Here Euchar ended his story, which had been listened to by the company with the keenest interest.
The Poet, who had got over his coughing fit and returned to the room, expressed the opinion that in Edgar's Spanish adventures there was fine material for a tragedy, all that he thought wanting being a due spice of love-making and an effectivefinale, such as a striking case of insanity, a good apoplexy, or something of the kind.
"Oh, yes, love," said a young lady blushing at her own temerity. "The only thing your delightful story wanted was some charmingly interesting love affair!"
"Dear Lady," said Euchar laughing, "I was not telling you the story of a novel, but the adventures of my friend Edgar. His life amongst the wild Spanish mountains was unfortunately poor in experiences of that kind."
"I have a strong belief," said Victorine in a low tone, "that I know this same Edgar, who has remained in poverty, because he has despised the most precious of gifts."
But no one's enthusiasm equalled that of Ludwig, who cried out most excitedly, "I know that mysterious Profecia del Pirineo by the glorious Don Juan Baptista de Arriaza. Oh, it fired my very veins! I wanted to be off to Spain to fight for that glorious cause--had it only been comprehended in the system of the mutual interdependence of things. I can quite put myself in Edgar's place. How I should have spoken to that terrible Empecinado in that awful situation in the Franciscan monastery!" And he began a harangue, which was so pathetic that everybody was astonished, and could not sufficiently marvel at his brave and heroic resolution.
"But it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things," said the lady of the house, "although, perhaps, it does form a part of that interdependence--or, at all events, fits into it--that, as it happens, I have provided an entertainment for my visitors which forms a suitable pendant to Euchar's story."
The doors opened, and Emanuela came in followed by the stunted little Biagio Cubas with his guitar in his hands, making all manner of quaint obeisances and salutations. But Emanuela, with that indescribable charm of manner which had so fascinated Euchar and Ludwig in the Park, came into the circle curtseying, and said in a gentle voice that she was going to exhibit a little piece of skilfulness, which would not have much to recommend it except its being a little out of the common.
During the short time which had elapsed since our two friends had seen the girl she seemed to have grown taller, more beautiful, and more developed in figure--moreover, she was admirably, almost expensively dressed. "Now," Ludwig whispered into his friend's ear, as Cubas with quaint and comical features was getting things ready for the egg-fandago, "now is your chance to get back your ring."
"My dear goose," said Euchar, "don't you see it is on my finger? I found I had taken it off along with my glove; I discovered that on the same evening when I thought I had lost it."
Emanuela's dancing took everybody by storm, no one having ever seen such a thing before. Euchar kept his gaze fixed upon her earnestly. Ludwig broke out into exclamations of the utmost rapture. Victorine, close to whom he was sitting, whispered to him, "Hypocrite! You dare to pretend to speak of love to me while you are devoted to this brazen little wretch of a Spanish egg-dancer! Don't dare to look at her again, sir!"
Ludwig was considerably discomposed on the whole by Victorine's passion for him, with its tendency to flame out into jealousy without any rational cause. He said to himself, "I really am one of the luckiest fellows in the world; but all the same, this sort of thing rather bores a man."
When she had ended her dance Emanuela took the guitar and began singing Spanish ballads of cheerful, happy character. Ludwig begged her to sing that splendid thing which had so greatly delighted Euchar. She at once began--
"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox," etc.
Her enthusiastic delivery of these lines waxed in fervour as she went on, her voice swelled into greater power, the chords of the instrument clanged louder and louder. When she came to the Strophe, which speaks of the liberation of the Fatherland, she fixed her beaming eyes on Euchar, a river of tears rushed down her cheeks, and she fell on her knees. The hostess hurried to her, raised her up, and said, "No more, no more, sweet darling child," and, taking her to a sofa, kissed her on the brow and stroked her cheeks.
"She's out of her mind," Victorine whispered excitedly to Ludwig. "You can't be in love with a mad creature! No, no. Tell me at once--on the spot--that you can't possibly be in love with a maniac!"
"Good gracious, no! Of course not," Ludwig cried, considerably alarmed. He found the greatest possible difficulty in properly adapting himself to the excessively passionate manifestation which Victorine's affection had taken to displaying.
While the hostess was refreshing Emanuela with sweet wine and biscuits the valiant little guitarist, Biagio Cubas, who had sunk down in a corner and was sobbing profusely, was served with a glass of genuine Xeres, which he drained to the last drop with a gladsome "Donna, viva hasta mil annos."
It may readily be supposed that the ladies attacked Emanuela with a string of enquiries as to her country, circumstances, and so forth. The hostess felt the painfulness of her position too keenly not to so contrive that the firmly-closed circle should disperse itself into several subsidiary eddies, in which every one, the piquet players included, soon began to revolve. The consistorial president considered the little Spanish girl a delightful, natty little creature; the only thing was that somehow her dancing got into his own legs and made his head feel as giddy as if he were waltzing with the devil in person. The singing struck him as something quite out of the common; it delighted him immensely.
Count Walther Puck was of quite a different opinion. Of her singing he thought nothing at all; there was no such thing as a trillo in it all. But he praised her dancing most warmly, and thought it quite delicious. He said that his opinion on the subject was of some value, seeing that at one time he had been as good a performer as the most celebrated Maîtres de ballet.
"Will you believe me, brother Consistorial-President," he said, "when I tell you that in my youthful days, when I was a perfect model specimen of nimbleness and vigour, I used to be able to spring the fiocco and knock down a tambourine hung up nine feet above the tip of my nose with my toe! And as for this egg-fandago, why I have often smashed more eggs in performing that dance than seven hens would lay in four-and-twenty hours."
"Bless my soul," said the Consistorial-President, "that was doing the thing in a most stupendous style!"
"Yes," said the Count. "And then I must tell you my good old Cochenille plays the flageolet really very nicely indeed. And now and then I get him to play for me in the dressing-room; and then I really give myself full swing in the dancing line--of course, only there quite in private. You see what I mean?"
"Of course, of course," answered the Consistorial-President, "I quite understand."
Meanwhile Emanuela and her companion had disappeared.
As the company were about dispersing the hostess said, "Friend Euchar, I feel certain that you know a great deal more than you have told us about your friend Edgar, We should be deeply interested to hear a great deal more. "What you have told us was only a fragment of it, though it has so excited and interested us that none of us will sleep a wink to night. I can't accord you longer time than till to-morrow evening for satisfying our curiosity. "We must hear more of Don Rafaele, and Empecinado, and the Guerillas. And if it is possible that Edgar can get into a love affair, please don't deprive us of the satisfaction of that."
"That would be delightful!" sounded from all sides; and Euchar had to promise that he would be present with the matter necessary for the completing of his story.
As they were going home Ludwig could not say enough on the subject of Victorine's passion for him, bordering, as it seemed to do, on insanity. "All the same," he said, "that jealousy of hers has had the effect of enabling me to read my own heart clearly. And I have read there that my love for Emanuela is a thing unutterable. I am going to find her out, declare my passionate adoration for her--and clasp her to my heart."
"Exactly, my dear child," said Euchar imperturbably. "That is, of course, the proper thing for you to do."
On the next evening when the company were assembled againchez Madame la Présidente, she told them with much regret that Baron Euchar had written to say that he was unexpectedly obliged to start immediately on a journey, and must postpone the continuation of his story till he came back.
Euchar's Return. Scenes in a truly happy Ménage.Conclusion of the Story.
Two years had past away when one morning a handsome carriage well loaded with baggage drew up at the door of the Golden Angel (principal hotel in W----), and out of it got a young gentleman, a lady very closely shrouded in wraps, and an old man. Ludwig happened to be passing at the time, and naturally he had a look at the arrivals through his eye-glass. The young gentleman happened to turn round, and he immediately embraced Ludwig, crying out, "My dear old fellow!"
The latter was not a little astonished to see his old friend Euchar, for it was he who had got out of the carriage. "My dear fellow," he said, "who is that terribly muffled-up lady?--and the old gentleman? And, bless my soul, here comes a fourgon with baggage, and sitting on the back of it--good gracious, do my eyes deceive me?"
Euchar took Ludwig by the arm, led him a step or two across the street, and said, "You shall hear all about everything in good time, dear friend; but, to begin with, how have things been going with you? You are terribly pale--the fire of your eyes has gone out. To tell you the honest truth, you look about ten years older than when I saw you last. Have you been having a bad illness or some serious trouble?"
"Oh, dear no!" answered Ludwig. "Quite the contrary. I believe I am the very happiest fellow under the sun, for I am living a life of utterly ideal, Utopian love and bliss. The heavenly Victorine gave me that exquisite, tender hand of hers--bestowed it, my dear fellow, upon unworthy me rather more than a year ago! That pretty house which you see there with its windows shining in the sun is my home, and you must come there with me this moment and see that earthly paradise of mine. How delighted my dear wife will be to see you again! Let us give her a surprise."
Euchar begged for a few minutes time just to change his dress, and promised to come then at once and see with his own eyes how all things had worked together for Ludwig's happiness.
Ludwig came to meet his friend at the bottom of the stair, and begged him to make as little noise as possible in coming up, explaining that Victorine often suffered terribly from nervous headaches, and had a bad one just then, which rendered her nervous system so sensitive that she could hear the very softest footfall in any part of the house, although her own rooms were in the most distant part of it. Consequently they two now crept as softly as they could up the stairs, which were thickly carpeted, into Ludwig's own room. After the heartiest outpourings of gladness at seeing his old companion again, Ludwig rang the bell, but immediately cried out, "Oh, Lord, what have I done, wretch that I am!" putting both his hands before his face. And it was not long before a snappish creature of a lady's maid came in screeching out to Ludwig in a horrible, vulgar tone of voice, "Herr Baron, for heaven's sake what are you doing? You'll kill my lady. She's in spasms now."
"Good gracious! my good Nettie," said Ludwig in a lamentable voice, "I really forgot all about it. I was so happy. Here is the greatest friend I have in the world come to see me. We haven't met for years. He's an old intimate friend of your mistress, too. Go and beg her--implore her--to let me bring him to her." Ludwig put money into her hand, and she made her exit with a vixenish "I'll see what I can do."
Euchar, finding himself in presence of a situation which is but too common in life, and is consequently served up to usad nauseamin comedies and novels, had his own particular ideas as to his friend's domestic happiness. He felt with Ludwig all the painfulness of the position, and began to talk about indifferent subjects. But Ludwig would not give in to this, saying that what had been happening to him since they had been apart had been too remarkable and interesting that he should delay for a moment to communicate it to Euchar.
"Of course," he began, "you remember that evening when we were all at Madame Veh's and you told the Story of your friend Edgar's adventures. And, of course, you remember how Victorine flamed up into jealousy and showed her heart, which was blazing with passion, without disguise. Idiot that I was--I fully admit to you that I was an idiot--I fell desperately in love with that little Spanish dancing girl, and thought that I could read in her eyes that my love was not without some hope. Perhaps you noticed that at the finish of her fandango, whim she made the eggs into a pyramid the apex of that pyramid was directed towards me. I was sitting just in the centre of the circle behind Madame Veh's chair. Now could she have expressed more clearly how deep her interest in me was? I wanted to find the dear little creature out the next morning, but it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things that I should succeed in that. I had almost forgotten all about her when chance----"
"The mutual interdependence of things, you mean," interrupted Euchar.
"Well, well," went on Ludwig. "But, at all events, a few days afterwards I was going through the Park, and in front of that Café where you and I saw that little Spanish girl for the first time, out came the landlady rushing--oh, you have no idea what an interest that good woman, who got the vinegar and water that day when I hurt my knee, takes in me still--but that is not to the present purpose--to ask if I knew what had become of the little Spanish girl and her companion, who used to come there so often, and of whom nothing had been seen for several weeks. Next day I took a great deal of trouble to find out whether she was in the town or not, but it did not lie in the mutual interdependence of things that I should succeed in this. And my heart repented of the foolishness it had been so near committing, and turned back again to the heavenly Victorine. But my crime of infidelity to her had made such a profound impression upon that super-sensitive organization of hers that she refused to see me or even to hear my name mentioned. Good old Cochenille assured me that she had fallen into a state of absolute melancholia; that she would often cry till the was almost breathless, and wail in the most pathetic manner, saying 'He is lost to me. I have lost him for ever.' You may imagine the effect which all this produced upon me--how I was dissolved in sorrow over this unfortunate misunderstanding. Cochenille proffered me his aid. He said he would diplomatically convince the Countess that I was quite an altered man, never dancing more than four times at the most at balls, sitting at the theatre staring at the stage in an oblivious manner, and paying not the smallest attention to my clothes. I sent a flowing stream of gold pieces into his hands, and in return he gave me fresh hopes every morning. At last Victorine allowed me to see her again. How lovely she was! Oh, Victorine, my darling--beautiful, sweetest of wives--amiability and kindness personified!"
Here Nettchen came in and said that the Baroness was astonished at the Baron's extraordinary conduct. First he rang the bell as if the house were on fire, and then he asked her to receive a visitor in the exceedingly critical state of her health. She most certainly could not see anybody that day whoever it might be, and begged the strange gentleman to excuse her. Nettchen looked Euchar straight in the eyes, scanned him over carefully from head to foot, and left the room.
Ludwig stared before him in silence, and then continued his tale in a low voice and with bated breath, saying, "You can't imagine the degree of almost contemptuous coldness with which Victorine received me. If it hadn't been that her previous outbursts of burning affection had convinced me that this coldness was merely put on to punish me, I should really have had my doubts, and should have hesitated. But at last this counterfeiting got too difficult for her, her behaviour grew kindlier and kindlier, till all in a moment she gave me her shawl to carry. And then my triumph was utterly brilliant. I rearranged that 'seize' of mine, which had played such an important part in my destiny, danced it with her in the most heavenly manner, whispered in her ear--at the proper moment, whilst balancing myself on tiptoe and placing my arm about her--'Heavenly Countess, I love you unspeakably! Angel of light, I implore you to be mine.' Victorine smiled into my eyes; but that did not prevent me from paying the proper visit the next morning, with the good help of my friend Cochenille, at the fitting hour, about one o'clock, and making my formal proposal for her hand. She gazed at me in silence. I threw myself at her feet, seized that hand which was to be mine, and covered it with glowing kisses. She allowed me to do this; but I really felt it a good deal, and thought it was extremely queer, that all the time her eyes were fixed steadfastly upon nothing that I could discover, staring before her as if she had been a lifeless image. But at last a great tear or two came to her eyes. She pressed my hand so vehemently that, as I happened to have a sore finger, I could scarcely help crying out with the pain of it, rose from her chair, and left the room with her handkerchief over her face. I had no doubts as to my good fortune. I hastened to the Count and made my formal proposal for his daughter.
"'Good. Very good, indeed, my dear Baron,' said the Count, smiling in the most affable manner. 'But have you given the Countess any intimation of this? Have you given her any opportunity of inferring it at all? Are you beloved? I admit that I am foolish enough to take the greatest possible interest in love matters.'
"I told him what had happened during the 'seize.' His eyes sparkled with delight. 'That was delicious!' he cried over and over again. 'That was most delicious, indeed, Herr Baron! Tell me what your "tour" consisted of, dear Baronetto.' I danced this 'tour' for him, and remained pausing in the position which I described to you long since. 'Charming; charming, indeed, my angelic friend!' he cried, and ringing the bell, he shouted, 'Cochenille, Cochenille!'
"When Cochenille came in I had to sing him the music of my 'seize,' which was composed by myself. 'Get your flageolet, Cochenille,' said the Count, 'and play what the Baron has been singing.' Cochenille did so tolerably correctly. I had to dance with the Count, taking the lady's part, and I should not have believed it of the old gentleman, while poising himself on his right tiptoe he whispered into my ear, 'Most incomparable of barons, my daughter Victorine is yours.'
"The lovely Victorine behaved rather coyly, as young ladies are apt to do under such circumstances. She was reserved and silent, formal and stiff, said neither 'Yes' nor 'No,' and on the whole behaved to me in such a way that my hopes began to sink again. Besides, it so happened that I just then, for the first time, found out that on the celebrated occasion, when I put my arm round the cousin instead of Victorine in the 'seize,' those two girls had planned this practical joke on purpose just to make me the victim of a contemptible mystification. I really was terribly distressed and annoyed, and could almost have cried, to think that it had formed a part of the mutual interdependence of things that I should be led about by the nose in this sort of way. But those doubts were vain. Ere I knew where I was, wholly unexpectedly the heavenly 'Yes' came trembling from her beautiful lips just when I had fallen into the deepest dejection. It was only then that I found out what a constraint Victorine had been putting upon herself before, for she was now so wildly happy and in such amazing spirits that anything like this condition had never been seen in her before. No doubt it was only maidenly coyness that made her refuse to allow me to take her hand or to kiss it, or to indulge in any kind of innocent little endearment. Many of my friends did try to put a quantity of absurd nonsense into my head. But the day before our wedding was destined to drive the last shadow of doubt from my mind. Early on that morning I hastened to her. Some papers were lying on her work-table. I glanced at them; they were in her own handwriting. I began reading. It was a diary. Oh, heavens! Oh, all ye Gods! Each day's entries gave me fresh proof how dearly, with what unspeakable fondness Victorine had loved me all along. The most trifling incidents were recorded, and always there came, 'You do not comprehend this heart of mine. Cold and unfeeling, must I cast aside all maidenly reserve in the wildness of my despair, throw myself at your feet, and tell you that without your love life is only death to me?' And it went on in this strain. On the night when I fancied myself so wildly in love with the little Spanish girl she had written, 'All is lost and done. He loves her; nothing can be, more certain. Mad creature, don't you know that the eye of the woman who loves is all-seeing?' Just as I was reading this aloud in came Victorine. I threw myself at her feet with the diary in my hand, crying, 'No, no; I never was in love with that strange child. You, you alone, were always my idol!'
"Victorine fixed a gaze on me, cried out in a screaming sort of tone, which rings in my ears still, 'Unfortunate fellow, it was not you I meant,' and rushed from the room. Now could you have imagined that maidenly coyness would have been capable of being carried so far?"
Here Nettchen came in to enquire on the Baroness's part why the Baron did not bring the visitor to see her, inasmuch as she had been expecting him for the last half hour. "A splendid model wife," cried the Baron with much emotion, "always sacrificing herself to my wishes." It astonished Euchar not a little to find the Baroness very much dressed as if for company.
"Here is our dear old Euchar!" the Baron cried. "We have got him back again." But when Euchar approached and took her hand she was seized with a violent trembling, and, with a faint cry of "Oh, God," fell back on her couch fainting.
Euchar could not bear the pain of the situation, and he left the room as quickly as possible. "Unfortunate fellow," he cried, "it was, indeed, not you she meant." He understood now the fathomless depth of misery into which his friend's incredible vanity had plunged him--he knew now upon whom Victorine's love had been bestowed, and felt himself strangely moved and touched. He comprehended now, and only now, the significance of many things which his own simple straightforwardness had prevented him from seeing before. Now, and only now, he saw through and through the impassioned Victorine, and could scarcely explain to himself how he had failed to discover that it was with him she was in love. The occasions on which her fondness for him had led her to give expression to it, almost in defiance of all considerations, rose more clearly before his mental sight, and he distinctly remembered that just on those very occasions some strange unaccountable antipathy to her had caused a curious, inexplicable irritation of feeling towards her. This feeling of angry irritation he now brought to bear upon himself, filled as he was by the profoundest pity for the poor girl, whose destiny seemed to have been ruled by such an evil star.
It so happened that on this very evening the self-same party to which Euchar had told the story of Edgar's adventures in Spain, two years previously, were assembled at Madame Veh's. He was greeted with the greatest warmth, but an electric thrill went through him when he saw Victorine, as he had not thought he would meet her there. There was no trace of illness about her. Her eyes shone as brilliantly as of old, and a carefully-chosen costume of great tastefulness enhanced her loveliness and charm. Euchar, distressed by her presence, was depressed and put out, contrary to his usual wont. Victorine so managed matters as to be able to approach him, and suddenly seizing his hand, drew him aside, saying gravely and calmly--
"You know my husband's pet theory of the mutual interdependence of things? I believe what constitutes the real 'mutual interdependence of things' in our lives to be the follies which we commit, repent of, and commit again and again. So that our lives appear to consist of a process of being wildly hunted hither and thither by a species of enchantment beyond our control, which drives us on before it till it mocks and dashes us into death. I know all, Euchar; I know whom I am going to see this evening. It was not you who brought those bitter, hopeless sorrows upon me; not you, but an evil fate. The demon was laid and vanished at the moment when I saw you again. May peace and rest be upon us, Euchar."
"Yes, Victorine," Euchar answered, "may rest and peace be upon us. However miscomprehended a life may be, the Eternal Power does not leave it without hope."
"All is ended--and well," said Victorine; and, wiping a tear away, she turned to the company.
Madame Veh had been observant of this pair, and now whispered to Euchar--
"I told her everything. Was I right?"
"I must go through with the whole business," Euchar answered.
The company--as often happens in such circumstances--felt a fresh impulse to festivity and enjoyment in Euchar's unexpected return, and besieged him with enquiries as to where he had been and what had happened to him during his absence.
"What has really brought me here," said Euchar, "is the obligation which I am under to keep my promise of two years ago that I would tell you a good deal more of my friend Edgar's history, and put a copestone upon it such as our friend the Poet thought it wanted. As I can now assure you that no dark clouds have come over his path, that there have been no deeds of violence, but that, on the contrary, as the ladies wished, my story will be concerned with a rather romantic love-affair, I feel sure that I may reckon upon a fair measure of approval."
All applauded, and speedily formed into a narrower ring. Euchar at once commenced as follows--
I pass over in silence the warlike adventures which Edgar met with while fighting in company with the Guerillas--althoughtheywere sufficiently romantic--contenting myself with explaining that the talisman which Don Rafaele Marchez gave him when parting with him, was a little ring inscribed with mystic characters, which showed that he was an initiate in the most secret of the confederacies or societies; thus assuring him, wherever he might be, of the most absolute and unlimited confidence of those acquainted with those signs, and rendering all danger such as he had been exposed to in Valenzia impossible.
Soon afterwards he joined the English forces, and served under Wellington. He was never touched by a hostile bullet again, and when the campaign was over he returned to his own country safe and sound. Don Rafaele Marchez he had never seen again, nor had he heard anything of his further fortunes.
Edgar had been a long while back in his native town, when, one day, Don Rafaele's little ring (which he always wore on his finger) disappeared under peculiar circumstances. Early on the morning of the day following this, a queer little fellow came into his room, held the missing ring up to him, and asked him if it was his. When Edgar replied that it was, the little man cried out excitedly in Spanish--
"Oh,you areDon Edgar; there can be no doubt about it." And then Edgar clearly remembered the face and figure of the little fellow, who was Don Rafaele's faithful servant, the same who had displayed the lion courage of despair in trying to save his master's daughter.
"In the name of all the saints!" Edgar cried, "you must be Don Rafaele's faithful servant! I recognise you. Where ishe? My strange presentiment is going to come true."
The little man implored Edgar to go with him at once.
He took him to one of the most distant suburbs, climbed with him to the garret of a miserable house, and--what a spectacle! Sick, worn to a shadow, with all the traces of the most mortal suffering upon his deathlike face, Don Rafaele Marchez was lying upon a bed of straw, with a girl praying by his side. When Edgar came in, the girl rushed up to him, and drew him to the side of the old man, crying in a tone of the warmest delight--
"Father, father! this is he, is it not?"
"Yes," said the old man, his dim eyes brightening as he raised his folded hands to heaven, "it is he--our preserver. Ah, Don Edgar, who would have believed that the fire which burned within me for my country and freedom would have turned upon me for my destruction."
After the first outpourings of mingled delight and regret, Edgar learned that Don Rafaele's enemies had managed, after the establishment of peace, to bring charges against him causing him to be regarded with suspicion by the government. He was sentenced to be banished, and his property was confiscated. He fell into the deepest poverty. His devoted daughter and his faithful servant supported him by dancing and playing.
"Emanuela and Biagio Cubas, of course!" Ludwig cried out. And all the others repeated after him, "Of course, of course--Emanuela and Biagio Cubas!"
The hostess enjoined silence on the ground that, although there might be many things which could be gradually explained, the narrator ought not to be interrupted until he had come to the end of his story. Moreover she felt no doubt that as soon as Edgar saw the lovely Emanuela he must, of course, have fallen desperately in love with her.
"That, of course, is exactly what he did do," said Euchar, a slight redness overspreading his cheeks. Even before this particular meeting with her, on other occasions of his seeing that marvellously beautifully child, he had felt the most distinct presentiments of what would follow, and a sense of the deepest affection, like nothing which he had ever experienced before. He immediately set to remedy the condition of affairs. He took away Don Rafaele, Emanuela, and the trusty Cubas, to a country estate belonging to his uncle. And in arranging this I was of some assistance to him. It seemed as if Don Rafaele's lucky star was going to rise again; for soon after this there came a letter from good Father Eusebio to say that the brethren, well acquainted with the secret corners of his house, had hidden away the very considerable property (in the shape of gold and jewels) which he possessed (and which he had walled up before his flight) in their own convent; so that all that was necessary was to send some trustworthy person to fetch them. Edgar set out at once for Valenzia with the faithful Cubas. He saw his kind old nurse, Father Eusebio, again, and Don Rafaele's treasure was handed over to him. But he knew that Don Rafaele prized honour above everything, and he succeeded in Madrid in completely re-establishing his innocence. The decree of banishment was cancelled.
The doors opened and there entered a beautifully dressed lady, followed by an old gentleman of lofty bearing and aristocratic looks. The hostess rose to receive them, and led the lady within the circle. The other guests had all risen, and the host presented "Donna Emanuela Marchez, our friend Euchar's bride. Ron Rafaele Marchez."
"Yes," said Euchar, with the bliss of the happiness which he had achieved radiating from his eyes, and glowing in brilliant roses on his cheeks, "I have only now to tell you that he whom I spoke of to you as Edgar was none other than myself."
Victorine clasped the beautiful Emanuela in her arms, and pressed her warmly to her heart. They seemed to know each other already. But Ludwig, casting a glance of sorrow upon the group, said--
"All this was a part of the mutual interdependence of things."
The friends were pleased with Sylvester's tale, and were unanimous in thinking that Edgar's adventures in Spain during the War of Independence, although they might perhaps be considered to be interwoven in merely an episodical form, really constituted the kernel of the story, and that their happy effect was accounted for by their being founded upon actual historical facts.
"There is no doubt," said Lothair, "that matter which is absolutely historical possesses a certain peculiar quality which the inventive faculty, when it merely hovers about in empty space, with nothing to anchor upon, cannot attain to. In the same way the skilful introduction of truly historical customs, manners, habitudes and so forth, belonging to any race, or people, or to any particular class of people, gives to a work of fiction a life-like colouring which it is difficult otherwise to attain. But I insist upon their being introducedskilfully. For there is no doubt that it is not so easy to introduce historical facts--things which have actually happened--into a work of which the incidents belong to the domain of pure imagination, as many people think it is. And it requires a peculiar skilfulness, which everybody is not fortunate enough to possess. In the absence of it there appears merely a pale, distorted simulacrum of life, instead of the freshness of reality. I know works--particularly some by literary ladies--in which one feels, at every instant, how the writer has gone dipping the brush into the colour-box, bringing nothing out of it, after all, but a sort of jumble of strokes of different colours, just where what was wanted was a thoroughly life-like picture."
"I quite agree with you," said Lothair. "And, having just chanced to remember a particular novel, written by an otherwise fairly clever woman (which, notwithstanding all the dippings of her brush into the aforesaid paint-box, does not possess a single atom of real semblance of life, or of poetic truth, from one end of it to the other, so that one cannot remember it for a single moment), I merely wish to say that this particular skill in producing an effect of reality and historical truth, brilliantly distinguishes the works of a writer who has only rather recently become known to us. I mean Walter Scott. I have only read his 'Guy Mannering.' Butex ungue leonem. The 'exposition' of this tale is based upon Scotch manners and customs, and matters belonging peculiarly to the place in which the scene of it is laid. But, without any acquaintance with them, one is carried away by the vivid reality of the characters and incidents in an extraordinary degree, and the 'exposition' is to be termed so utterly masterly just because we are landedin medias resin a moment, as if by the wave of an enchanter's wand. Moreover, Scott has the power of drawing the figures of his pictures with a few touches, in such a way that they seem to come out of their frames, and move about before us in the most living fashion imaginable. Scott is a splendid phenomenon appearing in the literature of Great Britain. He is as vivid as Smollett, though far more classic and noble. But I think he is wanting in that brilliant lire of profound humour which coruscates in the writings of Sterne and Swift."
"I am just in your position, Ottmar," said Vincenz. "'Guy Mannering' is the only work of Scott's which I have read. But I was much struck by the originality of it, and the manner in which, in its methodical progress, it gradually unwinds itself like a clue of thread, gently and quietly, never breaking its firm-spun strands. My chief objection to it is, that (no doubt in faithfulness to British manners) the female characters are so tame and colourless, except that grand gipsy woman--although she is scarcely so much to be called a woman as a kind of spectral apparition. Both of the young ladies in 'Guy Mannering' remind me of the English coloured engravings, which are all exactly alike--id est, as pretty as they are meaningless and expressionless, and as to which one sees distinctly that the originals of them would never allow anything further than 'Yea, yea; nay, nay!' to cross those pretty little delicate lips of theirs, as anything more might lead unto evil. Hogarth's milkmaid is a prototype of all these creatures. Both of the girls in 'Guy Mannering' lack reality--the god-like vivifying breath of life."
"Might not one wish," said Theodore, "in the case of some of the female characters of one of our most talented writers (particularly in some of his earlier works) that they had a little more flesh and blood, since they are really all so very apt to melt into wreaths of mist when one looks at them closely? Nevertheless, let us love and honour both of those writers--the foreigner and our countryman, because of the true and glorious things which they have bestowed upon us."
"It is remarkable," said Sylvester, "that--unless I mistake--another great writer appeared on the other side of the channel, about the same time as Walter Scott, and has produced works of equal greatness and splendour, but in a different direction. I mean Lord Byron, who appears to me to be much more solid and powerful than Thomas Moore. His 'Siege of Corinth' is a masterpiece, fall of genius. His predominant tendency seems to be towards the gloomy, the mysterious and the terrible; and his 'Vampire' I have avoided reading, for the bare idea of a vampire makes my blood run cold. So far as I understand the matter, a vampire is an animated corpse which sucks the blood of the living."
"Ho! ho!" cried Lothair, laughing, "a writer such as you, my dear friend, Sylvester, must of course have found it necessary to dip more or less deeply into all kinds of accounts concerning magic, witches, sorcery, enchantment, and other such works of the devil, because they are necessary for your work, and part of your stock in trade. And I should suppose you have gone into those subjects yourself with the view of getting some personal experience of them as well. As regards vampirism--that you may see how well read I am in these matters--I will tell you the name of a delightful treatise in which you may study this dark subject. The complete title of this little book is 'M. Michael Ranft (Deacon of Nebra). Treatise on the Mastication and Sucking of the Dead in their Graves; wherein the true nature and description of the Hungarian vampires and bloodsuckers is clearly set forth, and all previous writings on this subject are passed in review and subjected to criticism.' This title in itself will convince you of the thoroughness of this treatise, and you will learn from it that a vampire is nothing other but an accursed creature who lets himself be buried as being dead, and then rises out of the grave and sucks people's blood in their sleep. And those people become vampires in their turn. So that, according to the accounts received from Hungary and quoted by this magister, the inhabitants of whole villages become vampires of the most abominable description. To render those vampires harmless they must be dug out of their graves, a stake driven through their hearts, and their bodies burnt to ashes. Those horrible beings very often do not appear in their own proper forms, buten masque. A certain officer, I happen to remember, writing from Belgrade to a celebrated doctor in Leipzig for information as to the true nature of vampires, expresses himself thus: 'In a village called Kinklina it chanced that two brothers were troubled by a vampire, so that one of them used to sit up by the other at night whilst he slept. The one who was watching used to see something like a dog opening the door, but this dog used to make off when he cried out at it. At last one night they both were asleep at the same time, and the vampire bit and sucked a place under the right ear of one of them, leaving a red mark. The man died of this in three days' time. In conclusion,' said the officer, 'as the people of this place make all this out to be miraculous, I venture to take the liberty of requesting you to tell me your private opinion as to whether it is caused by the intervention of sympathetic, diabolical, or astral spirits. And I remain, with much respect, &c.' Take example by this officer of enquiring mind. As it happens his name occurs to me at this moment. He was an ensign in the Prince Alexander regiment, Sigismund Alexander Friedrich von Kottwitz. The military mind seems to have been considerably exercised on the subject of vampirism about that time. Magister Ranft quotes in his book an official declaration made by an army surgeon before two of his brother officers concerning the detection and destruction of a vampire. This declaration contains,inter alia, the following passage: 'Inasmuch as they perceived, from the aforesaid circumstances, that this was unmistakably a vampire, they drove a stake through its heart, upon which it gave vent to a distinct gasp, emitting a considerable quantity of blood.' Is that not both interesting and instructive?"
"All this of Magister Ranft's," said Sylvester, "may, no doubt, be sufficiently absurd and even rather crack-brained; but, at the same time, if we keep to the subject of vampirism itself, never minding in what particular fashion it may be treated, it certainly is one of the most horrible and terrible notions imaginable. I can conceive nothing more ghastlily repulsive to the mind."
"Still," said Cyprian, "it is capable of providing a material, when dealt with by a writer of imagination possessed of some poetical tact, which has the power of stirring within us that profound sense of awe which is innate in our hearts, and when touched by the electric impulse from an unseen spirit world causes our soul to thrill, not altogether unpleasantly after a fashion. A due amount of poetic tact on the author's part will prevent the horror of the subject from going so far as to be loathsome; for it generally has such an element of the absurd about it that it does not impress us so deeply as if that were not the case. Why should not a writer be permitted to make use of the levers of fear, terror, and horror because some feeble soul here and there finds it more than it can bear? Shall there be no strong meat at table because there happen to be some guests there whose stomachs are weak, or who have spoiled their own digestions?"
"My dear, fanciful Cyprian," Theodore said, "there was no occasion for your vindication of the horrible. We all know how wonderfully great writers have moved men's hearts to their very depths by means of that lever. We have only to think of Shakespeare. Moreover, who knew better how to use it than our own glorious Tieck in many of his tales? I need only instance the 'Love-Spell.' The leading idea of that story cannot but make everybody's blood run cold, and the end of it is full of the utmost fear and horror; but still the colours are blended so admirably that, in spite of all the terror and dismay, the mysterious magic charm so seizes upon us that we yield ourselves up to it without an effort to resist. How true is what Tieck puts in the mouth of his Manfred in answer to women's objections to the element of the awe-inspiring in fiction. Of course, what is the fact is that whatsoever of the terrible encounters us in our daily life is just what tortures and tears our hearts with irresistible pain. And, indeed, the cruelty of mankind, as exercised by tyrants, great and small, without pity or mercy, and with the diabolical malignity of hell itself, produces misery on a par with anything told of in fiction. And how finely the author says: 'In those imaginary legends the misery cannot reach the world with its rays until they have been broken up into prismatic colours,' and I should have supposed that in that condition they would have been endurable by eyes even not very strong."
"We have often spoken already," said Lothair, "of this most genial writer; the full recognition of whom, in all his grand super-excellence and variety, is reserved for posterity, whilst Wills o' the Wisp rapidly scintillating into our ken and blinding the eye for a moment with borrowed light, go out into darkness just as speedily. On the whole, I believe that the imagination can be moved by very simple means, and that it is often more theideaof the thing than the thing itself which causes our fear. Kleist's tale of the 'Beggar Woman of Lucarno' has in it, at least to me, the most frightening idea that I can think of, and yet how simple it is. A beggar woman is sent contemptuously, as if she were a dog, to lie behind the stove, and dies there. She is heard every night hobbling across the floor towards the stove, but nothing is seen. It is, no doubt, the wonderful colouring of the whole affair Which produces the effect. Not only could Kleist 'dip' into the aforesaid colour-box, but he could lay the colours on, with the power and the genius of the most finished master. He did not need to raise a vampire out of the grave, all he needed was an old woman."
"This discussion about vampirism," said Cyprian, "reminds me of a ghastly story which I either heard or read a very long time ago. But I think I heard it, because I seem to remember that the person who told it said that the circumstances had actually happened, and mentioned the name of the family and of their country seat where it took place. But if this story is known to you as being in print, please to stop me and prevent my going on with it, because there's nothing more wearisome than to tell people things which they have known for ever so long."
"I foresee," said Ottmar, "that you are going to give us something unusually awful and terrible. But remember Saint Serapion and be as concise as you can, so that Vincenz may have his turn; for I see that he is waiting impatiently to read us that long-promised story of his."
"Hush! hush!" said Vincenz. "I could not wish anything better than that Cyprian should hang up a fine dark canvas by way of a background so as to throw out the figures of my tale, which I think are brightly and variedly coloured, and certainly excessively active. So begin, my Cyprianus, and be as gloomy, as frightful, as terrible as the vampirish Lord Byron himself, though I know nothing about him, as I have never read a word of his writings."