“The retreat of the soul from the outer world, produces a peculiar state of the human substance. It is the dream. To fall into a slumber, produces the last attraction of the senses, and the first activity of the free interior life. By the waking, the last ray of the inner world mixes itself with the first light of the outward world. It is difficult to disentangle what particularly appertains to the one or the other; but it is always instructive to observe dreams. Since the spirit, even in its inner activity, occupies itself with that which attracted it in the outward life, one can expound the movements of the sleep-walker. Though, when the outward senses of the sleep-walker are again unlocked, he can remember nothing of what he did during his extraordinary state, yet it can return to him again in dreams. So do they bring from the inner world much knowledge to the outer. Dream is the natural mediator, the bridge between the outward and inner life.”
CHANGES.
These were perhaps the most remarkable ideas which she uttered, either spontaneously or excited by questions; it is true, not in the order in which they are here placed, but, as regards the expressions, very little different from them. Much that she said, it was impossible for me to give again, since with the connection of the conversation, it lost much of the delicacy of its meaning; much remained wholly unintelligible to me.
“It was also my fault that I neglected leading her back at the right time, upon many things that remained obscure to me. I soon remarked, that she did not in all her hours of transfiguration discern and speak with equal clearness—that she gradually liked less to converse on these subjects, and at last discontinued them entirely, and spoke almost only of household affairs or the state of her health. This she constantly affirmed was improving, though for a long time we could perceive no traces of it. She continued as formerly to indicate to us what she must eat and drink when awake, and what would be beneficial and what prejudicial to her. She showed an aversion to almost all drugs, but on the contrary, desired daily an ice cold bath, and at last sea water baths. As the spring approached, her transfigurations became shorter.
I will, by no means, describe here the history of Hortensia’s illness, but will in a few words state, that in seven months after my arrival, she was so far restored, that she could not only receive the visits of strangers, but also return them, and could even go to church, theatre and balls, though only for a few hours at a time. The Count was beside himself with joy. He loaded his daughter with presents, and formed around her a various and costly circle of amusements. Connected with the first houses of Venice, or courted by them either on account of his wealth or the beauty of his daughter, it could not fail that every day in the week was metamorphosed into a festival.
He had hitherto in fact lived like a hermit, depressed by Hortensia’s misfortune and kept in a constant constrained and anxious state by the miracles connected with her illness. Therefore, he had become confined to an intercourse with me. Besides, from want of firmness of mind and through my influence over Hortensia’s life, and by a kind of superstitious respect for my person, he allowed himself to be willingly pleased with what I directed. He yielded to me, if I may so call it so a kind of government over himself, and obeyed my wishes with a degree of submission which was unpleasant to myself, though I never abused it.
Now that Hortensia’s recovery restored to him a mind free from care and the long denied enjoyment of brilliant pleasures, his deportment towards me changed. It is true, I continued to hold the direction over his house and family affairs, which he had formerly given up to me, either from blind confidence or for his convenience, but he wished that I should conduct his affairs under some name in his service. As I firmly refused to place myself in his pay, and remained true to the conditions under which I had at first engaged with him, he appeared to make a virtue of necessity. He introduced me to the Venitians as his friend, yet his pride not permitting his friend to be a mere citizen, he gave me out generally as being from one of the purest and best of the German noble families. I opposed at first this falsehood, but was obliged to yield to the entreaties of his weakness. Thus I entered into the Venitian circles, and was received every where. It is true, the Count continued to be my friend, though not entirely as formerly, since I was no longer his only one. We no longer, as before, lived exclusively for and with one another.
Yet more remarkable was the metamorphose in Hortensia on her convalescence. In her transfigurations, she was, as ever, all goodness; but the old hate and aversion, during the remaining part of the day, appeared gradually to disappear. Either more obedient to the admonitions of her father, or from her own feelings of gratitude, she controlled herself so as not to wound me either by word or look. It was permitted me from time to time, though only for a few moments, to pay my most respectful homage to her as a guest of the house, as a friend of the Count, and as an actual physician. I could even at last, without danger of exciting an outbreak of her anger, be in the society where she was. Indeed this effort or habit proceeded so far, that she could at last, with indifference, suffer me to dine at table, when the Count was alone or had guests. But even then I always saw her pride through her manners as she looked down upon me, and except what decency and common politeness demanded, I never received a single word from her.
For myself, my life was truly only half gay, though from my greater freedom, I felt more comfortable. The amusements into which I was drawn, diverted me, without increasing my contentment. In the midst of bustle, I often longed for solitude, which was more congenial to my nature. It was my invariable determination, so soon as the cure of the Countess was perfected, to regain my former liberty. I longed with eagerness for the arrival of that moment, since I felt too deeply that the passion with which Hortensia’s beauty inspired me would become my misfortune. I had struggled against it, and Hortensia’s pride and hatred for me rendered the struggle more easy. To her feelings of high noble birth, I opposed my citizen feelings—to her malicious persecutions, the consciousness of my innocence and her ingratitude. If there were moments when the charms of her person affected me—who could remain insensible to so many?—there were many more in which her offensive behavior entirely disgusted me, and caused in my heart a bitterness which bordered on aversion. Her indifference towards me was as strong a proof of the want of grateful feelings in her disposition as her former aversion. At last I avoided Hortensia more assiduously than she did me. Could she have regarded me with indifference, she must have discovered in my whole behavior how great was my scorn of her.
Thus, during Hortensia’s gradual recovery, had the situations between us all, unremarked and singularly enough, wholly changed. I had no ardent wish except soon to be freed from an engagement which gave me but little joy, and no greater consolation than the moment when Hortensia’s perfect health would render my presence unnecessary.
PRINCE CHARLES.
Amongst those who in Venice connected themselves most intimately with us, was a rich young man, who, descended from one of the noblest Italian families, bore the title of Prince. I shall call him Charles. He was of a pleasing figure, with fine manners, intellectual, quick and prepossessing. The nobility of his features, as well as the fiery glance of his eye, betrayed an irritable temperament. He lived at an immense expense, and was more vain than proud. He had served for some time in the French army. Tired of that, he was upon the point of visiting the most distinguished European cities and courts. The accidental acquaintance which he made with Count Hormegg, detained him longer in Venice than he at first intended; for he had seen Hortensia, and joined himself to her crowd of admirers. In pursuit of her, he soon appeared to forget every thing else.
His rank, his fortune, his numerous and brilliant retinue, and his pleasing exterior, flattered Hortensia’s pride and self love. Without distinguishing him from the others by any particular favor, she yet liked to see him near her. A single confidential friendly look was sufficient to excite in him the boldest hopes.
The old Count Hormegg, no less flattered by the Prince’s addresses, met th
em half way, showed him a preference over all, and soon changed a mere acquaintance into a close intimacy. I doubted not for a moment that the Count had secretly chosen the Prince for his son-in-law. Nothing but Hortensia’s indisposition and a fear of her humors appeared to prevent both the father and lover from more open approaches.
The Prince had heard, in confidential conversations with the Count, of Hortensia’s transfigurations. He burnt with a desire to see her in this extraordinary state; and the Countess, who well knew that this state was far from being disadvantageous to her, gave him, what she had hitherto denied to every stranger, permission to be present at one of them.
He came one afternoon when we knew Hortensia would sink into this remarkable sleep, as she always announced it in the preceding one. I cannot deny that I felt a little touch of jealousy as the Prince entered the room. Hitherto I had been the happy one to whom the Countess, by preference in her miraculous glorifications, had turned her exterior graces and intellectual beauty.
Charles approached lightly over the soft carpet, moving on tip-toe. He believed that she really slumbered, as her eyes were closed. Timidity and delight were expressed in his features as he gazed on the charming figure, which, in her whole appearance, discovered something extraordinary.
Hortensia at length began to speak. She conversed with me in her usual affectionate manner. I was again, as ever, her Emanuel, who governed her thoughts, will and whole being; a language which sounded very unpleasingly to the Prince, and which to me was never very flattering. Hortensia, however, began to appear more restless and anxious. She asserted several times that she felt pains, though she could not tell wherefore. I motioned to the Prince that he should reach me his hand. Scarcely had he done so than Hortensia, shuddering violently, cried out gloomily: “How cold! Away with that goat there! He kills me!” She was seized with convulsions, which she had not had for a long time. Charles was obliged hastily to leave the room. He was quite beside himself with terror. After some time, Hortensia recovered from her cramps. “Never bring that impure creature to me again,” said she.
This accident, which even alarmed me, produced unpleasant consequences. The Prince regarded me from this moment as his rival, and conceived a great hatred towards me. The Count, who allowed himself to be entirely governed by him, appeared to become suspicious of Hortensia’s feelings. The mere thought that the Countess might acquire an inclination for me, was insupportable to his pride. Both the Prince and Count united themselves more firmly together; kept me at a greater distance from the Countess, except during the time of her miraculous sleeps; agreed upon the marriage, and the Count opened the wishes of the Prince to his daughter. She, although flattered by the attentions of the Prince, demanded permission to reserve her declaration till the complete restoration of her health. Charles, in the meanwhile, was generally regarded as the betrothed of the Countess. He was her constant attendant, and she the queen of all his fetes.
I very soon discovered that I began to be in the way that with Hortensia’s recovery I had sunk into my original nothingness. My former discontent returned, and nothing made my situation supportable, but that Hortensia, not only in her transfigurations, but soon out of them, did me justice. Not only was her old aversion towards me changed into indifference, but in the same proportion as her bodily health rebloomed, this indifference changed itself into an attentive, forbearing respect; to an affable friendliness, such as one is accustomed to from the higher to the lower, or towards persons whom one sees daily, who belongs to the household, and to whom one feels indebted for the services they perform. She treated me as if I were really her physician—liked to ask my advice, my permission, when it concerned any enjoyment or pleasure; fulfilled punctually my directions, and could command herself to leave the dance so soon as the hour was passed which I had fixed for her. It occurred to me sometimes, as if the authority of my will had in part passed over to her waking, since it began to act more weakly over her soul during her transfigurations.
THE DREAMS.
Hortensia’s pride, obstinacy and humor, also passed gradually away from her like bad spirits. In her disposition, almost as lovely as during her trance, she enchained not less by her outward charms, than by her affection, humility and grateful kindness.
All this made my misfortune. How could I, a daily witness of so many perfections, remain indifferent? I wished most earnestly that she might, as formerly, despise, offend and persecute me, that I might the more easily separate from her, and could be able to despise her in return. But that was now impossible. I again adored her. Silently and without hope, I pined away in my passion. I knew, by anticipation, that my future separation from her would take me to the grave. What made my situation worse, was a dream, which I from time to time had of her, and always in the same or a similar form. Sometimes I was sitting in a strange room sometimes on the seashore—sometimes in a cave under overhanging rocks—sometimes on the moss-covered trunk of an oak, in a great solitude, and with a deeply agitated soul—then came Hortensia, and looking upon me with the kindest compassion, said, “Wherefore so melancholy, dear Faust?” and thereupon each time I awoke, and the tone with which she spoke thrilled through me. This tone was echoed to me the whole day. I heard it in the bustle of the city, the crowd of company, in the song of the gondoliers, at the opera, everywhere. Some nights when I had this dream, I waked so soon as Hortensia had opened her mouth to make the usual question, and then imagined that I actually heard the voice without me.
Dreams formerly in the world used to be dreams; but in the strange circle into which I was placed by my destiny, even dreams had an unusual character.
I was one day regulating some accounts in the Count’s room, and had laid some letters before him for his signature. He was called to receive some of the Venitian nobility, who had come to visit him. Believing he would soon return, I threw myself upon a chair at the window, and sank into a deep melancholy. Soon I heard footsteps, and the Countess, who sought her father, stood near me. I was much startled, without knowing wherefore, and respectfully arose.
“Why so sad, dear Faust?” said Hortensia, with her own peculiar loveliness, spiritualizing my whole being, and with the same voice, whose tones sounded so movingly in my dreams. She then laughed as if surprised at her own question, or as astonished at herself, rubbed thoughtfully her brow, and said, after a while, “What is this? I fancy that it has occurred before. It is extraordinary. I have once before found you exactly as at this moment, and even so questioned you. Is not this singular?”
“Not more singular than I have experienced,” said I, “since not once, but many times, have I dreamt that you discovered me, and asked in the same words the same question which you have now had the goodness to do.”
The Count came in and interrupted our short conversation. But this, apparently in itself unimportant incident, caused me much reflection; nevertheless my researches were in vain to divine how the play of the imagination could mingle with the reality. She had dreamt the same as myself, and the dream had been accomplished in life.
These enchantments were yet far from being at an end.
Five days after this event, the god of sleep mimicked before me that I was invited to a great assembly. It was a great fete and dance. The music made me melancholy, and I remained a solitary spectator. Hortensia suddenly came to me from the crowd of dancers, pressed secretly and fervently my hand, and whispered, “Be gay, Faust, or else I cannot be so!” She then gave me a look of compassionate tenderness, and was again lost in the tumult.
The Count Hormegg attended a pleasure party on that day, at the country seat of a Venitian. I accompanied him. On the way he told me that the Countess would also be there. When we arrived, we found a large company—in the evening there were magnificent fireworks, and then dancing. The Prince opened the ball with Hortensia; it was like the stroke of the dagger to me as I looked at them. I lost all inclination to participate in the ball. In order to forget myself, I chose a partner, and mixed with the floating, beauti
ful troop. But it seemed to me that I had lead fastened to my feet, and I congratulated myself when I was able to slip out from the crowd. Leaning at a door, I gazed on the dancers, not at them, but only at Hortensia, who moved there like a goddess.
I thought of the dream of the past night; in the same moment a dance broke up, and glowing with joy, yet timidly, Hortensia approached me, pressed secretly and lightly my hand, and whispered, “Dear Faust, be gay, that I also may be so.” She spoke this so compassionately, so kindly—with a look from her eyes—a look I lost sense and speech. When I recovered myself Hortensia had again disappeared. She swept again in the row of dancers, but her eyes constantly sought only me; her looks constantly hung on me. It was as if she had the humor, by her attention, to deprive me of the residue of my reason. The couples separated at the end of the dance, and I left my place with the view of seeking another situation in the room, to convince myself whether I had been deceived, and whether the looks of the Countess would seek me there.
Already fresh couples assembled for a new dance, as I wandered over to the seats of the lades. One of them arose at the moment that I approached her—it was the Countess. Her arm was in mine—we joined the circle. I trembled and knew not how it had occurred, since I could never have had the boldness to ask Hortensia to dance, and yet it appeared to me as if I had done so in my absence of mind. She was unembarrassed—scarcely observed my confusion—and her brilliant glances roved over the splendid crowd. One moment and the music began. I seemed to be unbound from all that was earthly; spiritualized I swept on the waves of sound. I knew not what was passing around me—knew not that we chained the attention of all the spectators. What regarded I the admiration of the world? At the end of the third dance I led the Countess to a seat, that she might rest herself. Whisperingly I stammered my thanks—she bowed, with mere friendly politeness, as to the greatest stranger, and I drew myself back amongst the spectators.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 21