“Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort,Hör’ ich’s, möcht ich gleich wieder fort!”[39]
“Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort,Hör’ ich’s, möcht ich gleich wieder fort!”[39]
“Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort,Hör’ ich’s, möcht ich gleich wieder fort!”[39]
“Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort,
Hör’ ich’s, möcht ich gleich wieder fort!”[39]
He repeated these words again and again, as he slowly walked toward the house, endeavoring to convince himself that they embodied his own sentiments. But the moonbeams are strange sorcerers; over the glittering waters of the murmuring cascades, and in every open myrtle-blossom, he saw the countenance of a lovely girl, who seemed to greet him with her dark, starlike eyes, and whose golden hair encompassed her angel countenance as with a halo of beauty and innocence.
Goethe smiled, and whispered the following lines of the same song:
“Heirathen wir eben,Das übrige wird sich geben!”[40]
“Heirathen wir eben,Das übrige wird sich geben!”[40]
“Heirathen wir eben,Das übrige wird sich geben!”[40]
“Heirathen wir eben,
Das übrige wird sich geben!”[40]
A DREAM OF LOVE.
Strong and mighty, harnessed, and full of life, as Minerva had sprung forth from the head of Jupiter, had love suddenly arisen in Goethe’s heart. A single day had awakened it, a single night had sufficed to make it strong, mighty, and confident of victory.
When Goethe, after having passed a night of delightful dreams, left his apartments on the following morning, and repaired to the large saloon in which the Jesuit general had formerly entertained his devout guests, and in which merry artists and men of the world, and joyous and beautiful women, were now in the habit of assembling, his countenance wore a glad smile. He had bravely resolved to permit himself to be borne onward on the seething, silver waves of feeling, regardless of whither they tended—satisfied that they would bear him to some one of the enchanted isles of bliss, on the fragrant shores of which two white arms would embrace him, and tworadiant eyes would whisper wondrous music in his listening heart.
He was alone in the large room. The artists had returned at a late hour from their excursion of the previous day, and had not yet left their apartments. Angelica Kaufmann, who, with her husband, the old painter Zucchi, was always the first to take her seat at the breakfast-table, had to-day sent down word that she was tormented with headache, and would breakfast in her apartments. Signora Frezzi avoided the parlor, because she did not desire to meet Goethe, whose abrupt behavior of the day before had offended her.
The newspapers that had arrived yesterday were lying around on the little tables. Goethe seated himself at one of these tables, and opened one of the large English papers which are so great a solace to the blue-eyed daughters of Albion.
Two joyous, girlish voices interrupted his reading, causing him to throw his paper hastily aside, and sending the hot blood to his cheeks.
The voices were those of Amarilla and Leonora, who had come from the park, and now entered the parlor. They were attired in simple morning dresses, and looked charming with their fresh, rosy cheeks, and the blossoming sprigs of pomegranate in their waving hair.
Amarilla’s quick, roving eye detected Goethe first, and she uttered a joyous greeting as she hurried forward with extended hands.
Leonora stood at a distance, but her smiling lips and the timid glance of her large eyes were more eloquent than Amarilla’s words could possibly be.
He stepped forward and extended his hand to Leonora, and, when she laid her little hand in his, timidly, and yet with an expression of childlike confidence, his soul exulted, his heart overflowed with joy, and his countenance beamed with delight.
Amarilla did not observe this, as she was busily engaged inpouring out the coffee at one of the tables. Leonora turned pale under Goethe’s glances, blushed, and then turned pale again, and withdrew her hand with a quick, convulsive movement. She slowly raised her eyes, and looked at Goethe so reproachfully, so anxiously, that a tremor of joy and emotion ran through his whole being.
“Be firm, my heart, do not yield so soon to this sweet enchantment! First inhale the fragrance of this purple blossom which we call love, before you pluck it and press it to your heart. Be firm, and enjoy the pure delight of the dawning sunlight!”
She glided slowly from his side, and now, when she stood at the table assisting Amarilla, her anxious look vanished; the timid little dove felt safe under the protecting wing of the older and stronger dove; she had instinctively heard the rustle of the falcon’s wings, but now that she was at the side of her sister dove she no longer feared.
Leonora smiled again, took part in the merry conversation which Amarilla had begun with Signore Wolfgang, and seated herself at his side at the breakfast-table, which Amarilla had arranged for the three. It was a beautiful morning; the fresh breeze wafted clouds of fragrance into the room through the broad, open glass doors; the rustling of the orange and myrtle trees, and the murmuring and plashing of the cascades, greeted the ear like soft music.
To Goethe, the two lovely girls between whom he sat seemed as bright and fair as the morning. Their ingenuous conversation seemed to him more charming and instructive than any conversation he had ever had with the most intellectual women, or the greatest scholars on the most profound subjects.
His attention was, however, chiefly directed to the fair daughter of Milan, the maiden with the light hair, dark eyes, and the delicate, transparent cheeks—the maiden, whose countenance was but the mirror of her soul, the mirror in which her every thought and impulse was reflected.
Amarilla had taken one of the English newspapers, hadfolded it into a cap in imitation of thefazzolettaof the Albanian peasant-women, and placed it jauntily on her pretty head. She was dancing around in the room, and singing in a low voice to the melody of the tarantella, one of those little love-ditties which gush so harmoniously from the lips of Italian maidens.
“She flies about like the bee, sipping sweets from every blossom, and fancies the world a vast flower-garden, created only for her delight.”
“Are you of that opinion, beautiful Leonora?” asked Goethe, with a tender glance.
She shook her head slowly. “No,” said she; “I know that both the bee and the flower are of but little importance in the great economy of the universe. I often think,” she continued, in a low voice, and with a charmingly thoughtful air, “I often think that we poor, simple girls are nothing more in the sight of God than the bee and flower, and that it is immaterial whether we live or die.”
“You have too poor an opinion of yourselves,” said Goethe, in low and impassioned tones. “You do not know that the Almighty sometimes takes pity on men, and sends an angel of innocence, grace, and beauty, to console the human soul and refresh the human heart. You do not know that you are such an angel to me!”
She shook her lovely little head dissentingly. “I only know, signore, that I am a poor ignorant girl, and that I often long to cast off my stupidity, and be able to understand what wise men say. It is, however, not altogether my own fault that I am so stupid, that—”
“You are unjust to yourself,” cried Goethe, interrupting her; “you should not confound the divine ignorance of innocence with stupidity.”
“I speak the truth only,” rejoined Leonora; “and you see that I am attempting to excuse myself by telling you that it is not wholly our own fault that we are so foolish and ignorant. Our parents and instructors, in their anxiety for our welfare,fear to open our eyes, believing it best that a girl should learn and know nothing. They do not teach us to write, because they fear that we would do nothing but write love-letters; nor would they teach us to read, if it were not to enable us to use our prayer-books. We are scarcely taught to express ourselves well in our own language; and it occurs to none to have us instructed in foreign languages, and give us access to the books of the world.”[41]
“Would you like to be able to read in these books of the world, Leonora?”
“I would give all I possess to learn English! Whenever I hear Mr. Jenkins and my brother, or Madame Zucchi and her husband, conversing in English, it makes me feel sad, and a feeling of envy comes over me that I never experience at other times. See, Signore, Amarilla has made afazzolettafrom one of these large English papers, and is skipping around with it on her head, while I—I would give every thing to be able to read and understand what is written in the papers, which I know bring us intelligence from the whole world.”
“You say you would give every thing to be able to read these papers? What will you give me if I teach you how to do so?”
“Do teach me,” she cried, clapping her little hands joyfully; “oh, do teach me! I will be so thankful, so very thankful! You will make me so happy, and I know that you are noble and generous, and will find your best reward in having made a poor ignorant girl happy.”
“Do you, then, really believe me to be so disinterested, signora?” asked Goethe, gazing earnestly into her animated countenance. “No, Leonora, you are mistaken in me! I am not so godlike as you suppose!”
At this moment the ringing tones of Amarilla’s voice were wafted in from the terrace. She was singing to the charming air so well known to every Italian maiden and youth, and so familiar even to the orange groves and flowers, because theyhave so often heard it resounding from the cooing, exulting lips of lovers:
“Io ti voglio ben’ assaiMa tu non pens’ a me!”
“Io ti voglio ben’ assaiMa tu non pens’ a me!”
“Io ti voglio ben’ assaiMa tu non pens’ a me!”
“Io ti voglio ben’ assai
Ma tu non pens’ a me!”
Alarmed by the impassioned tones of Goethe’s voice, Leonora turned her head quickly toward the terrace. She smiled when she saw Amarilla skipping about from tree to tree, singing like a humming-bird, as she plucked a blossom or a sprig here and there, and arranged them into a bouquet.
“See, signore,” whispered Leonora as she raised her delicate little hand and pointed to her friend. “I told you before that we were not taught how to write, for fear that we would write love-letters. See what we poor ignorant girls resort to when we wish to write a love-letter. Instead of using the letters of the alphabet we take flowers, that is the whole difference.”
“Do you mean to say that Amarilla is writing a love-letter with her flowers?”
“Be still, do not betray her, signore. Look down, that no profane glance may desecrate the letters which God and the sun have created!”
“But I may look at that young man who is stealing out from behind the evergreen-hedge, may I not?”
“Of what young man are you speaking?” asked Leonora, in alarm.
“Of the young Comaccini, who is cautiously peering through those bushes, and for whom the fragrant love-letter, which Amarilla holds aloft so triumphantly, is probably intended.”
“No, do not look that way, signore,” cried Leonora, with an air of confusion, as she hastily took one of the papers from the table and handed it to Goethe.
“You said you would teach me to read these papers, to make out these difficult English words. Please do so, signore. I will be a very thankful scholar!”
Goethe smiled as he took the paper and unfolded it. He had laid his left arm on the back of the chair, in which Leonorasat; with his right hand he held the paper before her lovely countenance. He began to read and translate, word for word, the passage at which her rosy finger pointed. She listened with breathless attention, utterly unconscious that their heads were side by side, that her cheeks almost touched his, and that her fair, fragrant hair was intermingled with his brown locks. Her whole soul was filled with the determination to impress each word that Goethe uttered indelibly on her mind. Her glances flew like busy bees from the paper to his lips, unconscious that they bore a sting which was infusing sweet poison into the heart of her zealous teacher.
To be the teacher of a beautiful young girl is a dangerous office for a man who is young, and impetuous, and whose heart is not preoccupied. To read out of one book, cheek by jowl, so near to each other that the breath of his lips is mingled with hers, and that he can hear her heart’s quick throbs—when has a woman done this with impunity, unless it was her lover or her husband with whom she was reading! Francesca da Rimini would not have been murdered by her jealous husband, if she had not read Launcelot with her handsome brother-in-law Paolo Malatesta.
“One day we were reading for our delight,Of Launcelot, how love did him enthrall;Alone we were and without any fear,Full many a time our eyes together drew,That reading, and drove the color from our faces;But one point only was it that o’ercame us,When as we read of the much longed-for smile,Being by such a noble lover kissed,This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it,That day no further did we read therein.”[42]
“One day we were reading for our delight,Of Launcelot, how love did him enthrall;Alone we were and without any fear,Full many a time our eyes together drew,That reading, and drove the color from our faces;But one point only was it that o’ercame us,When as we read of the much longed-for smile,Being by such a noble lover kissed,This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it,That day no further did we read therein.”[42]
“One day we were reading for our delight,Of Launcelot, how love did him enthrall;Alone we were and without any fear,Full many a time our eyes together drew,That reading, and drove the color from our faces;But one point only was it that o’ercame us,When as we read of the much longed-for smile,Being by such a noble lover kissed,This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it,That day no further did we read therein.”[42]
“One day we were reading for our delight,
Of Launcelot, how love did him enthrall;
Alone we were and without any fear,
Full many a time our eyes together drew,
That reading, and drove the color from our faces;
But one point only was it that o’ercame us,
When as we read of the much longed-for smile,
Being by such a noble lover kissed,
This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,
Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.
Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it,
That day no further did we read therein.”[42]
They too were reading for their delight, and were alone without any fear.
Amarilla sang and danced about on the terrace, and paid no attention to the two who were sitting so close together and studying the English newspaper so earnestly. The passage atwhich Leonora pointed, chanced to be the simple, touching history of a young man and a girl who loved each other devotedly, but could not be united because the man was already married. The girl, unable to conquer her love, and yet tormented with remorse and anguish, had buried her love and her sorrows in the dark waters of the Thames. Her lover poisoned himself when he learned the sad intelligence, leaving a letter, in which he begged that they might be permitted to rest in one grave.
Leonora’s attention was so entirely absorbed in the translation of the separate words that the meaning of what they were reading escaped her. In breathless excitement she listened to the words of glowing passion that fell from her teacher’s lips, and stored them away in her memory, as newly-acquired precious treasures. She cried out with delight, when, after they had translated the passage for the second time, she succeeded in comprehending its meaning, and could render whole sentences and periods in her own language. She was so beautiful in her innocent joy, her countenance was so animated, her eyes so radiant, the smile on her lips was so charming, that a tremor of delight ran through Goethe’s being as he gazed at the fair creature. He said to himself that it must be enchanting to open the treasures of knowledge to this charming child of Nature, and to learn from her while giving her instruction.
They were still absorbed in the English lesson, and did not observe that the door was noiselessly opened, and that a young man with a merry countenance and bright smile appeared on the threshold. But, when he saw the two, seated side by side, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, she gazing fixedly at the paper, he regarding her with an expression of passionate tenderness—when the young man saw this, his merry expression vanished, and he cast a look of anger and hatred towards the readers. Leonora had just succeeded in translating the whole narrative, unassisted by her teacher, and now uttered the concluding words in a loud voice: “They found itsweeter to die in love than to live without love!” The pale young man with the angry countenance slowly withdrew, closing the door as noiselessly as he had before opened it. They observed nothing of this, and continued reading until a number of their friends and acquaintances entered the room, when they laid the paper aside, with a sigh and a mutual look of regret and tenderness.
The servants now appeared and were soon hastily engaged in preparing the breakfast table for the numerous guests who were sojourning in the house. Angelica Kaufmann, who had just entered the room on Mr. Jenkins’s arm, stepped forward and greeted Goethe, cordially, mildly reproaching him with having neglected and forgotten her.
Goethe replied to this reproach, but not in his usual gay and unrestrained manner, and her keen glance detected a change in his countenance.
“One of the muses or goddesses of Olympus has paid you a visit this morning,” said she. “Her kiss is still burning on your cheeks, and the heavenly fire is still flaming in your eyes. Tell me, my friend, which muse or which goddess was it that kissed you?”
“Why must it have been an immortal woman, Angelica?” asked Goethe, laughing.
“Because no mortal woman can touch your hard heart. You know your friend Moritz always called you the polar bear, and maintained that you had an iceberg in your breast instead of a heart. He was right, was he not?”
“Woe is me, if he was not, but is to be!” sighed Goethe, thinking of the dire visitation Moritz had called down upon his head.
Breakfast was announced, and the guests began to seat themselves at the table. The place of honor was generally conceded to be at Goethe’s side, Mr. Jenkins therefore requested Angelica Kaufmann to take the seat on Goethe’s right hand. While he was looking around, considering to whom he should accord the second place of honor on Goethe’sleft, Leonora stepped forward and quietly seated herself in the coveted place at her instructor’s side.
“I cannot separate myself from you, maestro,” said she, smiling. “You must repeat, and explain to me, a few words of our lesson. Only think, I have already forgotten the sentence which commences: ‘Sweet it is to die in love.’”
Angelica’s astonished look convinced Goethe that she had heard these words, and this confused him. His embarrassed manner, when he replied to Leonora, betrayed to Angelica the mystery of his sudden change of color when she had first spoken to him on entering the room. “I was mistaken,” said she, in a low voice, and with her soft smile, “it was not a goddess or a muse who visited you. The god of gods himself has kissed your heart and opened your eyes that you might see.”
Yes, these flaming eyes did see, and love had softened the poet’s hard heart with kisses. His soul was filled with rapture as in the days of his first boyish love; every thing seemed changed—seemed to have become brighter and fairer. When he walked in the park with his friends after breakfast it seemed to him that his feet no longer touched the earth, but that his head pierced the heavens, and that he beheld the splendor of the sun and the lustre of the stars. He had gone to the pavilion, where he had first seen Leonora, hoping to find her there now. Amarilla had drawn her aside, after breakfast, and whispered a few words in her ear. Goethe had seen her shudder, turn pale, and reluctantly follow her friend from the room. He hoped to find her in the pavilion. She was, however, not there; a few groups of ladies and gentlemen were standing at the open windows, looking at the beautiful landscape.
Goethe stepped up to one of these windows and gazed out at the lovely lake with its rippling waves and wooded banks. It had never before looked so beautiful. He did not view this picture with the eye of an artist, who desires to reproduce what be sees in oil or aquarelle, but with the eye of an enrapturedmortal, before whom a new world is suddenly unfolded, a world of beauty and of love.[43]
Suddenly he heard Amarilla’s merry, laughing voice, and his heart told him that she also was near—she, the adored Leonora! Goethe turned towards the entrance. Yes, there was Leonora; there she stood on the threshold, at her side a young man, with whom she was conversing in low and eager tones.
“Here you are, Signore Goethe,” cried Amarilla, stepping forward. “We have been looking for you everywhere, we—”
“Signora,” said Goethe, interrupting her, and laying his hand gently on her arm, “pray tell me who that young man is with whom your friend Leonora is so eagerly conversing?”
“We have been looking for you to tell you this, and to make you acquainted with young Matteo. He has come to tell Leonora that the rich old uncle whose only heir he is, has suddenly died, and that no impediment to his marriage now exists.”
“What does it concern your friend whether this Mr. Matteo has grown rich, and can now marry or not?”
“What does it concern her?” said Amarilla, laughing. “Well, I should think it concerned her a great deal, as she is betrothed to this Mr. Matteo, and their marriage is to take place in a week.”
Not a muscle of his face quivered, not a look betrayed his anguish. He turned to the window, and stared out at the landscape which had before shone so lustrously in the bright sunlight. How changed! All was now night and darkness; a film had gathered over his eyes.
While he stood there, immovable, transfixed with dismay, he observed nothing of the little drama that was going on behind him; he did not feel the earnest gaze of the two pairs of eyes that were fastened on him: the eyes of Leonora, with tender sympathy; the eyes of the young man, with intense hatred.
“I saw him turn pale and shudder,” hissed Matteo in Leonora’s ear. “It startled him to hear that you were my betrothed. It seems that you have carefully concealed the fact that you were my affianced, and about to become my bride?”
“I have not concealed it, Matteo, I had only forgotten it.”
“A tender sweetheart, truly, who forgets her betrothal as soon as another, perhaps a handsomer man, makes his appearance.”
“Ah, Matteo,” whispered she, tears gushing from her eyes, “you do me injustice!”
He saw these tears and they made him furious. “Come now, and introduce me to this handsome signore,” commanded Matteo, grimly; “tell him, in my presence, that our marriage is to come off in a week. But if you shed a single tear while telling him this, I will murder him, and—”
“Step aside, signore, if you please,” said a voice behind him; “step aside, and permit me to pass through the door-way.”
The voice was cold and composed, as was also the gaze which Goethe fastened on the young man. He did not even glance at Leonora; he had no words for the fair-haired girl, who looked up into his countenance so timidly and so anxiously. He passed out into the open air, down the steps and into the garden, leaving behind him her who but yesterday had seemed to him as the dawn of a new day, the glorious sunshine of a new youth—her, who to-day had cast a pall over his soul, and had cried into his sorrowing, quivering heart the last adieu of departing youth.
He passed the confines of the park, strode rapidly into the forest and sought out its densest solitude. There, where the stillness was unbroken, save by the rustling of trees and the dreamy song of birds—there he threw himself on a bed of moss, and uttered a cry, a single, fearful cry, that made the forest ring, and betrayed to God and Nature the mystery of the anguish of a noble, human heart, that was struggling with, but had not yet overcome, its agony.
Goethe did not return home from the forest until late in the evening. He retired to his room and locked himself in, desiring to see no one, to speak to no one, until he had subdued the demons that were whispering words of wild derision and mocking despair in his heart. He would not be the slave of passion. No one should see him until he had mastered his agony. Early the next morning he again wandered forth into the forest with his portfolio under his arm; leaving a message at the house for his friends to the effect that they must not expect him back to dinner, as he had gone out to draw, and would not return till late in the evening.
His friends, andsheabove all, should not know what he suffered! The forest is discreet, the trees will not betray the poor child of humanity who lies at their feet struggling with his own heart.
“I will not suffer, I will not bear the yoke! Did I come to Rome for any such purpose? did I come here to see my peace and tranquillity of mind burn like dry straw, under the kindling glances of a beautiful girl? No! I will not suffer! Pain shall have no power over me! It will and shall be conquered! Away with you, hollow-eyed monster! I will tread you under foot, will grind you in the dust as I would an adder!”
He sprang up from his bed of moss, and stamped on the ground, furiously. He then walked on deeper into the forest, compelling himself to be calm, and to contemplate Nature.
“Goethe, I command you to be calm,” cried he, in stentorian tones. “I will collect buds and mosses, and choose butterflies and insects. Help me, Spirit of Nature! aid me, benign mother. Give me peace, peace!”
With firmer tread, his head proudly erect, he walked on in the silent forest, still murmuring from time to time: “I will have peace, peace!”
While Goethe was struggling with his heart, in the depths of the forest, and striving to be at peace with himself, another heart was undergoing the same ordeal, in silence andsolitude. The heart of a tender, young girl, who hoped to attain by prayer what the strong man was determined to achieve by the power of his will.
She did not even know what it was that had so suddenly darkened her heart; she only felt that a change had taken place—that she was transformed into another being. An unaccountable feeling of anxiety had come over her—a restlessness that drove her from place to place, through the long avenues of the park, in search of solitude. She only asked herself this: What had she done to cause Signore Goethe to avoid her so studiously? Why had he left the house so early in the morning, and returned so late in the evening, for the past three days? Why was it that he conversed gayly with others when he returned in the evening, but had neither word nor look for her?
These questions gave her no rest; they tormented her throughout the entire day. “What wrong have I done him? Why is he angry with me? Why does he avoid me?” She sat in the pavilion repeating the questions that had made her miserable for the last three days, when suddenly Matteo, who had followed her, stepped forward and regarded her with such anger and hatred that she trembled under his glance like the dove under the claws of the falcon.
“What is the matter with you, Leonora?” he asked, gruffly. “Why are you weeping?”
“I do not know, Matteo,” murmured Leonora. “Please be patient with me, it will soon pass away.”
He laughed derisively. “You do not know! Then let me tell you. You have no honor! You have no fidelity! You are a vile, faithless creature, and not worthy of my love.”
“How can you speak so, Matteo? What have I done?”
“I will tell you what you have done,” he cried, furiously. “You have listened to the honeyed words of the tempter. Be still, do not contradict me! I saw you seated together—he, breathing sweet poison into your heart; and you, eagerly inhaling it. I hate and despise him, and I hate and curseyou! There! I hurl my engagement ring at your feet, and will never take it back again—no, never! We are separated! Matteo will not stoop to marry a girl who has broken faith with him.”
“I—with you? Matteo, that is false! That is false, I tell you.”
“False, is it?” he cried, furiously. “Well then, swear by the holy virgin that your heart is pure; swear by all the saints that you love me, and that you do not love him, this Signore Goethe!”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words escaped her lips. Her lovely features assumed an expression of dismay; she stared into vacancy, and stretched out her arms as if to ward off some horrible vision that had arisen before her.
“Speak!” cried he. “Swear that you do not love him!”
Her arms sank helplessly to her side, and a deathly pallor spread over her countenance as she slowly, but calmly and distinctly murmured: “I cannot swear, Matteo! I know it now, I feel it now: I do love him!”
Matteo responded with a cry of fury, and struck Leonora with his clinched fist so forcibly on the shoulder, that she fell to the ground with a cry of pain. He stood over her, cursing her, and vowing that he would have nothing more to do with the faithless woman. With a last imprecation, he then turned and rushed out of the pavilion and down into the garden. All was still in the pavilion. Leonora lay there with closed eyelids, stark and motionless, her countenance of a deathly pallor.
A pale woman glided in through the open door, looked anxiously around, and saw the form of the poor girl extended on the floor. “She has fainted! I must assist her!”
It was Angelica Kaufmann who uttered these words. She had been painting outside on the porch, had heard every word that was spoken in the pavilion, and now came to help and console the poor sufferer.
She knelt down by her side; rested her head on her knees,drew a smelling-bottle from her dress-pocket and held it to the poor girl’s nose.
She opened her eyes and gazed dreamily into the kind, sympathetic countenance of the noble woman who knelt over her.
“It is you, Signora Angelica,” murmured Leonora. “You were near? You heard all?”
“I heard all, Leonora,” said the noble artiste, bending down and kissing her pale lips.
“And you will betray me!” cried she, in dismay. “You will tell him?”
“No, Leonora, I will not betray you to any one. I will tell no human being a word of what I have overheard.”
“Swear that you will not, signora. Swear that you will keep my secret, and that you will not betray it tohim, even though my life should be at stake.”
“I swear that I will not, Leonora. Have confidence in me, my child! I have suffered as you suffer, and my heart still bears the scars of deep and painful wounds. I have known the anguish of hopeless love!”
“I too, suffer; I suffer terribly,” murmured Leonora. “I would gladly die, it would be a relief!”
“Poor child, death is not so kind a friend as to hasten to our relief when we call him! We must learn to endure life, and to say with smiling lips to the dagger when we draw it from the bleeding wound: ‘Paete, paete, non dolet!’”
ADIEU TO ITALY.
Writhing in agony for three days and three long nights, at length Goethe found relief in the omnipresent balsam, all-healing Nature!
The poet-eagle was healed! The pinions of his soul had recovered from the wounds inflicted by Cupid’s envenomedarrow. Six days of solitude, six days of restless wandering, six days of communing with God and Nature, six days of struggling with his own weakness—these six days have made him six years older, taught him to conquer pain, and restored him to joyousness and confidence in himself.
On the morning of the seventh day, Goethe entered the room where his friends were assembled, and greeted them with all his former gayety and cordiality. No change was observable in his countenance, except that he had become a little paler, and that his large brown eyes looked still larger than usual. Only once did an anxious expression flit over his countenance, and that was when he asked Signore Zucchi why his dear friend Angelica had not come down to breakfast with her husband.
“She is not here,” replied Zucchi. “She has been in Rome for the past three days.”
“In Rome?” repeated Goethe, with astonishment. “We intended making an excursion together through the Albanian Mountains, and now she has left us! When will she return?”
“That the physicians alone can tell you,” replied Zucchi.
“Is Signora Angelica ill?” asked Goethe, with alarm.
“Oh, no, not she! But the young girl, the beautiful Leonora, has suddenly fallen ill. Angelica found her lying insensible on the floor of the pavilion. She interested herself in the poor girl, did all she could to cheer and console her, and even attempted to reconcile her to her affianced, from whom she had been estranged. Leonora, however, declared that she would never marry young Matteo—that she would become no man’s wife, but would always remain with her brother. At her earnest request, Angelica took her to Rome, to her brother’s house. She had hardly arrived there before she was taken violently ill with an attack of fever. She is in a very precarious condition, and Angelica, instead of finishing the large painting for which an Englishman has offered four thousand scudi, has made herself this poor girl’s nurse.”
Goethe had listened to this narrative in silence, his headbowed down on his breast. When Zucchi ceased speaking, he raised his head, and cast a quick glance around the room. He saw gay and unconcerned countenances only. No one observed him—the story of his anguish was known to none of his friends.
He also seemed to be perfectly quiet and composed—to be occupied solely with his paintings and drawings. When his friends suggested that the time had now arrived to carry out their projected tour through the Albanian Mountains, Goethe declined to accompany them, telling them that an alteration which his friends in Germany desired him to make in his “Egmont,” necessitated his speedy return to Rome.
Goethe returned to the city on the evening of the same day, and repaired, immediately on his arrival, to the house of Signore Bandetto, to inquire after his sister’s condition. She was still dangerously ill, and the physicians gave but little hope. Signora Angelica was with her, nursing her like a tender mother. He returned to the house for the same purpose later in the evening, and so on each ensuing day. Gradually, the bulletins were more favorable, and he was told that she was steadily improving.
Goethe had been in Rome for two weeks, and had neither written nor painted during this time; he had even avoided the gods of the Belvidere and the holy halls of St. Peter’s. The wounds of his heart were not yet quite healed. Leonora’s illness still made them smart.
To-day, he had again repaired to Signor Bandetto’s house, had seen Angelica Kaufmann, and had been told that all danger was now over. A weight of care was removed from his soul, and he now entered his studio with a gay and unclouded countenance for the first time during his stay in Rome. His studio was a scene of wild confusion; books, papers, drawings, chairs, and tables, were in the greatest disorder. The Juno Ludovisi’s head was gray with dust, and the impious chambermaid had thrown the poet’s dressing-gown over the figure of Cupid, as though the god of love were a clothes-rack.
Goethe laughed loudly, laughed for the first time in long, long weeks, and relieved the poor god of his disgraceful burden.
He then bowed profoundly, and looked intently into the mischievous god’s smiling countenance, as if to defy him to do his worst.
From this hour Goethe was once more himself. All grief had vanished from his heart, and he was again restored to his former peace and gayety. He once more belonged to the gods and muses, to poetry and to nature. But, above all, to poetry! In the hours of his anguish the arts had not been able to rescue and strengthen him, but wondrous thoughts and sublime feelings had taken root in his soul.
Pain was overcome, as was also love. When he saw Leonora, after her recovery, and when she thanked him, in faltering tones, for his sympathy, and his frequent inquiries during her illness, Goethe smiled, and treated her as a kind father treats his child, or a brother his sister.
She fully understood the meaning of this smile, and shed many bitter tears in her little room in the stillness of the night, but she did not complain. She knew that this short-lived passion had fallen from Goethe, as the withered blossom falls from the laurel-tree, and that she would be nothing more than a remembrance in his life.
This consciousness she wore as a talisman against all sorrow; the roses returned to her cheeks, her eyes once more shone lustrously, and never in her after-life did she forget Goethe, as he never forgot her. The remembrance of this beautiful girl shone as a bright, unclouded star throughout Goethe’s entire life; and in the days of his old age, when the heart that had throbbed so ardently in Rome had grown cold, Goethe said and wrote of this fair girl: “Her remembrance has never faded from my thought and soul.”
Another painful awakening soon followed this short dream of love—the awakening from the dreamy, enchanting life in Italy, the return to Germany. It was a pain and a joy at thesame time. The deep pain of separation from Rome, and the joyful prospect of returning to his home and friends, and, above all, to his friend Charlotte von Stein?
“It was for her sake that I conquered this passion,” said Goethe to himself. “I told her that I would return to her, unfettered in hand and heart, and I will keep my promise. Charlotte’s love, Charlotte’s friendship, shall console me for what I have denied myself here, for what I leave behind me! You, too, will be there, Muses; you will follow me to the fatherland, and assemble lovingly around the poet in the little house in Weimar. A poet I am; that I feel; of that I am now convinced. In the next ten years of work that will at the utmost be vouchsafed me, I will strive to accomplish, by diligent application, as much that is good and great as I achieved without hard study in the days of my youthful vigor and enthusiasm. I will be diligent and joyous! I will live, create, and enjoy, and that I can do as well in Weimar as in Rome! I will bear the Italian heaven within me; I will erect ‘Torquato Tasso’ as a monument to Italy and myself. Farewell, sublime, divine Roma! A greeting to you, you dear little city, in which the prince lives whom I love, and the friend who belongs to my soul. A greeting to you, Weimar!”
THE RETURN.
To-day is the anniversary of the birthday of the beautiful Princess Ferdinand, and is to be celebrated by a grand reception in the royal palace of Berlin. The rank and fashion of Berlin are invited. The ladies of the aristocracy are occupied with nothing but their toilette, this object of first and greatest importance to the fair creatures who form so marked a contrast to the lilies of the field, which neither toil nor spin, and are yet so gorgeously arrayed. Nor do these beautiful lilies of the parlor toil or spin; nor do they wait for the Lord to array them, but take this care upon themselves, and make it an affair of state in their lives. To the Countess Moltke it is also an affair of state, and all the more so as her waning beauty demanded increased attention to the arts of the toilette. The rose-colored satin dress lies on the sofa, awaiting the garland of roses destined to encircle its skirt. Her rich black hair is also to be adorned with a wreath of roses, for the countess has a decided penchant for them and fancies the color of her robe and flowers will be reflected in her countenance, and impart to it a youthful, rosy hue. The flowers had been ordered a week before at the establishment of Marie von Leuthen, the first manufacturer of them in the city, and the countess was now awaiting the return of the servant she had sent after them. For the past two years, and since the day on which she had opened her store on Frederick Street, Marie von Leuthen had furnished flowers for all the ladies of high rank in Berlin.It was consideredbon tonto buy one’s wreaths, bouquets, and garlands from her. No one arranged them so prettily as she, no one understood imitating Nature in so beautiful and artistic a manner; moreover, it gave one the appearance of patronizing the unfortunate young woman, whose fate had been the all-engrossing topic of conversation in good society for an entire week. Her flowers were also very dear, and it was therefore all the more honorable to be able to say: “I purchased them from Madame von Leuthen. True, she is exceedingly dear, but her work is good, and, moreover, it is a sort of duty to assist her with our patronage. She is, as it were, one of us; we have been entertained by her, and have enjoyed many agreeable evenings at her house.”
Marie von Leuthen had ceased to be a lady of fashion, but she had become the fashionable flower-manufacturer of the city, and, as we have already said, it was considered essential to adorn one’s self from her establishment.
Madame von Moltke was therefore not a little dismayed when the servant returned, and announced that the flowers were not ready, and that Madame von Leuthen begged to be excused for not having been able to furnish them.
“But did you not tell her that I must necessarily have them?” asked the countess.
“My lady, I not only told old Trude so, but I reproached her violently for having accepted an order which her mistress could not execute; but the old woman shut the door in my face, and gave me no other answer than this: ‘The flowers are not ready.’”
“But they can perhaps still be got ready,” said the countess. “Probably she has a great deal of work on hand for this evening, and it will perhaps only be necessary to offer her a higher price in order to secure the preference above her other customers. Let my carriage be driven to the door. I will see and speak with this inconsiderate person myself!”
A quarter of an hour later the countess’s carriage stopped in front of the store in Frederick Street, over the door ofwhich was written in large letters: “Marie von Leuthen, manufacturer of flowers.”
The servant hurried forward to open the door, and the countess glided majestically into the store, and greeted the old woman, who advanced to meet her, with a proud, and almost imperceptible inclination of the head.
“I wish to speak with Madame von Leuthen herself,” said the countess, imperiously.
“Her ladyship, however, well knows that none of Madame von Leuthen’s customers have had the pleasure of seeing her in the last two years,” rejoined the old woman in sharp tones. “Her ladyship, like all the other inquisitive ladies, has often attempted to see and speak with my mistress, but always in vain. Madame von Leuthen has neither time nor inclination to be chatted with or stared at. She does the work and I receive the orders. Her ladyship must therefore have the goodness to say what she has to say to old Trude.”
“I have come for my flowers,” said the countess, angrily. “My servant tells me that he received the very impertinent message that they not only were not, but would not be, ready. I can, however, scarcely credit his statement, for I ordered these flowers myself, and when an order has been accepted, it must of course be filled at the proper time.”
“Your servant told you the truth,” replied old Trude, in grumbling tones, “the roses will not be ready.”
“And why not, if I may be permitted to ask?”
“Certainly, why should you not ask? Of course you may ask,” rejoined Trude, shrugging her shoulders. “The answer is: The roses have not been got ready, because Madame von Leuthen has not worked.”
“Has your mistress then done so well that she is on the point of retiring from business?” asked the countess.
Trude raised her eyes with a peculiar expression to her ladyship’s haughty countenance, and for a moment her withered old face quivered with pain. But this emotion she quickly suppressed, and assumed her former peevish and severe manner.
“What does my lady care whether my little Marie desires to retire to rest or not, or whether the good Lord wills that she shall do so,” said she, gruffly. “Enough, the roses cannot indeed be ready, and if her ladyship is angry, let her scold old Trude, for she alone is to blame, as she never even gave Madame von Leuthen your order.”
“This is, however, very wrong, very impertinent,” cried the countess. “Pray, why did you accept the order?”
“True, that I ought not to have done,” murmured the old woman to herself, “but I thought she would grow better, and instead—my lady,” said she, interrupting herself. “I have nothing more to say, and must beg you to content yourself with my reply. No more flowers will be furnished to-day, and I will immediately lock the front door.”
“She is a rude person,” cried the countess, angrily. “If she dares to insult those who assisted her impoverished mistress out of benevolence and pity, in this shameless manner, the consequence will be that her customers will withdraw their patronage and give her no more orders.”
“As you please, my lady,” said old Trude, sorrowfully. “But be kind enough to go, if you have nothing further to say.”
The countess gave the presuming old woman an annihilating glance, and rustled out of the store and into her carriage.
Trude hastily locked the door behind her, and pulled down the blind on the inside. “Who knows whether I shall ever unlock this door again!” sighed she. “Who knows whether she shall ever make flowers again!”
The old woman sank down on a chair and burst into tears. She quickly dried her eyes, however, and assumed an air of gayety when she heard her name called in the adjoining room, and walked hurriedly into the apartment from which the voice had proceeded.
“Here I am, my little Marie,” said she, on entering; “here I am.” She hurried forward to the pale lady, who was sitting in the arm-chair at the large round table.
Was that really Marie? Was this pale woman with thelarge lustrous eyes, with the hectic flush on her hollow cheeks—was this really that proud beauty who had laid aside rank and wealth with royal contempt—who with joyous courage had determined to create for herself a new life, and, after having avenged herself on her unworthy husband and her unnatural mother, had gone out into the world to earn a subsistence with the work of her hands? The figure of that woman had been tall and full—the figure of this woman was shrunken, and, in spite of the heavy woollen dress which she wore, it was evident that nothing of their former beauty and fulness remained to these shoulders, to these arms, and to this unnaturally slight figure. And yet, although this pale woman had retained so little of her former beauty, there was still an inexpressible, a touching charm in her appearance. Disease had laid waste her fair form, but disease had not been able to deprive these eyes of their lustre, nor these cheeks of their rosy hue. To be sure, the same lustrous eyes and flushed cheeks were the fatal evidences of that disease which gives those whom it destroys the appearance of improvement, and permits them to hope until the last moment. Her brow was clear and transparent, and a soft, tranquil smile rested oftener on her thin, delicate lips than formerly. True, her figure was thin and unattractive, but this attenuation gave to her appearance something spirituelle. When she glided lightly and noiselessly through the room, the thought would occur to you that she was not a woman of earth, but must really be one of those of whom we read in song and story—one who, for some fault committed in heaven, or in the realm of spirits, is compelled to descend to the earth to make atonement by learning to suffer and endure pain like mortals! She had been working flowers of every variety. Roses and lilies, violets and forget-me-nots, tulips and pinks, and whatever else the names of these lovely children of the spring and sun may be, lay on the table in the greatest confusion. They were in the varied stages of completion, some half finished, and others wanting only a leaf or the stem. Marie held a bunch of liliesin her delicate hand, and Trude sighed when she observed it. It seemed to her that her darling looked like the angel of death, standing on the brink of the grave, and waving her lilies in a greeting to the new life that was dawning for the dying mortal!
“Trude, who was it I heard speaking in the other room, who spoke in such loud tones?” asked Marie, as she leaned back in the arm-chair, as if exhausted by her work.—“Why do you not answer? Why do you not tell me who was there? Good heavens!” she cried, suddenly, “it cannot have been—O Trude, for God’s sake, tell me, who was it? And if it was he, Trude—if he has at last come, then—”
“Be still, Marie!” answered the old woman, interrupting her, and assuming an air of gayety. “You are still the same young girl, just as impatient as ever! No, no, it was not he! It was only Countess Moltke, who wished to speak with you about a garland of roses.”
“Countess Moltke!” repeated Marie, thoughtfully. “She, too, was present on that terrible day when—”
“Do not speak of it, do not think of it!” entreated the old woman. “You know the doctor told you that if you desired to grow healthy and strong again, you should lay aside all sad thoughts, and endeavor to be right cheerful.”
“I am cheerful, Trude,” replied Marie, smiling. “Each day brings him nearer, each fleeting hour shortens our long separation. I now bless the disease that attacked me two months ago, for, under the impression that I was about to die, you then did what I never would have done, you caused good Professor Gedicke to write to him and tell him to come home, as his Marie was very ill. I thank you, good Trude, for confessing this, and for giving me the blessed assurance that he will soon be here. But yet it was cruel to terrify and alarm him! I hope, however, that the professor has again written since then, and told him that all danger is over, and that I am very greatly improved!”
“And he did so, Marie; he wrote immediately after thereceipt of his letter from Rome, announcing his departure for home, and requesting that further intelligence, as to your condition, should be sent to him at the post-office in Stuttgart. Mr. Moritz knows that all danger is over, and that you are doing well. You are certainly doing well, are you not, dear Marie?”
“Yes, I am doing well, very well indeed, and better each day. I feel, at times, as though I had wings, and had flown high above the earth; when I look down, every thing seems small and indistinct, as though far away in the dim distance. You, however, are always near me, as is also his dear countenance; his large dark eyes are ever shining into my heart like two stars. I feel so happy when I see them—so light and free, that I seem to have bidden adieu to all earthly care and sorrow. Only at times my eyes grow a little dim, and my hands tremble so when I wish to work, and then something pains me here in the breast occasionally! But this need not disquiet you, Trude, it only pains a little, and it will soon pass away.”
“Yes, indeed, it will soon pass away!” said Trude, turning aside, and hastily wiping away the tears which rushed to her eyes in spite of her endeavors to repress them. “Certainly, Marie, you will soon be entirely restored to health and strength; this weakness is only the result of your long illness.”
Marie did not reply, but cast a quick, searching glance at old Trude’s kind face, and then slowly raised her eyes toward heaven with an expression of earnest entreaty. But then a soft smile flitted over her countenance, and the ominous roses on her cheeks burned brighter.
“Yes, I will soon recover, Trude,” she said, almost gayly. “Under such treatment I cannot fail to recover. You nurse me as tenderly as a mother nurses her child. And it is very necessary that I should, good Trude, for our supply of flowers is almost exhausted, and our purse is empty. This is the case, is it not? You gave Countess Moltke no garland of roses because we had no more.”
“Yes, such is the case, Marie, if you must know. The roses are all sold, but that is easily accounted for, as no elegant lady is willing to wear any flowers but yours. You are quite right, Marie, you must make haste and get well, so that you can make a fresh supply of beautiful roses. But, in order to be entirely restored to health, you must rest and do no work whatever for the next few weeks.”
“The next few weeks!” repeated Marie, in a slightly mocking tone of voice. “The next few weeks! Trude, that seems like an almost inconceivable eternity, and— But, good heavens! you do not believe that weeks will pass before Philip comes?”
“But why should I believe any thing of the kind, Marie?” said the old nurse, in tranquillizing tones. “He left Rome long ago, and Mr. Gedicke says we may expect him at any hour.”
“How pleasantly that sounds! what music lies in your words, Trude!” sighed Marie. “We may expect him at any hour! Do you know, good Trude, that I am still nothing more than a foolish child! I have been awaiting Philip these two long years, and during this time I have always been joyous and patient, for I know that this separation was necessary, and would be a blessing to him I loved. ‘Before the roses bloom, the thorns grow, and we are wounded by them when we pluck the lovely flowers!’ This I have constantly repeated to myself during these two long years, and have borne the pain which the thorns caused me without murmuring. But now, when I know that I will soon see him again—now, each hour is magnified into an eternity of torment, and all reasoning is in vain, and all patience exhausted. I feel as though I could die for very longing to see him. And yet, I am determined not to die; I must live—live to pluck the roses after having suffered so much from the thorns. But, alas! Trude, if my sufferings shall have been too great—if I should die of these many wounds! Sometimes it seems to me as though my strength were entirely exhausted, and— There, the thorn is again piercing my heart! How it pains!”
She sank back groaning, and pressed her quivering hand to her breast. Trude hurried forward, rubbed her cold, damp brow with strengthening essences, and then ran to the closet to get the little phial of medicine which the physician had prescribed for such attacks of weakness.
“Open your lips, Marie, and swallow these drops; they will relieve you.”
She slowly opened her eyes, and her trembling hand grasped the spoon which Trude had filled from the phial, and carried it to her pale lips.
“That will do you good, my dear child,” said the old nurse, in a firm voice, that knew nothing of the tears which stood in her eyes. “The doctor said these little attacks were harmless, and would cease altogether by and by.”
“Yes, they will cease altogether by and by,” whispered Marie, after a pause. “Cease with my life! I will not die! No, I will not!”
With a quick movement, she arose and walked rapidly to and fro in the little room. A few roses and violets were swept from the table by Marie’s dress, and fell to the floor. In passing, Marie’s foot crushed them. She stood still and looked down sadly at these flowers.
“See, Trude,” said she, with a faint smile, “a few moments ago I was complaining of having suffered so much from thorns, and now it looks as if Fate intended to avenge me. It strews my path with flowers, as for a bride on her way to the altar, or for a corpse that is being borne to the grave.”
“But, my child, what strange words these are!” cried Trude, with assumed indignation. “The physician says that all danger is past, and that you are steadily improving; and you say such sad and ominous things that you make me feel sad myself, and make the tears gather in my eyes. That is not right, Marie, for you well know that the doctor said you must carefully avoid all agitation of mind, and endeavor to be uniformly cheerful.”
“It is true, good nurse, I ought to be cheerful, and I willbe cheerful. You see it is only because I so long to live—so long to pluck a few roses after having been wounded by so many thorns. You must not scold me on this account,” continued Marie, as she entwined her arms lovingly around her old nurse. “No, you must not scold me!”
“I am not scolding you, you dear, foolish child,” said Trude, laughing. “I, too, so long to see you live; and if I could purchase life for you with my heart’s blood—well, you know I would gladly shed my blood for you, drop by drop.”
“Yes, I know you would,” cried Marie, tenderly, as she rested her head on Trude’s shoulder.
“Fortunately, however, it is not necessary,” continued the old nurse. “Marie will live and be happy without old Trude’s assistance. Professor Philip Moritz will make us healthy and happy.”
“You, too?” asked Marie, a happy smile lighting up her countenance.—“Really, Trude, I believe you love him too, and I suppose I ought to be jealous of you for daring to love my Philip.”
“Yes, I not only love him, but am completely bewitched by him,” rejoined Trude, laughing. “I long for him, day and night, because I desire to see my child happy. Like a good, sensible girl, you must endeavor to recover your health and strength, in order that your Philip may rejoice when he arrives, and not suppose you to be still unwell.”
“You are right, Trude, Philip will be alarmed if I am not looking well and strong. But then I really am well; all that I want is a little more strength. But that will soon come, as I intend to guard against all agitation and sad thoughts. These thoughts, however, return, again and again, particularly at night, when I am lying awake and feel feverish; they sit around my bed like ghosts, and not only tell me sad legends of the past but also make gloomy prophecies for the future. At night I seem to hear a cricket chirping in my heart in shrill, wailing tones: ‘Marie, you must die, you have made many roses for others, but life has no roses for you,and’—but this is nonsense, and we will speak of it no longer.”
“We will laugh at it,” said Trude, “that will be still better.” She stooped down to pick up the flowers Marie had trodden under foot, and availed herself of this opportunity to wipe the tears from her eyes. “The poor things! look, Marie, you have completely crushed the poor little violets!”
“There is a beautiful and touching poem about a crushed violet,” said Marie, regarding the flowers thoughtfully. “Philip loved it, because his adored friend, Goethe, had written it. One day when I showed him the first violets I had made, he smiled, pressed the little flowers to his lips and repeated the last lines of this poem. It seems to me that I still hear the dear voice that always sounded like sweet music in my ear. ‘And if I die, ’tis she who takes my life; through her I die, beneath her feet!’”
“There you have commenced again,” sighed Trude. “No more sad words, Marie, it is not right!”
“You are right, nurse,” cried Marie, throwing the flowers on the table. “What care we for crushed violets! We will have nothing to do with them! We will be gay! See, I am ascending my throne again,” she continued, with mock gravity, as she seated herself in the arm-chair. “Now I am the princess in the fairy-tale, and you are the old housekeeper whose duty it is to see that her mistress is never troubled with ennui. Begin, madame; relate some story, or the princess will become angry and threaten you with her bunch of lilies.”
“I am not at all afraid,” said Trude, “I have a large supply of pretty stories on hand. I learned a great deal while attending to your commissions yesterday, Marie.”
“My commissions? Ah yes, I recollect, I asked you to look at the little monument on my father’s grave. It has already been placed there, has it not?”
“Yes, Marie, and the large cross of white marble is beautiful; the words you had engraved on it in golden letters areso simple and touching that the tears rushed to my eyes when I read: ‘He has gone to eternal rest; peace be with him and with us all! His daughter, Marie, prays for him on earth; may he pray for her in heaven!’ The golden words shone beautifully in the sun.”
“They came from my heart, Trude. I am glad that I can think of my father without sorrow or reproach. We were reconciled; he often came to see me, and looked on at my work for hours together, rejoicing when I had finished a flower.”
“It is true,” said Trude, “your father was entirely changed. I believe his conscience was awakened, and that he became aware of how greatly he had sinned against a good and lovely daughter.”
“Do not speak so, Trude. All else is forgotten, and I will only remember that he loved me when he died. The blessing uttered by his dying lips has wiped out his harsh words from my remembrance. Let it be so with you, too, Trude! Promise me that you will think of my father with kindness only.”
“I promise,” said the old woman, hesitatingly, “although—well, let the dead rest, we will speak of the living. Marie, whom do you suppose I met on my return from the churchyard? Mrs. General von Leuthen!”
“My mother,” exclaimed Marie, raising her hand convulsively to her heart, “my mother!”
“Yes, your unnatural mother,” cried Trude, passionately; “the woman who is the cause of all your misfortunes and sorrows—the woman I hate, and will never forgive—no, not even in my hour of death.”
“I have already forgiven her, although my hour of death is, as I hope, far distant. Where did you see her?”
“Riding in a beautiful carriage, and very grand and stately she looked, too. Happening to see me, she called out to the servant, who sat by the coachman’s side, to halt. The carriage stopped, and her ladyship had the wondrous condescension to beckon to me to approach.”
“And you did so, I hope?” said Marie, eagerly.
“Yes, I did, but only because I thought you would be angry with me if I did not. I stepped up to the carriage, and her ladyship greeted me with the haughtiness of a queen, and inquired after the health of my dear mistress. She wished to know if you were still happy and contented, and whether you never regretted what you had done. To all of which I joyously replied, that you were happy and contented, and were about to be married to the dear professor who was expected to arrive to-day. Her ladyship looked annoyed at first, but soon recovered her equanimity, and said she was glad to hear it. She then observed that something of a very agreeable nature had also occurred to her a short time ago, and that her exalted name and high connections had at last been a great service to her. She had become lady stewardess of the Countess von Ingenheim’s household, and at her particular request his majesty the king had permitted her to resume her family name, and call herself Countess Dannenberg. She had a large salary, a waiting-maid, and a man-servant. Moreover, the king had given her a pair of beautiful horses and a magnificent carriage, with her coat of arms painted on the door. The king was very gracious to her, as was also Countess Ingenheim. I tell you, Marie, her ladyship was almost delirious with joy, and exceedingly proud of her position. You know who this Countess Ingenheim is, do you not?”
Marie shook her head slowly. “I believe I did know, but I have forgotten.”
“This Countess Ingenheim is the wife of the left hand of our king; her maiden name was Julie von Voss, and she was maid of honor to the queen-dowager. The king made her a countess, and his bad councillors and favorites told him he could marry her rightfully, although he already had a wedded wife. These exalted interpreters of God’s Word told the king that it was written in the Bible: ‘Let not your right hand know what the left does,’ and that this meant: ‘It does notconcern the wife of your right hand, although you should take another on your left.’ The king was easily persuaded of this, and the pious Privy-councillor Wöllner, who is an ordained priest, performed the ceremony himself, and is on this account in high favor at court. The newly-created Countess von Dannenberg has become lady stewardess to the newly-created Countess Ingenheim; she is proud of it, too, and does not consider it beneath her dignity to be in the service of the wife of the right hand. To have a celebrated professor as son-in-law was not enough for her—that she called a disgrace. But she bends the knee to gilded disgrace, and acts as if she were not well aware that the wife of the left hand is no better than the mistress, and that the ancient nobility of the Countess von Dannenberg is sullied when it comes in such close contact with the brand-new nobility of the Countess Ingenheim.”
“Say no more, Trude, do not give way to passion,” said Marie, wearily. “I am glad that she has at last found the happiness and content she has so long been seeking. On earth each one must seek out his happiness in his own way, and we can reproach no one because his is not ours.”
“But we can reproach every one who seeks it in a dishonorable way, and that her ladyship has done, and—”
“Be still, Trude!” interrupted Marie; “you forget that she is my mother.”
“Why should I remember it?” cried Trude, passionately; “why should not I also, at last, forget what she has forgotten throughout her entire life? I hate her!”
“And I,” said Marie, softly, as she folded her hands piously and looked upward, “I forgive her with my whole heart, and wish her all the happiness she can desire.”
“Ah, Marie,” cried the old woman, as she hurried forward, seized Marie’s hands and covered them with kisses, “how good an angel my Marie is, and how wicked, how abominable an old woman I am! Forgive me, my child, I, too, will endeavor to be better, and to learn to be good and pious from you.”
“As if you were not so already, my dear nurse!” cried Marie, as she entwined her arms lovingly around the old woman, who had seated herself on a stool at her feet and was looking up at her tenderly. “As if you were not the best, the most loving, the kindest and the bravest of women! What would have become of me without you? How could I have survived these two long, terrible years, if you had not stood at my side like a mother? Who has worked with me and kept my little household in good order? Who nursed me when I was sick? Who cheered me in my hours of sadness, and laughed with me in my hours of gladness? You, my dear, kind nurse, you did all this: your noble, honest, brave heart has supported, guarded, and protected me. I thank you for all this; I thank you for your love, and if I should die, my last breath of life and my last thought will be a blessing for my dear, good nurse!”