As we wandered around with light chat and jokes, her father, the Count, joined us, and soon after the Prince. Never had Hortensia been more lovely than on this, the first day of her restored health. She spoke with tender respect to her father—with friendly familiarity to her female companions—with refined politeness and goodness to the Prince; to me, never without demonstrations of her gratitude. Not that she thanked me in words, but in the manner in which she spoke to me. So soon as she turned to me, there was in her words and tone something indescribably cordial; in her looks and manner something of a sisterly confidence, good-naturedly solicitous for my satisfaction. This tone did not change either in the presence of her father or of the Prince. She continued it with an ingenuousness and sincerity, as if it ought not to be otherwise.
Some delightful days passed by in fetes and joy. Hortensia’s manners towards me did not change. I, myself, ever wavering between the cold laws of respect and the flames of passion, found once more in Hortensia’s conversation an inward repose and independence which I had been deprived of since my acquaintance with this prodigy. Her sincerity and truth made me more calm and contented; her confidence, as it were, more fraternal. She did not at all conceal a heart full of the purest friendhip for me—still less did I conceal my feelings, though at the same time I did not venture to betray their depth. Yet who could long behold so many charms, and resist their influence?
It was the custom for the visitors of the baths at Battaglia, on fine evenings, to sit assembled before a large coffee house, enjoying the air and refreshments. An unconstrained conversation reigned there. They sat upon chairs in the open street, and in a half circle. To the right and left were heard the sounds of guitars, mandolines and singing, after the Italian mode. In the great houses, also, music sounded, and windows and doors were lighted. One evening, the Prince having left us earlier than usual, the Countess took a whim to visit this assemblage of the visitors of the place. I was already in my room, and sat holding the bouquet in both hands, dreaming over my destiny. The light burnt dimly, and my room door stood half open. Hortensia and Cecilia saw me as they passed. They watched me for some time, and then came softly in. I did not observe them till they stood close beside me, and declared that I must accompany them to the town. They now amused themselves with jests at my surprise. Hortensia recognised the bouquet. She took it from the table where I had thrown it, and, withered as it was, stuck it in her bosom. We went down to Battaglia and mingled with the company.
It happened that Cecilia, in conversation with some persons of her acquaintance, separated from us, which neither Hortensia or myself regretted. On my arm, she wandered up and down through the moving crowd, till she was fatigued. We seated ourselves on a little bench under an elm which grew on one side. The moon shone through the branches upon Hortensia’s beautiful face, and upon the withered flowers in her bosom.
“Will you again rob me of what you have given me?” asked I, as I pointed to the bouquet.
She looked at me long, with a strange, thoughtful seriousness, and then replied, “It always appears to me as if I could give you nothing, and could take nothing from you. Is it not sometimes the same with you?”
This answer and question, so lightly and quietly thrown out, placed me in embarrassment and silence. From respect I scarcely dared to dwell on the kind meaning. She once more repeated the question.
“Alas! it is often so with me!” said I. “When I see the abyss between you and myself, and the distance which holds me far from you, then is it so with me. Who can give or take from the gods, that which does not always belong to them?”
She opened her eyes and looked at me with astonishment.
“Why do you speak of the gods, Faust? Even to one’s-self, one can give or take nothing.”
“One’s-self?” replied I, with an uncertain voice. “You know that you have made me your own property?”
“I do not myself know how it is!” she answered, and her eyes sank down.
“But I, dear Countess; I know it. The enchantment which ruled over us is not lost, but has only changed its direction. Formerly in your transfigurations I governed your will, now you govern mine. In your presence only do I live. I can do nothing—I am nothing without you. If my confession, a crime before the world, but not before God, vexes you, I am not the cause, since it is at your own command that I have acted. Can I dissemble before you? If it is a crime that my soul has involuntarily become chained to your being, it is not my offence.”
She turned away her face, and raised her hand to denote that I should be silent. I had at the same moment raised mine, in order to cover my eyes, which were dimmed in tears. The upraised hands sank down clasped together. We were silent; thought was lost in powerful feelings. I had betrayed my passion—but Hortensia had pardoned me.
Cecilia disturbed us. We went silently back to the castle. As we separated, the Countess said, lowly and sadly, “Through you I have obtained health, only to suffer more.”
PETRARCH’S DWELLING.
When we met the next day, there was a kind of sacred timidity between us. I scarcely ventured to address her—she scarcely to answer me. In our looks, full of seriousness we often met. She appeared to wish to look through me. I sought to read in her eyes whether in her calmer moments she were offended at my boldness of yesterday. Many days passed without our again seeing each other alone. We had a secret between us, and feared to profane it by a look. Hortensia’s whole manner was more solemn—her gaiety more moderate—as if she did not enter with her whole heart into the customary routine of life.
Nevertheless, I counted too much on her changed manner, after that decisive hour under the elm. Prince Charles had, as I afterwards learnt, formally solicited the hand of the Countess, which had caused an unpleasing and constrained state between herself, her father and the Prince. In order to gain time, and not to offend them, Hortensia had entreated for time for reflection, and truly for such an unlimited period, and under such hard conditions, that Charles must almost despair ever to see his wishes crowned.
“Not that I have any aversion to the Prince,” as she expressed her explanation, “but I wish still to enjoy my freedom. I will, at a future day, of myself and voluntarily, give my yes or no. But if the offer is repeated before I desire it, then I am determined to reject him, even though I may truly love him.”
The Count knew of old the inflexible disposition of his daughter; though from that reason he hoped the best, since Hortensia had not directly refused the attentions of the Prince. Charles, on the contrary, was much the more without danger, because it was open and unembarassed. Hortensia also treated him in the same manner. He had accustomed himself to see me treated as the friend of the house and confidential adviser both of the father and daughter; and as the Count had confided to him the secret of my plebeian descent, he could still less fear me as a rival. He condescended to make me his confidant, and one day related to me the history of his wooing Hortensia’s hand and her answer. He conjured me to grant him my friendly services to discover, however distant, if Hortensia had any inclination towards him. I was obliged to promise it. Everyday he inquired if I had made any discovery? I could always excuse myself that I had had no opportunity of seeing Hortensia alone.
Probably, in order to facilitate this opportunity, he arranged a little party of pleasure to Arquato, three miles from Battaglia, where the visitors of the baths were accustomed to make a pilgrimage to the tomb and dwelling house of Petrarch. Hortensia esteemed, above all the Italian poets, this tender and spiritualized songster of pure love. She had long been enjoying the idea of this pilgrimage. But when the moment of departure arrived, Charles, under some slight pretence, not only remained behind himself. but contrived also to prevent the Count from accompanying Hortensia, promising, however, to follow us without fail. Beatrice and Cecilia, the companions of the Countess, rode with her alone. I followed the carriage on horseback.
I conducted the ladies to the church yard of the village, where a simple monument covered
the ashes of the immortal poet, and translated the Latin inscription for them. Hortensia stood absorbed in deep and serious thought before the grave. She sighed, as she remarked, “Thus die all!” and I thought I felt her draw my arm slightly towards her. “Die all,” said I; “then would not the life of man be a cruelty of the Creator, and love the heaviest curse of life?”
Sorrowfully we left the church yard. A friendly old man led us from thence to a vine hill, not far distant, upon which stands Petrarch’s dwelling, and near by a little garden. From this spot the prospect of the plain is truly beautiful. In the house they showed us the poet’s household furniture, which was preserved with religious faithfulness—the table at which he read and wrote, the chair on which he rested, and even his kitchen utensils.
The sight of such relics always have a peculiar influence on the mind. It annihilates the interval of centuries and brings the distant past prominently before the imagination. To me, it was as if the poet had only gone out, and that he would presently open the little brown door of his chamber and greet us. Hortensia found an elegant edition of Petrarch’s sonnets on a table in a corner. Wearied, she seated herself there, rested her beautiful head upon her hand, and read attentively, whilst the fingers of her supporting hand concealed her eyes. Beatrice and Cecilia went to prepare refreshments for the Countess. I remained silently at the window. Petrarch’s love and hopelessness were my destiny. Another Laura sat there, divine, not through the charms of the muse, but of herself.
Hortensia took a handkerchief to dry her eyes. I was troubled at seeing her weep. I approached her timidly, but did not venture to address her. She suddenly rose, and smiling, said to me with a tearful look, “The poor Petrarch! the poor human heart! But all passes—all. It is centuries since he has ceased to lament. Though they say, that in his latter years he conquered his passion. Is it good to conquer one’s-self? May it not be called destroying one’s-self?”
“If necessity commands it;” I replied.
“Has necessity power over the human heart?” asked the Countess.
“But,” I replied, “Laura was the wife of Hugo de Sade. Her heart dared not to belong to her lover. His fate was solitary to love, solitary to die. He had the gift of song, and the muses consoled him. He was unhappy—as I.”
“As you?” replied Hortensia, with a scarcely audible voice— “Unhappy, Faust?”
“I have not,” I continued, “the divine gift of song, therefore my heart will break, since it hath nothing to console it. Countess, dear Countess—dare I say more than I have said? But I will continue worthy of your esteem, and that can only be by a manly courage—grant me one request, only one modest request.”
Hortensia threw down her eyes, but did not answer.
“One request, dear Countess, for my quiet,” I again said.
“What shall I do?” whispered she, without raising her eyes.
“Am I certain that you will not refuse my prayer?” I asked.
She regarded me with a long, serious look, and with an indescribable dignity, said, “Faust, I know not what you would ask; but how great soever it may be—yes, Faust I am indebted to you for my recovery—my life! I grant your request. Speak.”
I seized her hand, I sank at her feet, I pressed her hand to my burning lips—I almost lost consciousness and speech. Hortensia stood with downcast eyes, as if from apathy.
I at length gained power to speak. “I must away from here. Let me fly from you. I dare tarry no longer. Let me, in some solitude, far from you, tranquillize and end my unhappy life. I must away! I disturb the peace of your house. Charles has demanded your hand!”
“I will never have him!” said the Countess, hurriedly and with a firm tone.
“Let me fly. Even your goodness increases the multitude of my miseries.” Hortensia struggled violently with herself.
“You commit a fearful injustice. But I can no longer prevent it!” cried she, as she burst into a passionate flood of tears. She staggered and sought the chair—seeing which I sprang up, and she sank sobbing on my breast. After some moments she recovered, and feeling herself encircled by my arms, she endeavored to loosen my hold. But I, forgetting the old commands of respect, pressed her more closely, as I sighed, “A few moments, and then we part!”
“Her resistance ceased; she then raised her eyes on me, and with a countenance, on which, as formerly, the color of transfiguration glimmered, said, “Faust, what are you doing?”
“Will you not forget me in my absence?” asked I, in return.
“Can I?” sighed she, and threw down her eyes.
“Farewell, Hortensia!” stammered I, and my cheek rested on hers.
“Emanuel! Emanuel!” whispered she. Our lips met. I felt tenderly and gently her reciprocal kiss, whilst one of her arms rested around my neck.
Minutes, quarters of hours passed. At length, together and in silence, we left the dwelling of Petrarch, and proceeded in the path down the hill, where we found two servants, who conducted us to an arbor under some wild laurel trees, where a little repast was prepared for us. At that moment the carriage of the Prince rolled by. Charles and the Count descended from it.
Hortensia was very serious and laconic in her answers. She appeared lost in continued meditation. I saw that she was obliged to force herself to speak to the Prince. Towards me she preserved, unchanged, the cordiality and confidence of her deportment. Petrarch’s dwelling was again visited, as the Count wished to see it. As we entered the room, which had been consecrated by the mutual confession of our hearts. Hortensia seated herself again on the chair near the table, in the same place, and with the book as at first, and so remained till we departed. Then she arose, laid her hand upon her breast, cast a penetrating look on me and hurried quickly from the apartment.
The Prince had remarked this emotion and this look. A deep red rose over his countenance; he went out with folded arms and his head hung down. All joy retreated from our party. Every one appeared desirous to reach the castle soon again. I did not doubt but that Charles’s jealousy had guessed all, and feared his revenge less for myself than for the peace of the Countess. Therefore, as soon as I returned home, I determined to arrange every thing for my speedy departure the next morning. I communicated my irrevocable resolution to the Count, gave up to him all the papers, and entreated him to say nothing to the Countess until I was gone.
MELANCHOLY SEPARATION.
I had long since obtained the consent of the Count, that in this event the honest old Sebald should accompany me, who had many times demanded his dismissal, in order to revisit his German home. Sebald twirled and danced round the room for joy, when he heard from me that the moment of departure had arrived. A horse and cloak bag for each, was our whole equipment for the journey.
I had determined to withdraw very quietly at the dawn of the following day. No one knew any thing of my departure, except the Count and old Sebald, and I desired that no one should know it. I determined to leave behind for Hortensia a few lines of thanks and love, and an eternal farewell. The old Count appeared surprised, though not discontented. He embraced me most tenderly, thanked me for the services I had performed, and promised within an hour to come to my room, in order to give me some useful papers, which would procure me for the future a life free from care, and which, as he expressed it, was only a payment on account of a debt for life. I would not refuse a moderate sum for travelling expenses, in order to reach Germany—in fact I was almost without money—but my pride refused to take more.
I packed up, as soon as I returned to my room. Sebald hurried out to prepare the horses and arrange every thing for departing at the moment. In the mean while I wrote to Hortensia. I cannot describe what I suffered—how I struggled with myself—how often I sprang up from writing to relieve my pains with tears. My life until now had been one full of care and unhappiness—and the dim future to me presented nothing more soothing to the soul. Death, thought I, is sweeter and easier than thus to outlive hope.
I destroyed many times what I
had written, and had not finished, when I was disturbed in a manner that I least expected.
Trembling and almost breathless Sebald rushed into my room, hastily took up the packed portmanteau and cried:
“Mr. Faust, some mischief has happened; they will drag you to prison; they will murder you! Let us fly ere it is too late.”
In vain I asked the cause of his fright. I only learnt that the Count was in a rage, the Prince raving, and every one in the castle roused against me. I replied coldly, that I had nothing to fear, and still less to fly like a criminal.
“Sir,” cried Sebald, “one cannot escape without misfortune from this unhappy family, over which a bad star rules. This I have long since said. Fly!”
At this moment two of the Count’s game-keepers came in and requested me to come immediately to the Count. Sebald blinked and winked, and urged me to endeavor to escape. I could not avoid smiling at his terror, and followed the servants. I, however, commanded Sebald to saddle the horses, since I no longer doubted that something extraordinary had occurred, and thought that the Prince, probably from jealousy, had projected some quarrel with me.
I had scarcely reached the Count Hormegg, when Charles came storming into the room, and declared that I had dishonored the house, and had a secret intrigue with the Countess. Beatrice, the companion of the Countess, gained over to the Prince, either by his presents or perhaps by his tenderness, had, as she left Petrarch’s dwelling with Cecilia, become impatient at Hortensia and myself, and returned and seen us in the embrace of each other. The Abigail was discreet enough not to disturb us, but was prompt enough, so soon as we returned to the castle, to betray the important event to the Prince. The Count, who could believe any thing but this—since it appeared to him the most unnatural thing in the world, that a common citizen, a painter, should have won the love of a Countess of Hormegg—treated the affair, at first, as a mere illusion of jealousy. The Prince, for his justification, was obliged to betray his informer; and Beatrice, though much opposed to it, was compelled to acknowledge what she had seen.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 23