me to come here only when the window was dark, and on the other hand never to visit them when I saw a light in the window. Miss von Arnim—”
“Schiller,” said she, interrupting him, in a loud and trembling voice, and laying her hand on his arm, “Schiller, I conjure you, go no further!”
“Miss von Arnim also explained to me why she desired this,” continued Schiller, as though he had not heard Marie’s imploring voice, as though he did not feel the pressure of her trembling hand. “Miss von Arnim told me that on the evenings in which the signal would be given the circle of her mother’s nearest relatives would be assembled in the house, in which circle it was impossible to introduce a stranger. Gentlemen, it affords me great pleasure to recognize in you the dear cousins and uncles of this young lady, and I congratulate her on her brilliant and exclusive family party. And now permit me to explain why I dared to enter this house,although the light displayed in the window proclaimed the presence of the family.”
“But there was no light at the window,” exclaimed Marie, eagerly; “this is an error! I desired that you should come this evening, and on that account it was expressly understood between my mother and myself that no—”
“The light was there,” said her ladyship, interrupting her; “I had placed it there! Be still, do not interrupt the councillor; he said he had something to explain.—Continue, sir! Why did you come, although the light was displayed in the window?”
“Because I wished to know what it really meant,” replied Schiller, with composure and dignity. “You see, my lady, I am not afraid of the light, and I seek the truth, although I must admit that it is a painful and bitter truth that I have learned to-day. But man must have the courage to look facts in the face, even if it were the head of the Medusa. I have seen the truth, and am almost inclined to believe that the eternal gods must have imparted to me some of the strength of Perseus, for, as you see, I have not been transformed into stone, but am still suffering. And now that I have corrected her ladyship’s errors, I humbly beg pardon for having cast a shadow over the gayety of this assembly. It will certainly be for the last time! Farewell, ladies!”
He inclined his head slightly, but did not cast a single glance at the lovely Marie von Arnim; he did not see her faint, and fall into Count Kunheim’s arms, who lifted her tenderly and carried her to the sofa, where he gently deposited his precious burden. Nor did he see the friends rush forward to restore the insensible young lady to consciousness with their smelling-bottles and salts. No, Frederick Schiller observed nothing of all this; he walked through the parlor and antechamber toward the hall-door. Near the door stood the ‘living example,’ looking up with an expression of unspeakable admiration at the tall figure of the poet, who had written his two favorite pieces, “The Robbers,” and “Fiesco.”He was so grateful to the poet for having put her ladyship to shame, that he would gladly have knelt down and kissed his feet.
“Oh, Mr. Schiller, great Mr. Schiller,” murmured Leonhard, hastening forward to open the door, “you are not the only one whom she has deceived. She has deceived me also; I, too, am a wretched victim of her cunning. But only wait, sublime poet, only wait; I will not only avenge myself, but you also, Mr. Schiller. I will cut the pieces still larger, and the turkey shall not go half around, not half around! I will avenge both myself and Schiller!”
He did not hear a word of what Leonhard had said, for he hurried past him, down the steps, and out into the street. There he stood still for a moment gazing at the lighted windows, until a veil of unbidden tears darkened his vision. The burning tears trickling down his cheeks aroused him. He shook his head angrily, and pressed his clinched hands against his eyes to drive them back; not another tear would, he shed. Away! Away from this house! Away!
SOULS IN PURGATORY.
As if pursued by the Furies, with uncovered head, his yellow locks fluttering in the wind, he rushed onward through the streets, over the long Elbe bridge, past the golden crucifix, which towered in the moonlight, and now along the river bank beneath the Brühl Terrace, following the river, and listening to the rippling waves, that murmur of peace and eternal rest.
The moon threw golden streaks of light on the river, and a long shadow on its bank, the shadow of the poet, who was hurrying on in grief and agony. Where? He did not know, he was not conscious that he was walking on the verge of an open grave; he was only instinctively seeking a solitude, a retreat where the ear of man could not hear, nor the eye ofman see him. He wished to be alone with his grief, alone in the trying hour when he would be compelled to tear the fair blossom from his heart, and tread it under foot as though it were a poisonous weed. He wished to be alone with the tears which were gushing from his soul, with the cries of agony that escaped his quivering lips—alone in the great and solemn hour when the poet was once more to receive the baptism of tears, that his poetic children, his poems, might be nourished with the blood that flowed from his wounded breast.
He had now entered the little wood which at that time skirted the river bank a few hundred yards below the terrace. Its darkness and silence was what he had sought, and what he needed. Alone! Alone with his God and his grief! A loud cry of anguish escaped his breast and must have awakened the slumbering birds. The foliage of the trees was agitated by a plaintive whispering and murmuring, as though the birds were saying to the moonbeams: “Here is a man who is suffering, who is wrestling with his agony! Console him with your golden rays, good moon; give him of your peace, starry summer eve!”
Perhaps the moon heard the plaintive appeal of the birds and the spirits of the night, for at this moment it broke forth from the concealing clouds and showed its mild, luminous countenance, and pierced the forest with its golden beams, seeking him who had disturbed the peace of slumbering Nature with the agonized cry of his wakeful, tormenting grief.
There he lies, stretched out like a corpse, or like one in a trance. But the moon sees that he is not dead, not unconscious, and sadly witnesses the tears trickling down his countenance, and hears his sobs and wails, the wails of the genius suffering after the manner of humanity; and yet the spirit of God dwells in his exalted mind, and will give him strength to overcome this grief.
The night sheds a soft light on his tearful countenance, as though it greeted him with a heavenly smile; and the stars stand still and twinkle their greetings to the poet. Themelody of the birds is hushed, and they listen in the foliage, as though they understood his lamentations. Schiller had now raised his head; the stillness and solitude of the night had cooled the burning fever of his soul.
“Is it then true, am I destined only to suffer and to be deceived? Years roll on and I have not yet enjoyed the golden fruits that life promises to man, the golden fruits of Arcadia. My heart was filled with such joyous anticipations, my soul longed for these fruits. Although the spring-time of my life has hardly begun, its blossoms have already withered. All is vanity and illusion! Falsehood alone can make men happy, truth kills them like God’s lightning! I have looked thee in the face again to-day, Truth, thou relentless divinity, and my heart burns in pain, and my soul is filled with agony. The poet is a prophet, my present condition proves it; what the poet in me sung, the poor child of humanity now experiences; my sufferings are boundless.”
He buried his face in his hands, and the moon saw the tears which trickled out from between his fingers, and heard the poet’s plaintive, trembling voice break in upon the stillness of the night like the soft tones of an Æolian harp:
“Ich zahle Dir in einem andren Leben,Gieb Deine Jugend mir!Nichts kann ich Dir als diese Weisung geben.Ich nahm die Weisung auf das andre LebenUnd meiner Jugend Freuden gab ich ihr!Gieb mir das Weib, so theuer Deinem Herzen!Gieb Deine Laura mir!Jenseit des Grabes wuchern Deine Schmerzen!Ich riss sie blutend aus dem wunden Herzen,Ich weinte laut und gab sie ihr!”[31]
“Ich zahle Dir in einem andren Leben,Gieb Deine Jugend mir!Nichts kann ich Dir als diese Weisung geben.Ich nahm die Weisung auf das andre LebenUnd meiner Jugend Freuden gab ich ihr!Gieb mir das Weib, so theuer Deinem Herzen!Gieb Deine Laura mir!Jenseit des Grabes wuchern Deine Schmerzen!Ich riss sie blutend aus dem wunden Herzen,Ich weinte laut und gab sie ihr!”[31]
“Ich zahle Dir in einem andren Leben,Gieb Deine Jugend mir!Nichts kann ich Dir als diese Weisung geben.Ich nahm die Weisung auf das andre LebenUnd meiner Jugend Freuden gab ich ihr!
“Ich zahle Dir in einem andren Leben,
Gieb Deine Jugend mir!
Nichts kann ich Dir als diese Weisung geben.
Ich nahm die Weisung auf das andre Leben
Und meiner Jugend Freuden gab ich ihr!
Gieb mir das Weib, so theuer Deinem Herzen!Gieb Deine Laura mir!Jenseit des Grabes wuchern Deine Schmerzen!Ich riss sie blutend aus dem wunden Herzen,Ich weinte laut und gab sie ihr!”[31]
Gieb mir das Weib, so theuer Deinem Herzen!
Gieb Deine Laura mir!
Jenseit des Grabes wuchern Deine Schmerzen!
Ich riss sie blutend aus dem wunden Herzen,
Ich weinte laut und gab sie ihr!”[31]
“And gave—albeit with tears!” repeated Schiller once more, and a cry of anguish escaped his breast. “Is it then inevitable? Is man born only to suffer, and are those right who assert that life is only a vale of sorrow, and not worth enduring?”
He seemed to be painfully meditating on this question. Nature held its breath, awaiting his answer; even the birds had ceased chirping, and the wind no longer dared to rustle in the tree-tops. In what tones will the Æolian harp of the soul respond? What reply will the poet make to the question propounded by the man?
He looks up at the bright firmament shedding its peaceful beams upon his head; he looks at the stars, and they smile on him. There is something in him that bids defiance to all sorrow and melancholy. A soft, heavenly, and yet strong voice resounds in his soul like the mysterious manifestation of the Divinity itself. He listens to this voice; the pinions of his soul no longer droop; he rises, stretches out his arms towards the moon and the stars, and his soul soars heavenward and revels in the glories of the universe.
“No,” he exclaimed, in loud and joyous tones, “no, the earth is no vale of sorrow, it is the garden of the Almighty. No, life is no bauble to be lightly thrown away; the sufferings life entails must be endured and overcome. Give me strength to overcome them, thou indwelling spirit; illumine the darkness of my human soul, thou flame of God, holy poetry! No, it were unworthy the dignity, unworthy the honor of manhood, to bow the head under the yoke of sorrow, and become the slave of melancholy for the sake of a faithless woman. A greeting to you, you golden lights of the heavens! you shall not look down on me with pity, but with proud sympathy! I am a part of the great spirit who created you, am spirit of the spirit of God, am lord of the earth. Down with you, sorrows of earth! down with you, scorpions! I will set my foot on your head, and triumph over you. You shall have no power over me. I am a man; who is more so?”
And exultantly and triumphantly he once more cried out to the night and the heavens: “I am a man!”
It was not the sky which now illumined his countenance, it was the proud smile of victory; the light in his eyes was not the reflection of the stars, but the brave courage of the soul which had elevated itself above the dust of the earth.
“The struggle is over, grief is overcome! I greet thee, thou peaceful tranquil night, thou hast applied the healing balsam to my wounded breast: and all pain will soon have vanished!”
He turned homeward, and walked rapidly through the wood and along the river bank, which was here and there skirted with clumps of bushes and shrubbery.
Suddenly he stood still and listened. It seemed to him that he had heard the despairing cry of a human voice behind some bushes, close to the river bank. Yes, he had not been mistaken, he could now hear the voice distinctly.
Schiller slowly and noiselessly approached the clump of bushes from behind which the voice had seemed to proceed; he bent the twigs aside, and, peering through the foliage, listened.
He beheld a strange sight. He saw before him the river with its rippling waves, and, on its narrow bank, kneeling in the full moonlight, a human form—a youth whose countenance was pale and emaciated, and whose long black hair fluttered in the breeze. His features were distorted with anguish, and the tears which poured down his hollow cheeks sparkled in the light like diamonds. He was partially undressed, and his coat, hat, and a book, which, to judge from its size and shape, appeared to be a Bible, lay at his side on the sand. The youth had raised his bare arms toward heaven, his hands were clasped together convulsively, and in his agony his voice trembled as he uttered these words:
“I can no longer endure life. Forgive me, O God in heaven, but I cannot! Thou knowest what my struggles have been! Thou knowest that I have tried to live—tried to biddefiance to the torments which lacerate my soul! Thou knowest how many nights I have passed on my knees, entreating Thee to send down a ray of mercy on my head, to show me an issue out of this night of despair! But it was not Thy will, Almighty Father! Thou hast not taken pity on the poor worm that writhed in the dust, on the beggar who stretched out his hands to Thee, imploring alms! Then, pardon me at least, and receive me in Thy mercy! I am about to return to Thee; O God, receive me graciously! And thou, thou hard, cruel, joyless world, thou vale of affliction, a curse upon thee—the curse of a dying mortal who has received nothing but torment at thy hands! Farewell, and—”
He arose from his knees, and rushed forward with extended arms toward the deep, silent grave that lay there ready to receive him. Suddenly a strong hand held him as in a vice, he was drawn back and hurled to the ground at the water’s edge. It seemed to him that a giant stood before him—a giant whose golden locks were surrounded by a halo, whose eyes sparkled, and whose countenance glowed with noble anger.
“Suicide,” thundered a mighty voice, “who gives you the right to murder him whom God has created! Felon, murderer, fall on your knees in the dust and pray to God for mercy and forgiveness!”
“I have prayed to God for weeks and months,” murmured the trembling youth, writhing in the dust, and not daring to look up at the luminous apparition that hovered over him like God’s avenging angel. “It was all in vain. No ray of light illumined the night of my sufferings. I wish to die, because I can no longer endure life! I flee to death to seek relief from the hunger that has been gnawing at my vitals for four days, and has made of the man a wild animal! I—”
His wailing voice was silent, his limbs no longer quivered; when Schiller knelt down at his side, he saw that his features were stiffened and that his eyes were widely extended and glassy.
Schiller laid his ear on the unfortunate man’s breast and felt his pulse. His heart was not beating; his pulse no longer throbbed.
“It is only a swoon, nothing else; death cannot ensue so quickly unless preceded by spasms. Poor unfortunate, forgive me for calling you back to the torment of existence; but we are men, and must not violate the laws of Nature. I must awaken you, poor youth!”
He stretched out his hands to the river, filled them with water, and poured it on his pale forehead, and, as he still lay motionless, he rubbed his forehead and breast with his hands, and breathed his own breath into his open mouth.
Slowly life dawned again, a ray of consciousness returned to the glassy eyes, and the trembling lips murmured a low wail, which filled the poet’s soul with sadness, and his eyes with tears of sympathy.
There lay the image of God, quivering in agony; the most pitiful complaint of the human creature was the anxious cry of the awakening human soul, “I am hungry! I am hungry!”
“And I have nothing to allay his hunger with,” said Schiller, anxiously; “nothing with which to make a man of this animal.”
“Woe is me,” groaned the youth, “this torment is fearful! Why did you call me back to my sufferings? Who gave you the right to forbid me to die?”
“Who gave you the right to die?” asked Schiller, with severity.
“Hunger,” groaned the youth, “hunger, with its scorpion teeth! If you compel me to live, then give me the bread of life! Bread! Give me bread! See, I beg for bread! I preferred to die rather than beg, but you have conquered me and bowed my head in the dust, and now I am a beggar! Give me bread! Do not let me starve!”
“I will bring you bread,” said Schiller, mildly. “But, no, you might avail yourself of my absence to accomplish your dark purpose. Swear that you will remain here until I return.”
The unfortunate youth did not reply; when Schiller again knelt down at his side, he saw that he was again in a swoon.
“When he awakens, I will have returned,” murmured Schiller. He arose, and ran rapidly to the little inn that stood at the foot of Brühls’s Terrace. To his great joy, a light was still burning in the main room, and, when he entered, several guests were still sitting at the table enjoying their pipes and beer. Schiller stepped up to the counter, purchased a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and returned with all possible haste to the unfortunate youth, who had resumed consciousness, and was, at the moment of his arrival, painfully endeavoring to raise his head.
Schiller knelt down, and rested the poor youth’s head on his knees. “Be patient, my poor friend, I bring relief, I bring bread!”
How hastily did his trembling hands clutch the loaf, and how eagerly did they carry it to his mouth! How radiant was his countenance when he had taken a long draught from the bottle which Schiller held to his pale lips.
The poet turned away, he could not endure this painful sight. Sadly and reproachfully he looked upward.
“O God, Thou hast made Thy world so rich! There is enough to provide a bounteous repast for all! The trees are laden with fruits, and man may not pluck them; the bakeries are filled with the bread of life, and man may not take, although he is starving. He sinks down in the death agony while the rich usurer drives by in his splendid equipage, and looks down proudly and contemptuously upon the unhappy man whose only crime is that he is poor. O eternal, divine Justice, it is in vain that I seek thee behind the clouds. I look for thee in vain in the palaces of the rich, and in the huts of the poor!”
“Ah, how refreshing, how delightful was this bread and wine!” sighed the unfortunate youth. “You are my saviour, you have freed me from torment. I thank you! Let me kissthis merciful hand!—You will not permit me, you withdraw it? You despise me, the suicide, the coward? You have a right to do so!”
“No,” said Schiller, gently, “I do not despise, I pity you. I also have suffered, I also have felt the scorpion stings of poverty. No, I do not despise you. All men are brothers, and must aid one another. All cares are sisters, and must console one another. Speak my brother, tell me, how can I aid you? Unburden your bosom to my sister soul, and I will try to console you.”
“You are an angel-messenger from God,” sobbed the young man. “Your lips speak the first words of sympathy I have heard for long months. I could bathe your feet in tears of gratitude. Yes, my brother, you shall hear the sad history of my life, and then you will perhaps justify, perhaps pardon, the crime I was about to commit. Oh, my brother!”
Schiller seated himself at his side on the river bank, and the pale youth rested his head on the poet’s proffered shoulder. A pause ensued. While he who had but just returned from the gates of death, was endeavoring to collect his confused and wandering thoughts, the voice of pity was resounding in the heart of him who had been stronger than his brother in the hour of trial, who had bid defiance to misfortune, and with manly fortitude had overcome grief. His heart was filled with sympathy for his weaker and less courageous brother, who had desired to flee from life because his soul lacked the pinions which had borne the poet aloft, above the dust and misery of earth.
“How can he fly to whom the Almighty, the Omnipresent, has not given the pinions of enthusiasm? He must crawl in the dust, his only thought is the gratification of his animal instincts, and like an animal he must live and perish. For him from whom God withholds this heavenly ray, all is night and darkness—no stars shine for him; it were well he sought safety in the silence of the grave, in a cessation of torment! I thank Thee, O God, for the strength Thou hast given, forthe ray of light Thou hast sent down to illumine my dark path in life!”
These words did not pass Schiller’s lips, they were only uttered in the depths of his soul. He looked up at the moon and stars, journeying in unchangeable serenity on their heavenly course. “Smile on, smile on! You know nothing of man’s sufferings. The eternal laws have marked out your course. Why not ours, too? Why not man’s? Why must we wander in the desert of life, seeking happiness, and finding pain only! We conceive ourselves to be godlike, and yet we are no more than the worm that writhes in the dust, and is trodden under foot by the careless passer-by.”
These were the thoughts that passed through Schiller’s mind, while the pale youth at his side was narrating, in a voice often interrupted by sobs and tears, the history of his sufferings.
It was a simple, unvarnished story of that suffering and want altogether too proud to seek sympathy or relief. A story such as we might daily hear, if our ears were open to the mute pleadings that so often speak to us in the pale, careworn countenances of our fellow-travellers in the journey of life. Why repeat what is as old as the world! A shipwrecked life, a shipwrecked calling! There was that in this son of poverty which urged him to the acquisition of knowledge; he believed his mind endowed with treasures, and his ambitions heart whispered: “You will one day be a renowned preacher! God gave you inspiration; inspiration will give you the words with which to move the hearts of men!” He was the son of a poor tailor, but his father looked with pride on the boy who always brought home the best testimonials from his school, and who was held up to the other scholars as a model of diligence. It would be an honor for the whole family if the tailor’s son should become a learned man and a pastor. All that the parents could save and earn by hard work they willingly devoted to the education of their son, that he might become a scholar, and the pride of his family.What is there, that is glorious and beautiful, which parental love does not hope for, and prophesy for the darling son?
Young Theophilus had passed his examination with honor, and had repaired to the university in Leipsic to continue his studies when the sad intelligence of his father’s death reached him, summoning him back to Dresden, to his mother’s assistance. He now learned, what he, the student who had lived only in his books, had hitherto had no knowledge of whatever. He learned that his affectionate father had contracted debts, and pawned all that he possessed, in order that his son’s studies might be promoted. When the father found it no longer possible to assist his son, he had died of grief. And now the usurers and creditors came and took possession of every thing, regardless of the distressful cries of the unhappy mother, and the protestations of her despairing son. The law awarded them all, and they took all! Theophilus had reason to esteem it almost a blessing when his mother followed her husband to the grave a short time afterward. In the hospital of the Ursuline Sisters, he had at least found shelter for her, and six days afterward she found rest in her last abode in the narrow coffin accorded her by charity.
But where was a refuge to be found for the poor son who had so suddenly been driven from the study into the desert of life, where he could find no oasis in which to refresh himself and rest his wearied limbs? At first he refused to be discouraged, and struggled bravely. So little is needed to sustain life! and for this little he was willing to give all the knowledge acquired by honest diligence. He applied to the rich, to the learned, to artists; he offered his services, he wished to give instruction, to teach children. But, where were his recommendations? What guaranties had he to offer? The man who sought work was taken for a beggar, and the persons to whom he applied either turned their backs on him, or else offered a petty gratuity! This he invariably rejected; he wished to work, he was not a beggar. His unseasonable pride was ridiculed, his indignation called beggar insolence! Longdays of struggling, of hunger, and of humiliations; long nights without shelter, rest, or refreshment! This little wood, on the river bank, had been his bedchamber for a long time. Here, on the bed of moss, accorded him by Nature, he had struggled with despair, feeling that it was gradually entwining him in its icy grasp! Finally, it held him as in a vice, and he felt that escape was no longer possible. Hunger had then spoken to him in the tempter’s voice, and whispered to his anxious soul that crime might still save him; it whispered that he could not be blamed for a theft committed under such circumstances, and hard-hearted society would alone bear the responsibility. Then, in his anguish, he had determined to seek refuge, from the tempter’s voice, in death, in the silent bed of the river.
Theophilus narrated this sad history of his sufferings with many sighs and groans. He painted a very gloomy picture of his life, and Schiller was deeply moved. He laid his hand on the poor youth’s pale brow and looked upwards, an expression of deep devotion and solemn earnestness depicted in his countenance.
“Thou hast listened to the wails of two mortals to-day, thou Spirit of the Universe. The one spoke to Thee in the anger of a man, the other in the despairing cry of a youth. Impart, to both of them, of Thy peace, and of Thy strength! Give to the man the resignation which teaches him that his mission on earth is not to be happy, but to struggle; teach the youth that the darkest night is but the harbinger of coming day, and that he must not despair while in darkness and gloom, but ever look forward hopefully to the coming light.”