In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall, And thee, the spirit of them all!

I had finished, and the poem had been to me like a draught of the fresh spring-water which I had sipped so often of late as it dropped from the cup of some large green leaf.

Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first tone of the organ, which wakens us from our dreamy devotion, and she said:

"Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the old Hofrath loves me, and thus in one way or another we should all love and believe in each other. But the world, although I scarcely know it, does not seem to understand this love and faith, and, on this earth, where we could have lived so happily, men have made existence very wretched.

"It must have been otherwise of old, else how could Homer have created the lovely, wholesome, tender picture of Nausikaa? Nausikaa loves Ulysses at the first glance. She says at once to her female friends: 'Oh, that I could call such a man my spouse, and that it were his destiny to remain here.' She was even too modest to appear in public at the same time with him, and she says, in his presence, that if she should bring such a handsome and majestic stranger home, the people would say, she may have taken him for a husband. How simple and natural all this is! But when she heard that he was going home to his wife and children, no murmur escaped her. She disappears from our sight, and we feel that she carried the picture of the handsome and majestic stranger a long time afterward in her breast, with silent and joyful admiration. Why do not our poets know this love--this joyful acknowledgment, this calm abnegation? A later poet would have made a womanish Werter out of Nausikaa, for the reason that love with us is nothing more than the prelude to the comedy, or the tragedy, of marriage. Is it true there is no longer any other love? Has the fountain of this pure happiness wholly dried up? Are men only acquainted with the intoxicating draught, and no longer with the invigorating well-spring of love?"

At these words the English poet occurred to me, who also thus complains:

From heaven if this belief be sent, If such be nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man.

"Yet, how happy the poets are," said she. "Their words call the deepest feelings into existence in thousands of mute souls, and how often their songs have become a confession of the sweetest secrets!

Their heart beats in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the poor and the rich. The happy sing with them, and the sad weep with them. But I cannot feel any poet so completely my own as Wordsworth. I know many of my friends do not like him. They say he is not a poet. But that is exactly why I like him; he avoids all the hackneyed poetical catch-words, all exaggeration, and everything comprehended in Pegasus-flights. He is true--and does not everything lie in this one word? He opens our eyes to the beauty which lies under our feet like the daisy in the meadow.

He calls everything by its true name. He never intends to startle, deceive, or dazzle any one. He seeks no admiration for himself. He only shows mankind how beautiful everything is which man's hand has not yet spoiled or broken. Is not a dew-drop on a blade of gra.s.s more beautiful than a pearl set in gold? Is not a living spring, which gushes up before us, we know not whence, more beautiful than all the fountains of Versailles? Is not his Highland Girl a lovelier and truer expression of real beauty than Goethe's Helena, or Byron's Haidee? And then the plainness of his language, and the purity of his thoughts! Is it not a pity that we have never had such a poet? Schiller could have been our Wordsworth, had he had more faith in himself than in the old Greeks and Romans. Our Ruckert would come the nearest to him, had he not also sought consolation and home under Eastern roses, away from his poor Fatherland. Few poets have the courage to be just what they are.

Wordsworth had it; and as we gladly listen to great men, even in those moments when they are not inspired, but, like other mortals, quietly cherish their thoughts, and patiently wait the moment that will disclose new glimpses into the infinite, so have I also listened gladly to Wordsworth himself, in his poems, which contain nothing more than any one might have said. The greatest poets allow themselves rest. In Homer we often read a hundred verses without a single beauty, and just so in Dante; while Pindar, whom all admire so much, drives me to distraction with his ecstacies. What would I not give to spend one summer on the lakes; visit with Wordsworth all the places to which he has given names; greet all the trees which he has saved from the axe; and only once watch a far-off sunset with him, which he describes as only Turner could have painted."

It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice never dropped at the close of her talk, as with most people; on the contrary, it rose and always ended, as it were, in the broken seventh chord. She always talked up, never down, to people. The melody of her sentences resembled that of the child when it says: "Can't I, father?" There was something beseeching in her tones, and it was well-nigh impossible to gainsay her.

"Wordsworth," said I, "is a dear poet, and a still dearer man to me, and as one often has a more beautiful, wide-spread, and stirring outlook from a little hill which he ascends without effort, than when he has clambered up Mont Blanc with difficulty and weariness, so it seems to me with Wordsworth's poetry. At first, he often appeared commonplace to me, and I have frequently laid down his poems unable to understand how the best minds of England to-day can cherish such an admiration for him. The conviction has grown upon me that no poet whom his nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his people, recognize as a poet, should remain unenjoyed by us, whatever his language.

Admiration is an art which we must learn. Many Germans say Racine does not please them. The Englishman says, 'I do not understand Goethe.'

The Frenchman says Shakespeare is a boor. What does all this amount to? Nothing more than the child who says it likes a waltz better than a symphony of Beethoven's. The art consists in discovering and understanding what each nation admires in its great men. He who seeks beauty will eventually find it, and discover that the Persians are not entirely deceived in their Hafiz, nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa.

We cannot understand a great man all at once. It takes strength, effort, and perseverance, and it is singular that what pleases us at first sight seldom captivates us any length of time.

"And yet," she continued, "there is something common to all great poets, to all true artists, to all the world's heroes, be they Persian or Hindoo, heathen or Christian, Roman or German; it is--I hardly know what to call it--it is the Infinite which seems to lie behind them, a far away glance into the Eternal, an apotheosis of the most trifling and transitory things. Goethe, the grand heathen, knew the sweet peace which comes from Heaven; and when he sings:

"On every mountain-height Is rest.

O'er each summit white Thou feelest Scarcely a breath.

The bird songs are still from each bough; Only wait, soon shalt thou Rest too, in death.

"does not an endless distance, a repose which earth cannot give, disclose itself to him above the fir-clad summits? This background is never wanting with Wordsworth. Let the carpers say what they will, it is nevertheless only the super-earthly, be it ever so obscure, which charms and quiets the human heart. Who has better understood this earthly beauty than Michel Angelo?--but he understood it, because it was to him a reflection of superearthly beauty. You know his sonnet:

["La forza d'un bel volto al ciel mi sp.r.o.na (Ch'altro in terra non e che mi diletti), E vivo ascendo tra gli spirti eletti; Grazia ch'ad uom mortal raro si dona.

Si ben col suo Fattor l'opra consuona, Ch'a lui mi levo per divin concetti; E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti; Ardendo, amando per gentil persona.

Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide; E se nel lume loro acceso io ardo, Nel n.o.bil foco mio dolce riluce La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride."]

"The might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; Nor death I heed nor purgatorial fires.

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; For, Oh! how good, how beautiful must be The G.o.d that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove.

Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, I live and love in G.o.d's peculiar light."

She was exhausted and silent, and how could I disturb that silence?

When human hearts, after friendly interchange of thoughts feel calmed and quieted, it is as if an angel had flown through the room and we heard the gentle flutter of wings over our heads. As my gaze rested upon her, her lovely form seemed illuminated in the twilight of the summer evening, and her hand, which I held in mine, alone gave me the consciousness of her real presence. Then suddenly a bright refulgence spread over her countenance. She felt it, opened her eyes and looked upon me wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her eyes, which the half-closed eyelids covered as with a veil, shone like the lightning.

I looked around and at last saw that the moon had arisen in full splendor between two peaks opposite the castle, and brightened the lake and the village with its friendly smiles. Never had I seen Nature, never had I seen her dear face so beautiful, never had such holy rest settled down upon my soul. "Marie," said I, "in this resplendent moment, let me, just as I am, confess my whole love. Let us, while we feel so powerfully the nearness of the superearthly, unite our souls in a tie which can never again be broken. Whatever love may be, Marie, I love you and I feel, Marie, you are mine for I am thine."

I knelt before her, but ventured not to look into her eyes. My lips touched her hand and I kissed it. At this she withdrew her hand from me, slowly at first and then quickly and decidedly, and as I looked at her an expression of pain was on her face. She was silent for a time, but at last she raised herself and said with a deep sigh:

"Enough for to-day. You have caused me pain, but it is my fault.

Close the window. I feel a cold chill coming over me as if a strange hand were touching me. Stay with me--but no, you must go. Farewell!

Sleep well! Pray that the peace of G.o.d may abide with us. We see each other again--shall we not? To-morrow evening I await you."

Oh, where all at once had this heavenly rest flown? I saw how she suffered, and all that, I could do was to quickly hurry away, summon the English lady and then go alone in the darkness of night to the village. Long time I wandered back and forth about the lake, long my gaze strayed to the lighted window where I had just been. Finally, the last light in the castle was extinguished. The moon mounted higher and higher, and every pinnacle and projection and decoration on the lofty walls grew visible in the fairy-like illumination. Here was I all alone in the silent night. It seemed to me my brain had refused its office, for no thought came to an end and I only felt I was alone on this earth, that it contained no soul for me. The earth was like a coffin, the black sky a funeral pall, and I scarcely knew whether I was living or had long been dead. Then I suddenly looked up to the stars with their blinking eyes, which went their way so quietly--and it seemed to me that they were only for the lighting and consolation of men, and then I thought of two heavenly stars which had risen in my dark heaven so unexpectedly, and a thanksgiving rang through my breast--a thanksgiving for the love of my angel.

LAST MEMORY.

The sun was already looking into my window over the mountains when I awoke. Was it the same sun which looked upon us the evening before with lingering gaze, like a departing friend, as if it would bless the union of our souls, and which set like a lost hope? It shone upon me now, like a child which bursts into our room with beaming glance to wish us good morning on a joyful holiday. And was I the same man who, only a few hours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, broken in body and spirit?

Immediately I felt once more the old life-courage and trust in G.o.d and myself, which quickened and animated my soul like the fresh morning, breeze. What would become of man without sleep? We know not where this nightly messenger leads us; and when he closes our eyes at night who can a.s.sure us that he will open them again in the morning--that he will bring us to ourselves? It required courage and faith for the first man to throw himself into the arms of this unknown friend; and were there not in our nature a certain helplessness which forces us to submission, and compels us to have faith in all things we are to believe, I doubt whether any man, notwithstanding all his weariness, could close his eyes of his own free will and enter into this unknown dream-land. The very consciousness of our weakness and our weariness gives us faith in a higher power, and courage to resign ourselves to the beautiful system of the All, and we feel invigorated and refreshed when, in waking or in sleeping, we have loosened, even for a short time only, the chains which bind our Eternal Self to our temporal Ego.

What had appeared to me, only yesterday, dark as an evening cloud flying overhead, became instantly clear. We belonged to one another, that I felt; be it as brother and sister, father and child, bridegroom and bride, we must remain together now and forever. It only concerned us to find the right name for that which we in our stammering speech call Love.

"Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father--anything to thee."

It was this "anything" for which a name must be found, for the world now recognizes nothing as nameless. She had told me herself that she loved me with that pure all-human love, out of which springs all other love.

Her shuddering, her uneasiness, when I confessed my full love to her, were still incomprehensible to me, but it could no longer shatter my faith in our love. Why should we desire to understand all that takes place in other human natures, when there is so much that is incomprehensible in our own? After all, it is the inconceivable which generally captivates us, whether in nature, in man, or in our own b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Men whom we understand, whose motives we see before us like an anatomical preparation, leave us cold, like the characters in most of our novels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and men more than this ethic rationalism which insists upon clearing up everything, and illuminating every mystery of our inner being. There is in every person a something that is inseparable--we call it fate, the suggestive power or character--and he knows neither himself nor mankind, who believes that he can a.n.a.lyze the deeds and actions of men without taking into account this ever-recurring principle. Thus I consoled myself on all those points which had troubled me in the evening; and at last no streak of cloud obscured the heaven of the future.

In this frame of mind I stepped out of the close house into the open air, when a messenger brought a letter for me. It was from the Countess, as I saw by the beautiful, delicate handwriting. I breathlessly opened it--I looked for the most blissful tidings man can expect. But all my hopes were immediately shattered. The letter contained only a request not to visit her to-day, as she expected a visit at the castle from the Court Residence. No friendly word--no news of her health--only at the close, a postscript: "The Hofrath will be here to-morrow and the next day."

Here were two days torn out at once from the book of life. If they could only be completely obliterated--but no, they hang over me like the leaden roof of a prison. They must be lived. I could not give them away as a charity to king or beggar, who would gladly have sat two days longer upon his throne, or on his stone at the church door. I remained in this abstraction for a long time; but then I thought of my morning prayer, and how I said to myself there was no greater unbelief than despondency--how the smallest and greatest in life are part of one great divine plan, to which we must submit, however hard it may be. Like a rider who sees a precipice before him, I drew in the reins. "Be it so, since it must be!"

I cried out; "but G.o.d's earth is not the place for complaints and lamentations. Is it not a happiness to hold in my hand these lines which she has written? and is not the hope of seeing her again in a short time a greater bliss than I have ever deserved? 'Always keep the head above water,' say all good life-swimmers. As well sink at once as allow the water to run into your eyes and throat." If it is hard for us, amid these little ills of life, to keep G.o.d's providence continually in view, and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every struggle, to step out of the common-places of life into the presence of the divine, then life ought to appear, to us at least, an art, if not a duty. What is more disagreeable than the child who behaves ungovernably and grows dejected and angry at every little loss and pain? On the other hand, nothing is more beautiful than the child in whose tearful eyes the sunshine of joy and innocence soon beams again, like the flower, which quivers and trembles in the spring shower, and soon after blossoms and exhales its fragrance, as the sun dries the tears upon its cheeks.

A good thought speedily occurred to me, that I could live both these days with her, notwithstanding fate. For a long time I had intended to write down the dear words she had said, and the many beautiful thoughts she had confided to me; and so the days pa.s.sed away in memory of the many charming hours spent, together, and in the hope of a still more beautiful future, and I was by her and with her, and lived in her, and felt the nearness of her spirit and her love more than I had ever felt them when I held her hand in mine.

How dear to me now are these leaves! How often have I read and re-read them--not that I had forgotten one word she said, but they were the witnesses of my happiness, and something looked out of them upon me like the gaze of a friend, whose silence speaks more than words. The memory of a past happiness, the memory of a past sorrow, the silent meditation upon the past, when everything disappears that surrounds and restrains us, when the soul throws itself down, like a mother upon the green grave-mound of her child who has slept under it many long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sadness which only those know who have loved and suffered much. Ask the mother what she feels when she ties upon the head of her daughter the veil _she_ once wore as a bride, and thinks of the husband no longer with her! Ask a man what he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, and the world has torn from him, sends him after death the dried rose which he gave her in youth! They may both weep, but their tears are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself to the Divine, and with faith in G.o.d's love and wisdom, looks upon the dearest he has pa.s.sing away from him.

Still let us go back in memory, back in the living presence of the past.

The two days flew so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness of seeing her again drew nearer and nearer. As the carriages and hors.e.m.e.n arrived on the first day from the city, I saw that the castle was alive with gaily-dressed visitors. Banners fluttered from the roof, music sounded through the castle-yard. In the evening, the lake swarmed with pleasure-boats. The moennerchors sounded over the waves, and I could not but listen, for I fancied she also listened to these songs from the window. Everything was stirring, also, on the second day, and early in the afternoon the guests prepared for departure. Late in the evening I saw the Hofrath's carriage also going back alone to the city. I could not restrain myself any longer, I knew she was alone. I knew she thought of me, and longed for me. Should I allow one night to pa.s.s without at least pressing her hand, without saying to her that the separation was over, that the next morning would waken us to new rapture. I still saw a light in her window--why should she be alone? Why should I not, for one moment at least, feel her sweet presence? Already I stood at the castle; already I was about to pull the bell--then suddenly I stopped and said: "No! no weakness! You should be ashamed to stand before her like a thief in the night. Early in the morning go to her like a hero, returning from battle, for whom she is now weaving the crown of love, which she will place upon thy head in the morning."

And the morning came--and I was with her, really with her. Oh, speak not of the spirit as if it could exist without the body. Complete existence, consciousness, and enjoyment, can only be where body and soul are one--an embodied spirit, a spiritualized body. There is no spirit without body, else it would be a ghost: there is no body without spirit, else it would be a corpse. Is the flower in the field without spirit? Does it not appear in a divine will, in a creative thought which preserves it, and gives it life and existence? That is its soul--only it is silent in the flower, while it manifests itself in man by words. Real life is, after all, the bodily and spiritual life; real consciousness is, after all, the bodily and spiritual consciousness; real being together is, after all, bodily and spiritually being together, and the whole world of memory in which I had lived so happily for two days, disappeared like a shadow, like a nonent.i.ty, as I stood before her, and was really with her. I could have laid my hands upon her brow, her eyes, and her cheeks, to know, to unmistakably know, if it were really she--not only the image which had hovered before my soul day and night, but a being who was not mine, and still could and would be mine; a being in whom I could believe as in myself; a being far from me and yet nearer to me than my own self; a being without whom my life was no life, death was no death; without whom my poor existence would dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, in this very instant, the happiness of my existence was complete--and a shudder crept over me as I thought of death--but it seemed no longer to have any terror for me; for death could not destroy this love; it would only purify; enn.o.ble, and immortalize it.

It was so beautiful to be silent with her. The whole depth of her soul was reflected in her countenance, and as I looked upon her I saw and heard her every thought and emotion. "You make me sad," she seemed on the point of saying, and yet would not, "Are we not together again at last? Be quiet! Complain not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome to me!

Be not bad to me!" All this looked from her eyes, and still we did not venture to disturb the peace of our happiness with a word.

"Have you received a letter from the Hofrath?" was the first question, and her voice trembled with each word.

"No," I replied.

She was silent for a time, and then said:

"Perhaps it is better it has happened thus, and that I can tell you everything myself. My friend, we see each other to-day for the last time. Let us part in peace, without complaint and without anger. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I have intruded upon your life without thinking that even a light breath often withers a flower. I know so little of the world that I did not believe a poor suffering being like myself could inspire anything but pity. I welcome you in a frank and friendly way because I had known you so long, because I felt so well in your presence--why should I not tell all?--because I loved you. But the world does not understand or tolerate this love. The Hofrath has opened my eyes. The whole city is talking about us. My brother, the Regent, has written to the Prince, and he requests me never to see you again. I deeply regret that I have caused you this sorrow. Tell me you forgive me--and then let us separate as friends."

Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed them that I should not see her weeping.

"Marie," said I, "for me there is but one life which is with you; but for you there is one will which is your own. Yes, I confess, I love you with the whole fire of love, but I feel I am not worthily yours. You stand far above me in n.o.bility, sublimity and purity, and I can scarcely understand the thought of ever calling you my wife. And, yet, there is no other road on which we could travel through life together. Marie, you are wholly free; I ask for no sacrifice. The world is great, and if you wish it, we shall never see each other again. But if you love me, if you feel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget the world and its cold verdict. In my arms I will bear you to the altar, and on my knees I will swear to be yours in life and in death."