So soon as the chair was brought, she seated herself in it, apparently with great comfort. She commanded me to stand near before her, with the ends of my fingers towards the pit of her heart.
“God! of what delight is the man capable!” said she. “Emanuel give her thy word, she entreats thee, not to forsake her till the ruins of her mind have been reestablished—till her recovery is perfect. Shouldst thou forsake her, she must die wretchedly. On thee hangs her life.”
I promised with delight and pride to be the protector and guardian angel of so precious a life.
“Also, regard it not,” continued she, “if she, in the state of earthly waking, mistakes thee. Pardon her—she is an unfortunate, that knows not what she does. All faults are the sicknesses of the mortal part, which cripple the power of the spirit.”
She was talkative, and so far from being vexed by my questions, she appeared to hear them with pleasure. I expressed my astonishment at her extraordinary situation. Never had I heard that sickness made a person, as it were, godlike—that she should, with closed eyes, perceive what she had never seen before, and what was far distant from her, and even know the thoughts of another! I must believe that her state, which, with justice, might be compared to a transfiguration, was the perfection of health.
After a minute’s silence, which was always the case before she answered, she said, “She is healthy like a dying person, whose material is breaking asunder. She is healthy as she will be, when her humanity ceases, and the earthly body of this lamp of eternal light falls to pieces.”
“The transfiguration,” said I, “makes all dark to me!”
“Dark, Emanuel? But thou wilt experience it. She knows much, and yet cannot express it; she sees much clearly, much dimly, and yet cannot name it. See—man is combined from a variety of beings, which bind and arrange themselves together, as around a single point, and thereby he becomes man. So are all the little parts of a flower held together, whereby it becomes a flower. And as one part holds and binds the other, so the other restrains it in turn; no one is what it would be by itself, since only ALL can form man, and be otherwise nothing. Nature is like an endless ocean of brightness, in which single solid points are drawn together. These are creatures. Or like an extensive shining heaven, in which drops of light run together and form stars. All that is in the world, has run together from the dissolved chaos, which is everywhere and always imbibing and then dissolving itself again in ALL, since nothing can remain stationary. So is man, out of the manifold substances of the universe, grown around with floating flowers. But in order that man may be, more insignificant beings must place themselves around him, which shall support his divine part. The strange things or beings which are placed around us, form the body. The body is only the shell of a heavenly body. The heavenly body is called the soul. The soul is but the veil of the Eternal. Now is the earthly shell of the sick broken, therefore her light flows out, her soul meets in union with ALL, from which it was formerly separated by a healthy shell, and sees, hears and feels without it and within it. Then it is not the body that feels; the body is only the inanimate casement of the soul. Without it, eyes, ears and tongue are like stones. Now, if the earthly shell of the sick cannot become healthy by thy aid, it will be entirely broken and fall to pieces. She will no longer belong to mankind, since she possesses nothing by which she can communicate with them.”
She stopped. I listened as if she brought revelations from another world. I understood nothing, and yet divined what she thought. The Count and physician listened to her with equal astonishment. Both assured me afterwards, that Hortensia had never spoken so clearly, connectedly, and supernaturally, as at this time; that her communications had been broken and made often under great suffering; she frequently fell into the most frightful convulsions, or would lie for many hours in a torpid state; that she very rarely answered questions, but now the conversation appeared not at all to fatigue her.
I reminded her of her weakness, and inquired, if talking so much did not exhaust her strength? She declared, “Not in the least! She is well. She will always be well, when thou art with her. In seven minutes she will awaken. She will enjoy a quiet night. But tomorrow afternoon about three o’clock her sleep will return. Then fail not, Emanuel. Five minutes before three the cramps will begin; then, blessing her, stretch thy hands towards her, with an earnest desire of healing her. Five minutes before three, and by the clock in thy chamber, not by thy watch, which is three minutes different from the clock. Set thy watch exactly with the clock, that the sick may not suffer by their difference.”
She also mentioned several trifling circumstances; ordered what they should give her to drink on her awaking; what for her supper; at what time she should go to bed, and gave other similar directions. She was then silent. The former death-like stillness reigned. Her face gradually became paler, as it usually was; the animation of her countenance disappeared. She now first appeared to wish to sleep, or actually to be asleep. She no longer held herself upright, but sank down carelessly, and nodded, as is usual with a person sleeping. She then began to extend her arms and stretch herself, yawned, rubbed her eyes, opened them, and was almost in the same minute awake and cheerful, as she had announced.
When she saw me, she appeared surprised—she looked around on the others. The women hastened to her, also the Count and Doctor.
“What do you want?” she asked me, in a hard tone.
“Gracious lady, I wait your commands.”
“Who are you?”
“Faust, at your service.”
“I am obliged to you for your good will, but desire I may be left alone!” said she, somewhat vexed; then bowing proudly towards me, she arose and turned her back on me.
I left the room with a singular mixture of feelings. How immeasurably different was the waking from the sleeping person! My gold and silver rays disappeared; also her confidential thou, which penetrated deep into my innermost feelings—even the name of Emanuel, with which she had enriched me, was no longer of value.
Musingly, I entered my chamber, like one who had been reading fairy tales, and became so absorbed in them that he holds the reality for enchantment. The arm chair before my writing table was wanting. I placed another, and wrote down the wonderful tale, as I had experienced it, and as much of Hortensia’s conversation as I recollected, since I feared that I might not hereafter believe it myself, if I had it not written before me. I had promised to pardon all the harshness she might show towards me whilst awake,-willingly did I forgive her. But she was so beautiful! I could not have borne it with indifference.
A SECOND TRANSFIGURATION.
The next day the Count visited me in my room, to inform me of the quiet night Hortensia had enjoyed, and also that she was stronger and more animated than she had been for a long time. “At breakfast I told her,” said he, “all that passed yesterday. She shook her head and would not believe me, or otherwise she said she must have paroxysms of delirium, and began to weep. I quieted her. I told her, that, without doubt, her perfect restoration to health was near, since in you, dear Faust, there certainly dwells some divine power, of which hitherto you have probably been unconscious. I begged her to receive you into her society during her waking hours, since I promised myself much from your presence; but could not move her to consent. She asserted that your sight was insupportable to her, and that only by degrees could she perhaps accustom herself to your appearance. What can we do? She cannot be forced to any thing, without placing her life in danger.”
Thus he spoke, and sought in every way, to excuse Hortensia to me. He showed me, as if in contrast to Hortensia’s offensive antipathy, self-will and pride, the most moving confidence; spoke of his family circumstances, of his possessions, lawsuits and other disagreeable circumstances; desired my counsel, and promised to lay all his papers before me, in order that my opinion of his affairs might be more precise. He did so, that same day. Initiated in all, even his most secret concerns, I became every day more intimate with him; his friends
hip appeared to increase in proportion as the antipathy which his daughter had taken to me augmented. At length I conducted all his correspondence—had also the management of his income, and the government of his household—so that, in short, I became every thing to him. Convinced of my honesty and good will, he depended on me with unlimited confidence, and only seemed discontented when he perceived, that with the exception of mere necessaries, I desired nothing for myself, and constantly refused all his rich presents. Dr. Walter and all the domestics, as well male as female, soon remarked what extraordinary influence I had, as suddenly as unexpectedly, attained. They surrounded me with attentions and flattery. This unmerited and general good will made me very happy, though I would willingly have exchanged it all for mere friendship from the inimical Countess. She, however, remained unpropitiated. Her antipathy appeared almost to degenerate into hate. She cautioned her father against me, as against a cunning adventurer and impostor. With her women she called me only the vagabond, who had nestled himself into her father’s confidence. The old Count at last scarce dared to mention me in her presence. But I will not anticipate the history and course of events.
My watch was regulated. It was really three minutes different from the clock. Five minutes before three in the afternoon, neither sooner nor later, I entered, unannounced, Hortensia’s room. The witnesses of the day before, were present. She sat on the sofa in a thoughtful position, but with her own peculiar grace, pale and suffering. As she perceived me, she threw a proud, contemptuous look on me, rose hastily, and cried, “Who gave you permission—without being announced—”
A violent shriek and fearful convulsions stopped her voice. She sank into the arms of her women. The chair which she had desired the day before, was brought to her. Scarcely was she seated in it, than she began, in the most frightful manner, and with incredible velocity, to strike herself, both on the body and head, with her clenched fist. I could scarcely support the horrible spectacle. Tremblingly, I took the position which she had prescribed the day before, and directed the finger ends of both my hands towards her. But she, with eyes convulsively distorted and fixed, seized them—and thrust the fingers with violence many times against her person. She soon became more tranquil, closed her eyes, and after she had given some deep sighs, appeared to sleep. Her countenance betrayed pain. She fretted softly for some time. But soon the pain appeared to subside. She now sighed twice, but gently. Her countenance gradually became clearer, and soon again resumed the expression of internal blessedness, whilst the paleness of her face was overspread by a soft color.
After some minutes, she said, “Thou, true friend! with out thee what would become of me?” She spoke these words with a solemn tenderness, with which angels alone might greet each other. Her tones vibrated on all my nerves.
“Are you well, gracious lady?” said I, almost in a whisper—since I yet feared she might show me the door.
“Very, oh! very, Emanuel!” answered she, “as well as yesterday, and even more so. It seems thy will is more decided, and thy power to assist her increased. She breathes—she swims in the shining circle which surrounds thee; her being, penetrated by thine, is in thee dissolved. Could she be ever so!”
To us, prosaical listeners, this manner of speaking was very unintelligible, though to me in no way unpleasing. I regretted only that Hortensia thought not of me, but of an Emanuel, and probably deceived herself. Yet I received some comfort when I afterwards learnt from the Count, that to his knowledge none of his relations or acquaintances bore the name of Emanuel.
Her father asked her some questions, but she did not hear them as she began, in the midst of one of them, to speak to me. He approached nearer to her. When he stood by me, she became more attentive.
“How, dear father, art thou here?” said she. She now answered his questions. I asked her why she had not observed him sooner.
She replied, “He stood in the dark—only near thee is it light. Thou also shinest, father, but weaker than Emanuel, and only by reflection from him.”
I then said to her that there were yet more persons in the room; she made a long pause, then named them all, even the places where they were. Her eyes were constantly closed, yet she could denote what passed behind her. Yes, she even remarked the number of persons who were passing in a gondola in the canal before the house, and it was correct.
“But how is it possible that you can know this, since you do not see them?” said I.
“Did she not declare to you yesterday that she was sick? That it is not the body which discerns the outer world, but the soul? Flesh, blood and the frame of bones, is only the shell which surrounds the noble kernel. The shell is now torn, and its vital power would repair the defects, but cannot without assistance. Therefore the spirit calls for thee. The soul, flowing out and searching in the universe, finds thee and fulfils its duty with thy power. When her earthly waking comes, she sees, she hears and feels more quickly and acutely, but only that which is external and near—that which approaches her. Now, however, she meets things whether she will or not; she touches not, but penetrates; she guesses not, but knows. In dreams thou goest to the objects, not they to thee, and thou knowest them, and wherefore they so act. Even now, it is to her like a dream; nevertheless, she knows well that she is awake, but her body wakes not; the outward senses do not assist her.”
She next spoke much of her sickness, of her sleepwalking, of a long fainting fit, in which she once laid—what had passed within her, and what she had thought whilst those around wept her as dead. The Count heard her with astonishment, since, besides many circumstances of which he was ignorant, she touched upon others which had occurred during her ten hours’ stupor, of which no one but himself could have known; for example, how he had in despair, left her, gone into his chamber, fallen on his knees, and prayed in hopeless agony. He had never mentioned this, and no one could have seen him, since not only at the time, had he fastened his door, but it was also night, and his chamber without light. Now that Hortensia spoke of it, he did not deny it. It was incomprehensible how she could have known it in her fainting fit, and yet more so, that she should recollect it at this time, as the incident had occurred in her early childhood. She could scarcely have been more than eight years old at the time.
It was also remarkable that she always spoke of herself in the third person, as of a stranger, when she related her own history, or spoke of herself, as she stood in the civil and social relations. Once she said, explicitly, “I am no Countess, but she is Countess!” Another time, “I am not the daughter of the Count Hormegg, but she is.”
As her whole exterior appeared to float in a transfiguration, more quiet, more exalted, more beautiful than usual, so was her voice a language in conformity to it. It was, though as soft and clear, yet more solemn than in common life; every expression was chosen, and sometimes even poetical. There was frequently a singular obscurity in her words—often an apparent total want of connection, occasioned partly by her exalted imagination, and partly because she spoke of things, or observed them in a point of view, foreign to us. She, however, spoke willingly and with pleasure, particularly when questioned by me. Sometimes she sank in a long and quiet reflection, during which one might read in her features the expression, sometimes of a discontented, sometimes a contented research, astonishment, admiration or delight. She interrupted this deep silence, from time to time, with single exclamations, when she lisped “Holy God!”
Once she began of herself: “Now is the world changed. It is one great ONE, and that eternal one is a spiritual one. There is no difference between body and spirit, since all is spirit, and all can become body, when they associate together, so that they may feel as a single one. The all, (or the component parts,) is as if formed from the purest ether; the all, active and moving; transforming itself; since all will unite; and the one counter-balances the other. It is an eternal fermentation of life, an eternal vibration between too much and too little. Seest thou how clouds move in the clearest heaven? They float and swell, till
the mass is filled; then, attracted by the earth, they penetrate it in the form of fire or rain. Seest thou the flower? A spark of life has fallen in the midst of a throng of other powers; it unites itself with all that may be of service to it, forms them, and the germ becomes a plant, until the inferior powers overgrow and dislodge the original power. And as the spark is expelled, they fall asunder, since nothing any longer binds them together. So is the formation and decay of man.”
She said yet much more, wholly unintelligible to me. Her transfiguration ended like the first. She again announced the period of her earthly waking, likewise the occurrence of a similar state the next day. She dismissed me, with the same dark looks as on the first day, as soon as she opened her eyes.
SYMPATHY AND ANTIPATHY.
Thus it continued, always in the same way, for some months. I may not and cannot write down all her memorable annunciations. Her extraordinary indisposition experienced only insignificant changes, from which I could neither affirm that they denoted improvement or the contrary. For, if she suffered less from cramps and convulsions—and whilst awake there was not the slightest trace of uncomfortable feeling, except extreme irritability—her unnatural sleep and transfiguration returned more frequently, so that I was often called two or three times in the day.
I became thus completely the slave of the house. I dared not absent myself even for a few hours. Any neglect might cause serious danger. How willingly did I bear the yoke of slavery! I never faltered. My soul trembled with joy when the moment allotted to the beautiful miracle came. Each day adorned her with higher charms. Had I but for one hour seen and heard her, I had sufficient remembrances to banquet on for a long time in my solitude. Oh! the intoxication of first love!
Yes, I deny it not—it was love; but I may truly say not earthly but celestial love. My whole being was in a new manner bound to this Delphic priestess, by an awe in which even the hope died of ever being worthy of her most insignificant looks. Could the Countess have endured me without disgust, even as the most unimportant of her attendants, I should have thought that heaven could offer no higher happiness. But, as in her transfigured state, her kindness towards me seemed to increase, even so did her aversion, as soon as, when waking, she saw me. This dislike grew at last into the bitterest abhorrence. She declared this on every occasion, and always in the most irritating manner. She daily entreated her father, and always more harshly, to send me from the house; she conjured him with tears; she affirmed that I could contribute nothing to her recovery; and were it so, all the good I might effect during her unconscious state, was again destroyed by the vexation my presence caused her. She despised me as a common vagabond, as a man of low origin, who should not be allowed to breathe the same air with her—to say nothing of so intimate a connection with her, or the enjoyment of such great confidence from Count Hormegg.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 18