Part 14

The stranger applauded his saying, and the mother returned with the goblet. They filled it full of wine, and from the head of the table began to pass it round, each proposing the health that was dearest. The bride drank the welfare of her husband; he, the love of his fair Julia; likewise every one in his turn. The mother lingered as the goblet came to her.

"Now quickly," said the officer, somewhat roughly and hastily; "we know well that you think all men faithless, and not one of them worthy of a woman's love. What, then, is dearest to you?"

The mother looked at him, as an angry seriousness suddenly overspread the mildness of her countenance. "As my son," said she, "knows me so well, and so severely blames my disposition, let me be permitted not to express what I was thinking, and let him endeavour by his constant love to falsify what he attributes to me as my conviction." She passed on the cup without drinking, and the company was for some time in silent embarrassment.

"It is reported," said the merchant, in an under-tone, leaning over to the stranger, "that she did not love her husband, but another who proved faithless to her; they say she was once the handsomest maiden in all the town."

When the goblet came to Ferdinand, he looked at it with astonishment, for it was the very same from which Albert had aforetime called up to him the beautiful shadow. He looked down into it and on the waving of the wine; his hand trembled; it would not have surprised him had that form again bloomed forth from the magic bowl, and therewith his evanished youth. "No," said he, after some time; "that which glows here is wine."

"What else should it be?" said the merchant, laughing. "Drink, and be happy."

A thrill of terror struck the old man, as he hastily pronounced the name, "Francesca!" and placed the goblet to his burning lips. The mother cast on him an inquiring and astonished look.

"Whence is this beautiful goblet?" said Ferdinand, who was ashamed of his embarrassment.

"Many years ago," replied Leopold; "even before I was born, my father bought it, with this house and all the furniture, from an old lonely bachelor, a reserved man, whom all the neighbourhood considered a magician."

Ferdinand did not like to say that he had known that man; for his whole soul was too much perplexed, as it were in a strange dream, to let the rest look into it, even from a distance.

After the cloth was removed, Ferdinand was left alone with the mother, while the young people withdrew to make preparations for the ball. "Sit down by me," said she; "we will rest, for our dancing years are past; and, if the question is not too bold, pray tell me if you have ever seen our goblet elsewhere, or what was it that so very much moved you?"

"O, gracious lady," cried the old man, "pardon me my foolish vehemence and emotion, for since I have been in your house I feel as if I were no longer myself; every moment I forget that my hair is grey, that my loved ones are dead. Your beautiful daughter, who now celebrates the happiest day of her life, is so like a maiden whom I knew and adored in my youth, that I regard it as a miracle. But no, not like, that expression is too weak, she is her very self. Here, also, in this house have I often been, and once in the strangest manner became acquainted with this goblet." Hereupon he related to her his adventure. "On the evening of that day," he concluded, "I saw for the last time my beloved one, in the park as she went into the country. A rose fell from her, this I have preserved; but she herself was lost to me, for she became faithless, and soon after married."

"Merciful God!" cried the old lady, starting with emotion; "surely thou art not Ferdinand!"

"That is my name," said he.

"And I am Francesca," replied the mother.

They wished to embrace, but immediately started back. Each contemplated the other with searching glance; both endeavoured to develop again out of the ruins of time those features which erewhile they had known and loved in one another. And as in dark tempestuous nights, amid the flight of black clouds, for a few fleeting moments solitary stars ambiguously glimmer, immediately again to disappear,--so shone for the time to these two, lightening from the eyes, the brow, and lips, a transient glimpse of some well-known feature, and it seemed as if their youth wept smiling in the distance.

He bowed himself low, and kissed her hand, as two big tears burst from his eyes; then they embraced each other heartily.

"Is thy wife dead?" asked the mother.

"I was never married," sobbed Ferdinand.

"Heavens!" cried the lady, wringing her hands; "then I have been the faithless one! Yet no, not faithless. When I returned from the country, where I stayed two months, I heard from every one, from thy friends, not from mine only, that thou hadst long since gone away and been married in thy fatherland. They shewed me the most credible letters, and pressed me vehemently, availing themselves as well of my despair as of my indignation; and so it happened that I gave my hand to another, a deserving man; but my heart, my thoughts, were ever devoted to thee."

"I never removed from this place," said Ferdinand; "but after a time I heard of thy marriage. They wished to part us, and they have succeeded. Thou art a happy mother; I live in the past: and all thy children I will love as if they were my own. But how wonderful that we should never since have met!"

"I seldom went abroad," said she; "and as my husband soon after assumed another name on account of an estate which he inherited, you could have had no suspicion that we both were living in the same city."

"I avoided men," said Ferdinand, "and lived only to solitude. Leopold is almost the only one that has again drawn me forth and led me amongst men. O my beloved friend, it is like a horrible spectre-story, how we lost and have again found each other!"

The young people, on their return, found the old couple dissolved in tears and in the deepest emotion. Neither told what had befallen them; the secret seemed too holy. But from that time the old man was the friend of the house; and death alone parted the two beings who in so strange a manner had again found each other, in order shortly after to be re-united.

THE LOVE-CHARM.

Emilius was sitting in deep thought by a table, waiting for his friend Roderick. A light was burning before him; the winter evening was cold; and, glad as he was at other times to dispense with his companion's society, on this occasion he was particularly anxious for his presence, as he wished to tell him a secret, and to ask his advice. The shy, retiring Emilius, in the common business and the ups and downs of life, found such difficulties and so many insuperable obstacles, that Destiny seemed to have been in one of her ironical moods when she connected him with Roderick, who was, in all respects, the very opposite of his friend. Unstable and flighty, with the first impression he was all on fire; there was nothing he would not undertake; he had plans for every thing; no project could be too difficult, no obstacle could deter him; while in carrying them out he soon tired, and flagged as rapidly as he had been eager and elastic at the outset; and difficulties, instead of being a spur to urge him to increased activity, then only caused him to fling aside in disgust what he had at first so enthusiastically undertaken. Hence he was for ever full of schemes of some sort, but throwing them away and forgetting them with as little reason as he had before thoughtlessly adopted them. Between two such contradictory tempers not a day passed without a quarrel, which threatened to be fatal to their friendship. Yet perhaps, what seemed at first sight only to be a cause of division, was, at bottom, one of the closest bonds that held them together. In their hearts they were exceedingly fond of each other, yet each found the greatest satisfaction in being able to complain of the way the other treated him.

Emilius was a young roan of property. His father and mother were dead, so that he was his own master. He was of an imaginative though somewhat melancholy turn of mind; and being now on his travels to complete his education, he had been staying some time at a large town to enjoy the pleasure of the carnival, about which he did not care a straw, and to transact certain business with some of his relations whom he had not yet taken the trouble to call upon. On his way there he had stumbled upon the quicksilver Roderick, who was living not on the best possible terms with his guardians, and, to rid himself of them and their troublesome admonitions, had gladly availed himself of his new friend's offer to take him with him as a companion on his travels. Again and again they had been on the point of separating, but their quarrels had only served to shew them how indispensable they were to each other. When they came to any place of importance, they were hardly out of their carriage before Roderick had seen every thing there was there worth notice--the next day most likely to forget all about it again. While Emilius, after first spending weeks in preparing himself with books, that nothing might escape his observation, out of indolence generally left the place having seen hardly any thing. Roderick went to all the public places, made a thousand acquaintances, and not unfrequently would bring them to the solitary apartments of his friend, and as soon as he began to be tired of them himself, leave them alone for Emilius to entertain. Emilius's modesty too was often severely distressed by the way in which Roderick would speak of his talent and knowledge to sensible, well-informed people; for he never confined himself to strict truth; and although for himself he said he could never find time to listen to what his companion had to say on these matters, yet he gave them to understand there was scarce a subject in literature, history, or art on which they could not derive from him the most valuable information. If Emilius was disposed to do any thing, Roderick was sure to have been at a ball the night before, or to have caught cold at a sledging party, and be obliged to keep his bed; so that in the society of the most restless and excitable of sociable mortals, he lived almost wholly by himself.

This evening, however, Emilius counted on him with some certainty, as he had promised faithfully to spend it at home, to learn what it was that for some weeks past had been weighing on his friend's spirits. Emilius spent the interval in composing the following verses:

Spring-time, it is blithe and gay When the nightingale sits on the hawthorn-spray, And every leaf and every flower Quivers with joy at the music's power.

The play of the gentle evening air In the golden moonlight is passing fair, As over the tree-tops it whispering sweeps And its wings in the linden's fragrance steeps.

The glance of the new-blown rose is bright As the gleaming of stars on a summer's night, Like a bride for the altar the garden arraying, And love in a thousand flowerets playing.

Yet brighter, and fairer, and lovelier far Is the pale little lamplet's trembling star Which yonder my love in her chamber shews As she lingers at night, to her couch ere she goes.

Her delicate tresses I watch her unbind, From around her fair temples the rose-wreath unwind; Her exquisite form to my rapturous gaze With each motion the tightening nightdress betrays.

And oh, when the lute in her fingers she takes, And stirr'd at her bidding sweet music awakes, With a thrill at her exquisite touch, from the strings The spirit of melody laughingly springs.

She sends out a song to recall him again, The wandering rogue--but she sends it in vain; For he flies to my heart with a shout of loud laughter For shelter; and there the pursuer flies after.

Oh, out with thee, mischievous villains, away! But together they bar themselves in as they say, "Till this shall be broken we budge not from here, And the Love-god we'll teach thee to know and to fear."

Emilius stood up impatiently. It was now dark, and Roderick was not come; he was craving to tell him of his love for an unknown beauty who lived opposite to them, and kept him all day watching at the window, and all night waking in his bed. A sound of footsteps on the stairs. The door opened without any one knocking, and in came two gay-looking figures with very ugly masks on their faces; one dressed as a Turk, in a long gown of blue and red; the other as a Spaniard, in a doublet of red and light yellow, and a plume of feathers in his cap. Emilius was getting impatient, when the Turk took off his mask, and shewed the well-known, broad, merry face of Roderick.

"My dear fellow," he said, "what a dismal-looking face! that is not the way to look at carnival-times. I and my young officer friend here are come to carry you off. There is a great ball to-night at the saloon. I know you have sworn never to go about in any other dress than this dingy old every-day black; but come along as you are--it is late."

"As usual," replied Emilius very angrily. "You have forgotten our agreement it seems.--I am exceedingly sorry," he added, turning to the stranger, "that it is not in my power to accompany you. My friend is too hasty in making engagements for me. I cannot possibly leave the house, as I have subjects of importance to talk over with him."

The stranger, who understood Emilius's manner, and felt his visit was ill-timed, took his leave immediately.

Roderick, however, who took it all with the greatest coolness, put on his mask again and stood up before the mirror. "What an object it makes of me!" he said; "it is a miserable, tasteless device after all: don't you think so?"

"What a question!" said Emilius in the greatest indignation. "To make a caricature of yourself, and drown your senses in dissipation, is just the sort of thing you most enjoy."

"Because you do not like dancing," said the other, "and take it to be a pernicious invention, no one else is to amuse himself. How ridiculous it is when a man is made up of nothing but whims and fancies!"

"Yes, indeed," replied his irritated friend, "I am sure I have reason enough to remark it too of you. I had hoped that, as you promised, you would give this one evening to me, but----"

"But it is the carnival," said Roderick, "and all my friends and a number of ladies are expecting me at the great ball to-night. Really, my dear friend, if you will but think of it, you will see it is mere disease in you to feel such extreme dislike to these things."

"Which of us two is most diseased," answered Emilius, "is a point I will not attempt to decide. Your astonishing levity, your craving for dissipation, your restless hunting after pleasures which do not reach the heart, but only leave it sick and weary, does not seem to me to indicate a very healthy frame of mind. Granted, however, if you will, that my feeling is mere weakness, you would do better in some things to let it take its way; and there is nothing in the whole world which drives me more frantic than a ball with its fearful music. Some one has said that to a deaf man, who cannot hear the music, a ball-room must look like Bedlam let loose; but to me this terrible music itself, these infernal tunes whirling and whizzing round with inconceivable swiftness faster and faster, seizing all one's thoughts, saturating one's body and soul, and haunting one like so many spectres,--is not this the very jubilee of frenzy and madness itself? If dancing is ever to be endurable to me, it must be to the tune of silence."

"Well done, Mr. Paradox," said his friend; "you have got to this, have you? to find the innocentest, naturalest, pleasantest thing in the world a horrid, unnatural monster."

"I cannot help my feelings," said he very seriously; "as long as I can remember, these tunes have made me miserable, have often driven me to despair. To me they are the fiends and furies of the world of sound; they squeak and gibber round my head, and grin at me with hideous laughter."

"Mere nervousness," answered the other; "it is just like your ridiculous horror of spiders, and a number of other innocent creatures."

"Innocent you call them," he said passionately, "because they do not affect you; but some people feel, and I am one of them, at the sight of these hideous creatures, such as toads and spiders, or that most odious of all nature's abortions, the bat, their very souls shaken with unutterable horror and loathing; to them they can be neither indifferent nor unmeaning, because their very being is the contradiction of their own. Truly one may laugh at unbelievers whose imagination is too weak for ghosts and hobgoblins, and other children of darkness that we see in fevers or in one of Dante's pictures, when the commonest life gives us master-pieces of all that is most horrible. No one can have a real love for the beautiful unless he feels a hatred of these monsters."

"Why feel hatred?" asked Roderick. "Look at the sea, the great water-kingdom, full of the strangest, comicalest, most amusing figures, the whole deep looking like a grotesque masquerade; why is one to find nothing there but the horrible phantoms your mind makes them seem to you? But these fancies of yours do not stop here; you make an idol of the rose, while for other flowers you have as passionate a hatred. What has the poor orange-lily done to offend you, and the many other beautiful children of the summer? So there are colours you cannot bear, and scents, and thoughts. And you never do any thing to overcome these repugnances; you yield to the first temptation; so that at last, instead of a person, you will be nothing but a bundle of whims and caprices."

Emilius was now angry to the bottom of his heart, and would not answer. He had given up all present purpose of making his communication; indeed, importantly as he had said he had a secret that he wished to tell, his volatile friend seemed to have no curiosity to hear it, but sat playing with his mask on the sofa in the greatest indifference. At last he cried out suddenly, "Be so good, Emilius, as to lend me your large cloak."

"What for?" he asked.

"I hear music in the church yonder," answered Roderick. "I have never happened to be at home any evening at this hour before, and now it comes in just at the very nick of time. I can put on your cloak over my dress; and when the service is over, go on straight to the ball."

Emilius muttered something, and fetched the cloak from his wardrobe, which he flung to Roderick, who had just risen, with an ironical laugh.

"Take my Turkish dagger I bought yesterday, if you please," Roderick said, as he wrapped the cloak round him. "It is rather too serious an article to have about one as a plaything. Some trifle goes wrong, an angry word or two, perhaps, with some one, and no one knows how one might not use it. Adieu till to-morrow then. Peace be with you." He did not wait for an answer, but ran down the stairs.

As soon as Emilius was by himself, he tried to forget his indignation, and take his friend's behaviour as absurd. He took up the white, glittering, beautifully-wrought dagger in his hand, and looked at it. "I wonder," he said to himself, "how a man feels that has run this sharp steel into an enemy's breast? or suppose he was to hurt with it the object of his love." He ran it into the sheath, and then carefully turned back the shutters from his window, and looked across the narrow street. The house opposite was all dark; there was no light stirring; the dear form that dwelt in it, and at this hour was generally to be seen engaged in some household matter, seemed to be away. "Perhaps she is at the ball," thought Emilius; "and yet it is not like her retired ways." Suddenly a light appeared, and a little girl, that his beloved unknown had as a companion, and was usually with her a great part of the day, carried a candle across the room, set it down, and closed the window-shutters. A broken binge prevented them from completely shutting, and an opening remained large enough for any one standing where Emilius was, to see over a part of the little room; and here he would sit in a trance of happiness till long after midnight, watching every gesture, every movement of his beloved's hand. Delightedly he would observe her teaching the child to read, or giving it lessons in sewing and knitting. On inquiry he learnt that this child was a poor orphan whom the beautiful maiden out of compassion had taken to live with her, and was herself educating. It was a mystery to Emilius's friends why he was living in this narrow, out-of-the-way street, in such inconvenient lodgings, and what he could possibly be doing that he was seen so little in society. By himself, and doing nothing, he was most happy as he was; all that vexed him was, that he could not so far overcome his shyness as to seek a nearer acquaintance with this beautiful being, who had more than once encouraged him with a smile of greeting or thanks for some trifling compliment he had ventured to pay. He little knew that she would sit gazing over at him as intoxicated as he; he never guessed what wishes were working in her heart; of what an effort, what a sacrifice she was capable to gain possession of his love.

After walking uneasily up and down his room for some time, and the light and the child had again disappeared, he suddenly came to the resolution, contrary to his inclination and his nature, to go to the ball; it had struck him that his unknown must have made an exception to her usual retired way of living, and gone, for once in a way, to take a taste of the world and its dissipation.

The streets were brilliantly lighted; the snow crackled under his feet. Carriages rolled by, and masques in all sorts of guises past him, chattering and humming as they went along. In a number of houses he heard the odious music; and he could not prevail on himself to take the shortest road to the saloon, to which people were hurrying and streaming from all directions. He walked round the old church, and gazed at the tall spire as it rose up majestically across the sky; the loneliness and silence of the place forming a striking contrast to the thronging of the town. The deep porch of the church was covered with all sorts of carved work, which he had several times examined with the greatest pleasure, and had called back into his memory the days of ancient art and times gone by; and he now stept aside into it for a few moments to give himself up to his meditations.

He had scarcely entered, when his attention was caught by a figure moving restlessly backwards and forwards, and apparently waiting for some one. By the light of a lamp, which was burning before an image of the Virgin, he was able to make out the face as well as the strange dress. It was an old woman with features of the extremest ugliness, which struck the eye the more because they were set off, in a singular manner, against a scarlet boddice covered with gold lace. She wore a dark petticoat, and her cap also glittered with gold. He thought at first it must be some tasteless masque that had missed his way and strayed there by mistake. As she passed under the light, however, it was plain that the old yellow withered face was no imitation, but a real one. Presently two men appeared wrapped in long cloaks; they seemed to approach the place with caution, stop, looking often from side to side, to see if any one followed them.

The old woman went up to them. "Have you got the candles?" she asked hastily, in a gruff, hoarse voice.

"Here they are," said one of the men. "You know the price; it is all right."

The old woman seemed to give some money, which the man counted under his cloak.