In the year 1816 there lived in Copenhagen an elderly lady, Froken F----, of whom it was known that she sometimes involuntarily saw what was not visible to anyone else. She was a tall, thin, grave-looking person, with large features, and an expressive countenance. Her dark, deep-set eyes had a strange glance, and she saw much better than most people in the twilight; but she was so deaf, that people had to speak very loudly to her before she could catch their words, and when a number of persons were speaking at the same time in a room, she could hear nothing but an unintelligible murmur. A sort of magnetic clairvoyance had, doubtless, in the somewhat isolated condition in which she was placed, been awakened in her mind, without, however, her being thrown into any peculiar state. She only seemed at times to be labouring under absence of mind, or to have fallen into deep thought, and then she was observed to fix her eyes upon some object invisible to all others. What she saw at those moments were most frequently the similitude of some absent person, or images of the future, which were always afterwards realized. Thus she had often foreseen unexpected deaths, and other unlooked-for fatal accidents. As she seldom beheld in her visions anything pleasing, she was regarded by many as a bird of ill omen, and she therefore did not visit a number of families; those, however, who knew her intimately both respected and loved her. She was quiet and unpretending, and it was but rarely that she said anything, unsolicited, of the results of her wonderful faculty.
She was a frequent guest in a family with whom she was a great favourite. The master of the house was an historical painter, and his wife was an excellent musician. The deaf old lady was a good judge of paintings, and extremely fond of them; also, hard of hearing as she was, music had always a great effect upon her; she could add in fancy what she did not hear to what she did hear; she had been very musical herself in her youthful days, and when she saw fingers flying over the pianoforte, she imagined she heard the music, even when anyone, to dupe her, moved their fingers back and forwards over the instrument, but without playing on it.
One day she was sitting on a sofa in the drawing-room at the house of the above-mentioned family, engaged in some handiwork. The artist had a visitor who was a very lively, witty, satirical person, and they were standing together near a window, discoursing merrily; they often laughed during their conversation, and the tones of their voices seemed to change, occasionally, as if they were imitating some one, whereupon their hilarity invariably increased, which, however, was far from being as harmless and goodnatured as mirth and gaiety generally were in that house.
When the visit was over, and the artist had accompanied his friend to the door, and returned to the drawing-room, the old lady asked him who had been with him.
He mentioned the name of his lively friend, whom, he said, he thought she knew very well.
'Oh, yes, I know him well enough,' she replied; 'but the other?'
'What other?' asked the painter, starting.
'Why the tall man with the long thin face, who stood yonder; he with the dark, rough, uncombed-looking hair, and the bushy eyebrows--he who so often laid his hand on his breast, and pointed upwards, especially when you and your merry friend laughed heartily.'
'Did you ever see him before?' inquired the artist, turning pale. 'Did you observe how he was dressed, and if he had any peculiar habit?'
'I do not remember having ever seen him before; as to his dress, it was very singular, much like that of an old-fashioned country schoolmaster.' And she described minutely his long frock-coat, with large buttons and side-pockets, and his antiquated boots, that did not appear to have been brushed for a very long time. 'The peculiar habit you speak of,' she added, 'was probably the manner in which he slowly shook his head, when he seemed to differ in opinion from you and your other guest; in my eyes there was something noble and striking in this movement, there was an expression of pain or sadness in his countenance, which interested me; it was particularly observable when he laid his right hand on his breast, and raised his left hand upwards, as if he were solemnly affirming something, or calling God to witness to the truth of what he said. Nevertheless, I remarked with surprise, that I scarcely saw him open his lips. It was of course impossible for me to hear what you were all talking about.'
The terrified artist became still paler--he tottered for a moment, and was obliged to lean on the back of a chair for support. Shortly after he seized his hat and hurried out of the house. The individual whom the old lady had so graphically described had been a friend of his in youth, but with whom he had been on bad terms for the last two years, and whom he had not seen lately.
The whole conversation with his amusing visitor had been about this very man. They had been engaged in a laughable and, at the same time, merciless criticism of his character, and appearance, and had been turning into ridicule every little peculiarity he had; his very voice they had mimicked, and in their facetious exaggeration, had not only made a laughing-stock of his person and manners, which were indeed odd, but had attributed to him want of heart and want of judgment, which latter sentence they based upon his somewhat peculiar taste, and a kind of dry, pedantic, schoolmaster tone in conversation, from which he was not free.
'That old maid is mad--and she has made me mad, too,' mumbled the artist, pausing a moment when he had gained the street. 'Hecertainly was not there--we do not meet any longer. She never saw him before. There is something strangely mysterious in this matter--perhaps it bodes some calamity. But, whether she is deranged--or I--or both of us, I have wronged him--shamefully wronged him--and I must see him, and tell him all.'
He stepped into a bookseller's shop, and asked to look at a Directory. After about half-an-hour's walk he entered a house in a small back street, and ascending to the third story, he rang at a door. A girl opened it, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him that the person he asked for was ill, and could not see anyone.
'But I must see him--I must speak to him,' cried the painter, almost forcing himself in.
He was then ushered into a darkened room, where he found his poor friend of bygone days looking pale and emaciated, lying perfectly still upon a sofa, in his old grey frock-coat and soiled boots. The kind anxiety with which the unexpected visitor asked about his health seemed equally to surprise and please the invalid.
'You!' he exclaimed, 'youhere! Do you still take any interest in me? Have you any regard left for me? I did you shameful injustice two years ago, when I saw your great masterpiece; and had not an enthusiastic word for what I have though, often since, thought of with the greatest admiration. Nay, within this very last hour I have wronged you, though in quite a different manner. I was dreaming of you, and I fancied you were speaking of me with scorn and derision--pulling me to pieces in a jesting conversation with a very satirical person, who vied with you in ridiculing me, and in mimicking all my oddities.'
'Forgive me--oh, forgive me! you dreamed the truth,' cried the painter, in great agitation, while he threw himself down by the sick man's couch, and embraced his knees.
An explanation ensued between the two friends who had so long been estranged from each other--mutual confessions were made--old feelings were revived in the hearts of both--and an entire reconciliation immediately took place. The unusual emotion, and the surprise at the event related to him, did not, as might have been expected, increase the illness of the nervous and debilitated invalid; on the contrary, the meeting with his former friend appeared to have had a good effect on his health, for in the course of a few weeks he had quite recovered.
The old lady's qualifications as a seer, or rather her strange faculty of beholding, to others invisible, apparitions, had been productive of good; but it was such an extraordinary revelation, agreeing so entirely with what both the reconciled friends knew to be the truth, that they could only look upon it as a proof of the reality of what was then beginning to be so much talked of--the magnetic clairvoyance.
They continued unalterable friends from that time. From that time, also, the artist felt an involuntary horror at ridiculing the absent, or making or listening to any censorious remarks upon them; he always fancied that the injured party might be standingas a secret witnessby his side, with one hand on his breast, and the other raised in an appeal to that great Judge, who alone can know what is passing in every heart and every soul.
Agnete she was guileless.She was beloved and true,But solitude, it charm'd her,And mirth she never knew--She never knew--She made the joy of all aroundYet never felt it too.Over the dark blue waves,Agnete, gazing, bends,When lo! a merman rising thereFrom ocean's depths ascends;Up he ascends.Yet still, Agnete's bending formWith the soft billows blends.His glossy hair, it seemed as spunOut of the purest gold,His beaming eye, it brightly glow'dWith warmest love untold--With love untold!And his scale-cover'd bosom heldA heart that was not cold.The song he sang Agnete,On love and sorrow rang;His voice it was so melting soft,So sadly sweet he sang--Sadly he sang.It seemed as if his beating heartUpon his lips it sprang.'And hearken, dear Agnete!What I shall say to thee--My heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet!With longing after thee!Still after thee!Oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love,Oh! wilt thou smile on me?'Two silver buckles layUpon the rocky shore,And aught more rich, or aught more bright,No princess ever wore,No, never wore.'My best beloved,'--so sang he--'Add these unto thy store!'Then drew he from his breastA string of pearls so rare--None richer, no, or none more pureDid princess ever wear--Oh! ever wear.'My best beloved,' so sang he,'Accept this bracelet fair!'Then from his finger drew heA ring of jewels fine--And none more brilliant, none more rich,Midst princely gems might shine;'Here, here from mine.My best beloved,' so sang he,'Oh, place this upon thine!'Agnete, on the deep seaBeholds the sky's soft hue,The waves they were so crystal clear,The ocean 'twas so blue!Oh! so blue!The merman smiled, and thus he sang,As near to her he drew:--'Ah! hearken, my Agnete,What I to thee shall speak:For thee my heart is burning, love,For thee, my heart will break!Oh! 'twill break!Say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me,And grant the love I seek?''Dear merman! hearken thou,Yes, I will list to thee!If deep beneath the sparkling wavesThou'lt downward carry me--Take thou me!And bear me to thine ocean bow'rThere, I will dwell with thee.'Then stoppeth he her ears,Her mouth then stoppeth he;And with the lady he hath fled,Deep, deep beneath the sea!Beneath the sea!There kiss'd they, and embraced they,So fond, and safe, and free!For full two years and more,Agnete, she lived there,And warm, untiring, faithful loveThey to each other bear;Such love they bear.Within the merman's shelly bowerAre born two children fair.Agnete--she sat tranquilly.And to her boys she sang;When hark! a sound of earth she hears,How solemnly it rang!Ding--dong--dang!It was the church's passing bellIn Holmé Vale that clang.Agnete, from the cradle,Springs suddenly away,She hastes to seek her merman dear,'Loved merman, say I may--Say--Oh say,That I, ere midnight's hour, may takeTo Holmé's church my way?''Thou wishest ere the midnightTo Holmé church to go?See then that thou, ere day, art backHere, to thy boys below--Go--go--go!But ere the morning light returnCome to thy sons below!'He stoppeth then her ears,Her mouth then stoppeth he;And upwards they together riseTill Holmé Vale they see.'Now part we!'They part, and he descends againBeneath the deep blue sea.Straight on to the churchyard,Agnete's footsteps hie:She meets--O God! her mother there,And turns again to fly.'Why--O why?'Her mother's voice her steps arrestsThus speaking with a sigh:--'Oh hearken, my Agnete,What I shall say to thee,Where has thy distant dwelling beenSo long away from me?Away from me!Say, where hast thou, my child, been hidSo long and secretly?''O mother! I have dweltBeneath the boundless main,Within a merman's coral bower,And we have children twain,Beneath the main.I came to pray--and then I goBack to the deep again!''But hearken thou, Agnete,What I to thee shall say--Here thy two little daughters weepBecause thou art away;By night, by day,Thy little girls bemoan and grieve;With them thou'lt surely stay?''Well--let my daughters smallFor me both grieve and long,My ears are closed--I cannot hearTheir cries yon waves among!Oh! I belongTo my dear sons, and they will dieIf I my stay prolong.''Have pity on thy babes--Let them not pine away!Oh! think upon thy youngest childWho in her cradle lay!With them oh stay!Forget yon elves, and with thine own,Thy lawful children stay!''Nay, let them bloom or fade--The two--as Heav'n may will!My heart is closed--their cries no moreCan now my bosom thrill--Oh! no more thrill!For now my merman's sons aloneAll my affections fill.''Alas! though thou canst thusThy smiling babes forget;Yet think upon their father's faith,Thy noble lord's regret,The fate he met!As soon as thou wert lost to himHis sun of joy was set.'Long--long he search'd for thee,He went a weary way;At last from yonder shelving rockHe cast himself one day--One dismal day.His corpse upon the pebbly strandIn the dim twilight lay!'And here--'twas not long since--His coffin they did bring;Ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou?The midnight bells they ring!Ding--dong--ding!'Away her mother hastens thenAs loud the church bells ring.Agnete, o'er the church-doorStepp'd softly from without,When all the little imagesThey seem'd to turn about;Round about.Within the church, the imagesThey seem'd to turn about.Agnete gazes onThe altar-piece so fair;The altar-piece it seem'd to turn,And the altar with it there.All where'erHer eye it fell within the church,Seem'd turning, turning there!Agnete, on the groundShe gazed in thoughtful mood,When lo! she saw her mother's nameThat on a tomb-stone stood.There it stood!Then, sudden from her bursting heart,Flow'd back her chill'd life's blood.Agnete--first she stagger'd back,She fainted, then she fell.Now may her children long in vainFor her they loved so well.Oh, so well!Now, neither sons nor daughters moreTo her their wants may tell.Ay! Let them weep, and let them long,And seek her o'er and o'er!Dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright,They ne'er shall open more!Oh, never more!And crush'd is now that death-cold heart,So warm with love before.
Agnete she was guileless.
She was beloved and true,
But solitude, it charm'd her,
And mirth she never knew--
She never knew--
She made the joy of all around
Yet never felt it too.
Over the dark blue waves,
Agnete, gazing, bends,
When lo! a merman rising there
From ocean's depths ascends;
Up he ascends.
Yet still, Agnete's bending form
With the soft billows blends.
His glossy hair, it seemed as spun
Out of the purest gold,
His beaming eye, it brightly glow'd
With warmest love untold--
With love untold!
And his scale-cover'd bosom held
A heart that was not cold.
The song he sang Agnete,
On love and sorrow rang;
His voice it was so melting soft,
So sadly sweet he sang--
Sadly he sang.
It seemed as if his beating heart
Upon his lips it sprang.
'And hearken, dear Agnete!
What I shall say to thee--
My heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet!
With longing after thee!
Still after thee!
Oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love,
Oh! wilt thou smile on me?'
Two silver buckles lay
Upon the rocky shore,
And aught more rich, or aught more bright,
No princess ever wore,
No, never wore.
'My best beloved,'--so sang he--
'Add these unto thy store!'
Then drew he from his breast
A string of pearls so rare--
None richer, no, or none more pure
Did princess ever wear--
Oh! ever wear.
'My best beloved,' so sang he,
'Accept this bracelet fair!'
Then from his finger drew he
A ring of jewels fine--
And none more brilliant, none more rich,
Midst princely gems might shine;
'Here, here from mine.
My best beloved,' so sang he,
'Oh, place this upon thine!'
Agnete, on the deep sea
Beholds the sky's soft hue,
The waves they were so crystal clear,
The ocean 'twas so blue!
Oh! so blue!
The merman smiled, and thus he sang,
As near to her he drew:--
'Ah! hearken, my Agnete,
What I to thee shall speak:
For thee my heart is burning, love,
For thee, my heart will break!
Oh! 'twill break!
Say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me,
And grant the love I seek?'
'Dear merman! hearken thou,
Yes, I will list to thee!
If deep beneath the sparkling waves
Thou'lt downward carry me--
Take thou me!
And bear me to thine ocean bow'r
There, I will dwell with thee.'
Then stoppeth he her ears,
Her mouth then stoppeth he;
And with the lady he hath fled,
Deep, deep beneath the sea!
Beneath the sea!
There kiss'd they, and embraced they,
So fond, and safe, and free!
For full two years and more,
Agnete, she lived there,
And warm, untiring, faithful love
They to each other bear;
Such love they bear.
Within the merman's shelly bower
Are born two children fair.
Agnete--she sat tranquilly.
And to her boys she sang;
When hark! a sound of earth she hears,
How solemnly it rang!
Ding--dong--dang!
It was the church's passing bell
In Holmé Vale that clang.
Agnete, from the cradle,
Springs suddenly away,
She hastes to seek her merman dear,
'Loved merman, say I may--
Say--Oh say,
That I, ere midnight's hour, may take
To Holmé's church my way?'
'Thou wishest ere the midnight
To Holmé church to go?
See then that thou, ere day, art back
Here, to thy boys below--
Go--go--go!
But ere the morning light return
Come to thy sons below!'
He stoppeth then her ears,
Her mouth then stoppeth he;
And upwards they together rise
Till Holmé Vale they see.
'Now part we!'
They part, and he descends again
Beneath the deep blue sea.
Straight on to the churchyard,
Agnete's footsteps hie:
She meets--O God! her mother there,
And turns again to fly.
'Why--O why?'
Her mother's voice her steps arrests
Thus speaking with a sigh:--
'Oh hearken, my Agnete,
What I shall say to thee,
Where has thy distant dwelling been
So long away from me?
Away from me!
Say, where hast thou, my child, been hid
So long and secretly?'
'O mother! I have dwelt
Beneath the boundless main,
Within a merman's coral bower,
And we have children twain,
Beneath the main.
I came to pray--and then I go
Back to the deep again!'
'But hearken thou, Agnete,
What I to thee shall say--
Here thy two little daughters weep
Because thou art away;
By night, by day,
Thy little girls bemoan and grieve;
With them thou'lt surely stay?'
'Well--let my daughters small
For me both grieve and long,
My ears are closed--I cannot hear
Their cries yon waves among!
Oh! I belong
To my dear sons, and they will die
If I my stay prolong.'
'Have pity on thy babes--
Let them not pine away!
Oh! think upon thy youngest child
Who in her cradle lay!
With them oh stay!
Forget yon elves, and with thine own,
Thy lawful children stay!'
'Nay, let them bloom or fade--
The two--as Heav'n may will!
My heart is closed--their cries no more
Can now my bosom thrill--
Oh! no more thrill!
For now my merman's sons alone
All my affections fill.'
'Alas! though thou canst thus
Thy smiling babes forget;
Yet think upon their father's faith,
Thy noble lord's regret,
The fate he met!
As soon as thou wert lost to him
His sun of joy was set.
'Long--long he search'd for thee,
He went a weary way;
At last from yonder shelving rock
He cast himself one day--
One dismal day.
His corpse upon the pebbly strand
In the dim twilight lay!
'And here--'twas not long since--
His coffin they did bring;
Ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou?
The midnight bells they ring!
Ding--dong--ding!'
Away her mother hastens then
As loud the church bells ring.
Agnete, o'er the church-door
Stepp'd softly from without,
When all the little images
They seem'd to turn about;
Round about.
Within the church, the images
They seem'd to turn about.
Agnete gazes on
The altar-piece so fair;
The altar-piece it seem'd to turn,
And the altar with it there.
All where'er
Her eye it fell within the church,
Seem'd turning, turning there!
Agnete, on the ground
She gazed in thoughtful mood,
When lo! she saw her mother's name
That on a tomb-stone stood.
There it stood!
Then, sudden from her bursting heart,
Flow'd back her chill'd life's blood.
Agnete--first she stagger'd back,
She fainted, then she fell.
Now may her children long in vain
For her they loved so well.
Oh, so well!
Now, neither sons nor daughters more
To her their wants may tell.
Ay! Let them weep, and let them long,
And seek her o'er and o'er!
Dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright,
They ne'er shall open more!
Oh, never more!
And crush'd is now that death-cold heart,
So warm with love before.
He sat alone. It was not twilight, it was night, deep, dark night. He had extinguished the lamp, for he wished that all around him should be gloomy as his own sad thoughts. Even the pitiful glimmering light, which was cast by the fire in the stove on the objects near it, was disagreeable to him, for it showed him a portion, at least, of the scene of his bygone happiness. His bitter sorrow seemed to have petrified all his faculties, and entirely blasted his life; he did not appear to reflect, he only felt. The deep sighs that every now and then burst from his compressed lips were all that gave sign of existence about him. That agitated tremor, those wild lamentations, those burning tears,--the glowing look which griefs volcano casts forth, lay hidden amidst the ashes of mute and agonized suffering.
But a few years before he had been the most hopeful of lovers; and somewhat later, the happiest of husbands and of fathers. Now all--all was lost! Death had stretched forth his mighty hand and taken his treasures from him; blow after blew had fate thus inflicted on his bleeding heart. He--the strong man--the high-minded--the richly-endowed--sat there like a lifeless statue, without purpose, without motion, without energy: all had been swept away in the earthquake which had engulphed the happiness of his home, and he had not power to raise a new structure upon the ruins of the past.
While he was sitting thus, a momentary blaze in the fire showed him the portrait of his departed wife, which hung against the wall. How many recollections the sight of it awakened! Oh, how distinctly he remembered the day when that painting had been finished for him! It was a short time before his marriage; he was gazing on it in an ecstasy of delight, when the lovely original cast her beaming eyes on him and whispered, 'Do you really think it beautiful? Is it so beautiful that when I become old and grey-headed, you may look at my picture and remember your love, your feelings for me, when we were both young?' And when he assured her, that for him she would always be young, she replied so sweetly, 'Oh, I am not afraid of becoming old by your side; it will be so delightful to have lived a long life of love with you!'
Alas! he was still young, but he had to wander through perhaps a long, long life alone. How had he beheld her last? She was lying in her coffin--young and lovely, but pale and motionless. And he--who still breathed and felt--he it was who had clung in despair to that coffin--he who, with a breaking heart, had laid her dark hair smoothly on her marble-white cheek, had pressed his lips for the last time on her cold forehead, had folded her transparent hands and bedewed them with his tears, and had laid his throbbing head on that so lately beating heart, which never, never more would thrill with sorrow or with joy. But who could describe that depth of grief, that rending of the soul, that agonizing convulsion of the heart, when the last farewell look on earth--the long, eager, parting look--was taken, and the head was raised from the harrowing contemplation of these beloved features, which were soon to be snatched and hidden from his gaze! Then despair seized upon him, and his grief could find no relief in tears.
In these heart-breaking recollections his spirit was long absorbed; at length he pressed his hands on his aching temples, burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed:
'Oh, thou whom I loved so truly! hast thou indeed forsaken me? Can it be possible that thou hast dissevered thyself from my soul! Oft have I dreamed that thou wert harkening to my lamentations, that thou wert lingering by my side, and soothing my sorrow! But it was fancy--cheating fancy! Thou who didst feel so much affection for me--thou who wert never deaf to my prayers--hast thou heard me, and yet not answered me? How often during the sad weary night have I not called upon thee! See--I stretch forth my arms and embrace only the empty air--I gaze around for thee, but am left in oppressive solitude. Oh, if thoucansthear me, beloved spirit! if it be possible that thou canst hear me--come, oh come!' His voice was choked by tears.
At last, when the water mist had passed from his eyes, removing, as it were, a veil from before them, he gazed wearily on the darkness around, and perceived a faint ray of light, which gradually seemed to become clearer. At first he thought it was the moon casting its uncertain gleams through the window; but the light seemed to extend itself. The corner of the room opposite to him seemed illumined by a pale, tremulous lustre that spread down to the floor. His heart beat violently as he gazed intently at the miraculous light. By degrees it assumed something like a shape, an airy, transparent figure, clad in a shining garment that glittered like the stars of heaven; and when it turned its countenance towards him, he recognized the features of her he had lost, but radiant in celestial peace and glory. Her clear eyes, which were fixed upon him, beamed with an expression of indescribable benignity.
The deep grief that had oppressed his spirit gave place to a wonderful, a mysterious feeling of holy calmness which he had never before experienced.
'Oh, speak!' he entreated softly, as if he were afraid to disturb the beautiful apparition, and holding his clasped hands beseechingly towards it--'Oh let me hear that voice, the echo of whose dear accents still lives in my heart! Hast thou taken compassion on me?'
'Didst thou not call me?' replied the apparition in a faint, subdued tone, yet so full of tenderness and affection that it seemed to inspire him with new life. 'Hast thou not often called me? I could no longer withstand thy supplication. The sorrows and sufferings of earth have lost their bitterness and their sting for those who have become heavenly spirits--those who have seen the Omnipotent face to face; but thy grief touched my heart even in the midst of blessedness. I could not be happy whilst thou wert wretched. Often have I hovered around thee, often lingered by thy side, often wafted coolness to thy burning brow; and when thy sadness would seem to be somewhat soothed, I have lain at thy feet, and contemplated thy beloved countenance. I was by thee when thou didst lean weeping over my coffin, and in an agony of woe didst cling to that body whence my soul had fled. Oh! how much I wished then that thou couldst look up at me, and know how near I was to thee! Oh! how willingly I would have embraced thee, had the Almighty permitted me! I was also with thee when our beloved infant lay in its last earthly struggle. My dying child called for me, and the heart of the mother yearned to respond to that call which had reached her, even when surrounded by the happiness of eternity, I came down to earth to answer it. Like an airy shadow, I glided through the garden paths in the still summer night, and all the plants and the flower exhaled their sweetest fragrance to salute me, for they felt that I had come from a better world. And Nature spoke to me with its spirit voice, and besought me to consecrate its soil with my ethereal step. The dark elder-tree and the blushing rosebush made signs to me, asking me if I remembered how often they had shed their perfume around us, when you and I, wrapped in our mutual happiness, used to wander in the soft evenings, arm in arm--heart answering heart--eye meeting eye--through the verdant alleys and flower-enamelled walks; but I could not linger over these sweet remembrances, I passed on to watch the death-bed of the little innocent who longed so for its mother. And when thou, my beloved! overcome by affliction, let thine aching head sink in helpless sorrow on its couch, our child lay, peaceful and joyous, in my embrace, and ascended to heaven with me to pray for thee. Oh, dearest one I how canst thou think that death has power to sever hearts that have once been united in everlasting love!'
He listened in mute and breathless ecstasy to these words, which sounded as the softest melody to his enraptured ear. When the voice ceased, he stretched forth his arms towards the beloved shade, and said beseechingly:
'Forgive me, angel of Paradise--forgive me! I feel now that the happiness of heaven is so great that nothing mortal can compare with it. Yet for my sake thou hast left awhile this inconceivable felicity, and deigned to assuage my grief, and to speak balm to my heart. Thanks, blessed spirit--thanks! My path shall no longer be gloomy--my life no longer lonesome!'
'Thou wilt sigh no more--thou wilt no longer weep?' asked the spirit, with a radiant smile.
'Thou shalt be my guardian angel, blessed spirit!' he replied, in deep emotion.
'God be thanked!' ejaculated the spirit in holy joy. It waved its shadowy hand to him, and as it seemed to turn to move away, its airy robe sparkled luminously for a moment; it then glittered more and more faintly, till it looked like the twinkling of some distant star.
Then earth-born wishes seized again uponhisheart.
'Alas;' he cried, as he made an involuntary movement towards the vanishing shadow, 'shall I, then, never behold thee more in this world?'
A holy light passed over the scarcely defined features of the spirit, while it replied, as if from afar--
'Yes! once more--but only once. When thy last hour approaches--when the bitterness of death is passed--then shalt thou tell those that watch by thy couch, and who, incredulous, will deem thy words the raving of delirium--then shalt thou tell them that a messenger from a glorious world is standing by thy side. That messenger will be me. I shall come to kiss the last breath from thy pale quivering lips, to gladden the last glance of thy closing eyes, and, after the heart's last pulsation, to receive thy parted soul, and be its guide to the realms of endless happiness, where I now await thee.'
He listened and bowed his head. When he raised it--all was dark and empty. He went to the window, and looked out upon the dazzling snow, and up to the brilliant star-lit heavens, and prayed in sadness, but with earnest devotion.
He lives to perform his duties, to do good to his fellow-creatures, to serve his God. He is never gay nor lively; but he is tranquil and content. He loves quiet and solitude. He loves in winter to lose himself in meditation while gazing on the calm, cold face of nature; and in summer to loiter in silence, till a late hour at night, amidst his garden's sweetly-scented walks. He is a lonely wanderer on the earth; yet not quite so lonely as he is thought to be, for he is often soothed by delightful dreams, and then he smiles happily, as if in his visions he had been consoled by the presence of a beloved being.
If his soul sometimes ventures humbly to indulge in the wish that it might soon enter into death's peaceful land, none can tell; his silent aspirations are known to none--to none butHimwho sees into the deepest recesses of the human heart.
In the Magdalene Church at Girgenti[9]preparations had been made for a grand festival. It was adorned, as usual on such occasions, with red tapestry and flowers. The hour of noon had struck, the workmen had left the church, and there reigned around that deep, solemn stillness which, in Catholic places of worship, is so appropriate and so imposing.
Two gentlemen, who conversed in a low tone of voice, were pacing up and down the long aisle that runs along the northern side of the building, and seemed to be enjoying the shade and coolness of the church, as if it had been a public promenade. The elder was a man of about thirty years of age, stout, broad-shouldered, and strongly built, with a grave countenance, in which no trace of passion was visible: this was Don Antonio Carracciolio, Marquis d'Arena. The other, who seemed a mere youth, had a slender, graceful figure, an animated, handsome face, and dark eyes, soft almost as those of a woman--which wandered from side to side with approving glances, as if he had some peculiar interest in the interior of the sacred edifice. And such he certainly had; for he was the architect who had planned the church and superintended its erection. He was called Giulio Balzetti, and had only lately returned from Rome. Suddenly they stopped.
'I shall entrust you with a secret, which I think will amuse you, Signor Marquis,' said the younger man, in the easy intimate tones in which one speaks to a friend at whose house one is a daily visitor--'a secret with which, I believe, no one is acquainted but myself. You see the effects of acoustics sometimes play us builders strange tricks where we least expect or wish them. Chance, a mere accident, has revealed to me, that when one stands here--here upon this white marble slab--one can distinctly overhear every syllable, even of the lowest whisper, uttered far from this, yonder, where you may observe the second last confessional; while, in a straight line between this point and that, you would not be sensible of any sound, were you even much nearer the place. If you will remain standing here, I will go yonder to the confessional in question, and you will be astonished at this miracle of nature.'
He went accordingly, but scarcely had he moved the distance of a couple of steps, when the Marquis distinctly heard a whisper, the subject of which seemed to make a strong impression upon him. He stood as rigid and marble-white as if suddenly turned to stone by some magician's wand; while the painfully anxious attention with which he listened, and which was expressed in his otherwise stony features, gave evidence that he was hearing something of excessive importance. He did not move a muscle--he scarcely breathed--he was like one who is standing on the extreme verge of an abyss, into which he is afraid of falling, and his rolling eyes and beating heart alone gave signs of his violent agitation.
In a very few minutes the young architect came back smiling, and called out from a little distance, 'I could not manage to make the experiment, for some one was in the confessional--from the glimpse I got, a lady closely veiled--but, Heavens! what is the matter with you?'
The only answer which the Marquis gave the Italian was to place his finger on his mouth, and he continued to stand motionless. After a minute or two he drew a deep sigh. The statue passed out of its speechless magic trance, and returned again to life.
'It is nothing, dear Giulio!' said he, in a friendly tone. 'Do not think that I am superstitious; but I assure you this mysterious and wonderful natural phenomenon has taken me so much by surprise, that it has had a strange effect on me. Come, let us go! I shall recover myself in the fresh air,' he added, as he took Balzetti's arm, and led him to the promenade on the outside of the town.
The two gentlemen walked up and down there for about an hour, when the Marquis bade the young man adieu, saying, at the same time, 'Tomorrow, after the festival is over, will you come out as usual to our villa?'
At a very early hour the next morning the Marquis entered his wife's private suite of apartments. The waiting-maid, who just at that moment was coming into the anteroom by another door, started, and looked quite astounded.
'Did your lady ring?' asked the Marquis.
'No, your excellency!' replied the woman, curtseying low and colouring violently.
'Then wait till you are called,' said the Marquis, as he opened the door of the dressing-room, which separated the sleeping-room from the antechamber.
As he crossed the threshold he was met by his lovely young wife, attired in a morning-gown so light and flowing, that it looked as if it must have been the one in which she had arisen from her couch. The Marquis stopped and stood still, as if struck with his wife's extreme beauty. He did not appear to observe the uneasiness, the inward tempest of feelings that, chasing all the blood from her cheeks, had sent it to her heart, and caused its beating to be too plainly visible under the robe of slight fabric which was thrown around her.
'You are up early this morning, Antonio!' said the young Marchioness, in a scarcely audible tone of voice, with a deepening blush and a forced smile. 'What do you want here?'
'Could you be surprised, my Lauretta? Light of my eyes!' said the Marquis, in the blandest and most insinuating of accents, 'could you be surprised if I came both early and late? And yet, dearest, this morning my visit is not to you alone. You know to-day is the feast of the Holy Magdalene, and a great festival in the Church. I have taken it into my head to usher in this day by paying my tribute of admiration to the glorious Magdalene of Titian, which you had placed in your own sleeping apartment. Will you permit me?' he asked, very politely, as with slow steps, but in a determined manner, he walked towards the door.
'Everything is really in such sad disorder there,' said his young wife, with a rapid glance through the half-open door; 'but ... go, since you will. I shall begin making my toilette here in the mean time.'
And he went in.
'How charming,' he cried, in a peculiar tone of voice--'how charming is not all this disorder! This graceful robe thrown carelessly down--these fairy slippers! There is something that awakens the fancy, something delicious in the very air of this room! All this is absolutely poetry.'
His searching look fastened itself upon the snow-white couch, the silken coverlet of which was drawn up and spread out, but could not entirely conceal the outline of a human figure, lying as flat as possible, evidently in the endeavour to escape observation.
'I will sit down awhile,' said the Marquis, in the cheerful voice of a person who has no unpleasant thought in his mind, 'and contemplate this master-work.'
As he said this he took up a pillow, its white covering trimmed with wide lace, and laid it on the spot where he thought the face of the concealed person must be, and placed himself upon it with all the weight of his somewhat bulky figure, whilst he placed his right hand upon the chest of the reclining form, and pressed on it with all his force.
Without heeding the involuntary, frightful, and convulsive heavings--the death-throes of his wretched victim--the Marquis exclaimed, in a calm, firm voice,--
'How beautifully that picture is finished! How noble and chaste does not the lovely penitent look, all sinner as she was, with her rich golden locks waving over that neck and those shoulders whiter than alabaster, while these graceful hands are clasped, and these contrite, tearful eyes seem gazing up yonder, whence alone mercy and pardon can be obtained! One could almost become a poet in gazing on so splendid a work of art. But ah! I never had the happy talent of an improvisatore. In place, therefore, of poetizing, I will tell you something that happened yesterday. Our little friend Giulio Balzetti took me round the Magdalene Church; and, whilst we were wandering about, he pointed out a particular spot to me, and bade me stand quite still there, telling me thattheremight be overheard what was said at another spot at some distance in the church. And he was right. At that other place stood the confessional No. 6. I had hardly placed myself on the marble flag indicated to me, than I heard a charming voice--God knows who it was speaking!--but she was confessing the sorrows of her heart and her little sins to the holy father. She had a husband, she said, whom she loved--yes, she loved him, and he loved her: he was very kind to her, and left her much at liberty; in short, she gave the husband credit for all sorts of good qualities, but, unfortunately, she had fallen in love with another man! She did not mention his name. I should like to have heard it. He must be one of our handsome young cavaliers about the town. And this other loved her, too--she could not help it, poor thing!--and so she found room for him in her heart as well as for the husband. This other one was so handsome, so pleasing, so fascinating!... Well ... if her husband did not know what was going on, he could not be vexed, and ... it would do him no harm. So she had promised to admit the lover early this morning. Do you hear? This is what the French dames call "passer ses caprices." At last, she begged the good priest to give her absolution beforehand. And he did so: he gave the absolution! What do you think of all this, my love?' said the Marquis, as he rose from the couch, where all was now still as death, 'Well,' he continued, in a jocular tone, 'our worthy priests are almost too complaisant and indulgent--at least, most of them. Our old Father Gregorio, however, would have takenyouto task after a different fashion, if you ...'
He broke off abruptly, while he quietly laid the pillow in its own place, and deliberately turned down the embroidered coverlet. It was the architect Giulio Balzetti whom the Marquis beheld: he had ceased to breathe!
'Have you been to confession lately, my Laura?' asked the Marquis. There was no answer.
'Is it long since you have been to confession?' he asked, in a louder and sterner voice.
'No!' replied the young woman, in the lowest possible tone.
'Apropos,' said the Marquis, as he covered the frightfully distorted and blue face of the corpse with the coverlet, 'shall we not go to the grand festival at the church to-day? The procession begins exactly at twelve o'clock. I shall order the carriage--we really must not miss it.'
He returned to the dressing-room. The Marchioness was sitting in a large cushioned lounging-chair, the thick tresses of her dark hair hanging negligently down, her lips and cheeks as pale as death, and her hands resting listlessly on her lap.
'What is the matter, my dear child?' asked the Marquis, inwardly triumphing at her distress, but with fair and friendly words upon his lips. 'You have risen too early, my little Laura; and you have also fatigued yourself in trying to dress without assistance. Where is Pipetta? I shall ring for her now.' He pulled the bell-rope--approached his wife--slightly kissed her brow--and then left her apartments.
At mid-day, when all the bells of the churches were pealing, the Marquis's splendid state carriage, with four horses adorned with gilded trappings, stood before the gate of his palace, and a crowd of richly-dressed pages, footmen, and grooms, were in waiting there. Presently the Marquis appeared in his brilliant court costume, with glittering stars on his breast, his hat in one hand, whilst with the other he led his young and beautiful but deadly-pale wife. With the utmost attention he handed her down the marble steps, and while her countenance looked as cold and stony as that of a statue, his eyes flashed with a fire that was unusual to them. The servants hurried forwards, the carriage-door was opened, the noble pair entered it, and it drove off towards the town. In the crowded streets the foot passengers turned round to gaze at it, and exclaimed to each other, 'There go a happy couple!'
The architect had disappeared. No one suspected that on the day of the grand festival he lay dead--a blue and terrible-looking corpse--amidst boots and shoes, at the bottom of a noble young dame's wardrobe; or that, the following night, without shroud or coffin, his body was secretly transported by the lady's faithful servants to a neighbouring mountain, and there thrown into a deep cave. But the lady paid a large sum to the convent of the Magdalens for the sake of his soul's repose.
The monk Gregorio--the accommodating and favourite confessor of the fashionable world--was also soon after missing. Buthewas not dead--he lingered for some years in a subterranean prison belonging to a monastery of one of the strictest orders: a punishment to which he had been condemned through the influence of the Marquis d'Arena.
That the confessional No. 6 was removed, will be easily believed.
The Marquis never alluded to these events before his wife. When they appeared in public together, as also in society at his own home, he treated her with respect, often with attention. But he never again spoke to her in private, nor did he ever again enter those apartments which had once been the scene of so dreadful a tragedy.