Chapter VI: Part 6

From this time a new life began for him. He went to live with the farmer, and was reckoned with his family. With his station also he changed his dress. He was so good, so serviceable, and ever kind; so diligent at his labour, that soon all in the house, but especially the daughter, became friendly to him. So often as on Sunday he saw her going to church, he held for her in readiness a beautiful nosegay, which she received from him with blushing thankfulness: he missed her when the day passed without his seeing her; and then in the evening she would relate to him legends and pleasant stories. They became ever more needful to each other; and the old people, who observed it, seemed not to have any thing against it; for Christian was the handsomest and most industrious youth in the village. They themselves, from the first moment, had felt a constraint of love and friendship towards him. After half a year, Elizabeth was his wife. It was again spring; the swallows and birds of song had come into the land; the garden stood in its gayest attire; the marriage was celebrated with all joyfulness; bride and bridegroom appeared as if intoxicated with their happiness. Late in the evening, as they went to their chamber, the young husband said to his beloved: "No, thou art not that form which once charmed me in a dream, and which I never can quite forget; yet am I happy in thy presence, and blest in thine embrace."

How joyful was the family, when, after a year, it was increased by a little daughter, that was named Leonora. It is true that Christian was at times somewhat more serious as he contemplated the child; but yet his youthful sprightliness always again returned to him. He scarcely ever thought of his former way of life, for he felt himself quite at home and contented. After some months, however, the thought of his parents occurred to him, and especially how his father would rejoice at his peaceful lot, at his condition as gardener and husbandman; it pained him that he had been able for so long a time to forget father and mother; his own child reminded him of what joy children are to parents; and so he at length resolved to put himself on the journey, and revisit his native home.

Unwillingly he left his wife; all wished him happiness; and in the fine season of the year, on foot he took his way. Already, after a few miles, he felt how painful was the parting; for the first time in his life he felt the smart of separation; the strange objects around seemed almost savage to him; he felt as if he were lost in a hostile solitude. Then the thought occurred to him that his youth was over; that he had found a home to which he belonged, in which his heart had taken root; he could almost lament the lost levity of former years; and he felt the extremest dejection of spirit as at a village he turned into the inn to pass the night. He could not comprehend why he had left his affectionate wife and acquired parents; and peevish and discontented, he next morning set forth to continue his journey.

His anguish increased as he came near the chain of mountains; the distant ruins were already visible, and gradually became more distinguishable; while numerous hill-tops rose round and clear from out the blue mist. He went timidly on; often stopping and wondering with himself at the fear, at the horror, which more and more oppressed him at every step. "Madness!" he exclaimed, "I know thee well, and thy perilous allurement; but I will manfully withstand thee. Elizabeth is no idle dream; I know that she now thinks on me, that she is expecting me, and, full of love, counts the hours of my absence. Do I not already see forests as black hair before me? Do not the lightening eyes look towards me from the brook? The giant forms, are they not advancing to me from the mountains?"

With these words, he was about to lay himself down to rest beneath a tree, when he saw an old man sitting under its shadow, who was, with the greatest attention, contemplating a flower, now holding it towards the sun, then again shading it with his hand, counting its leaves, and striving in all ways to impress it strictly on his memory. As he approached nearer, the form seemed known to him, and soon no doubt remained that the old man with the flower was his father. He rushed into his arms with an expression of the most vehement joy; the other was delighted, but not astonished, at meeting him so suddenly.

"Art thou come to meet me already, my son?" said the old man; "I knew that I should soon find thee, but I did not think that to-day such joy would happen to me."

"How came you to know, father, that you would meet with me?"

"By this flower," replied the old gardener; "all my life I have been wishing to be able once to find it, but never had the fortune; for it is very rare, and grows only on the mountains. I set out in quest of thee, because thy mother is dead, and the solitude at home was too oppressive and afflicting to me. I knew not whither to direct my way. At last I wandered through the mountains, dreary as the journey seemed to me. By the way, I sought for this flower, but could nowhere discover it; and now, quite unexpected, I find it here, where the beautiful plain lies stretched before me; thereby I knew that I should find thee soon; and, see! how truly the dear flower has prophesied!"

They embraced each other again, and Christian wept for his mother; but the old man grasped his hand, and said: "Let us be going, that we may soon lose sight of the mountain shadows. My heart is always sad at the steep wild shapes, the horrid chasms, the gurgling waterfalls. Let us again visit the kind, harmless level country."

They wandered back; and Christian became more cheerful. He told his father of his new fortune, of his child and of his home: his speech made him as if intoxicated; and, in talking, he now for the first time felt truly how nothing more was wanting to his happiness. Thus, amid tales joyful and melancholy, they arrived at the village. All were rejoiced at the speedy termination of the journey; most of all, Elizabeth. The old man took up his abode with them, joined his little fortune to their estate, and they formed, together, the most contented and united circle among men. The field increased; the cattle throve; Christian's house became in a few years one of the most considerable in the village; and he soon saw himself the father of several children.

Five years had in this manner passed away, when a stranger, on his journey, stopped, and took up his abode in Christian's house, as being the most respectable in the village. He was a friendly, communicative man, who related many things of his journey, played with and gave presents to the children, and, in short, was kind to every one. He was so pleased with the neighbourhood, that he was resolved to spend some days there; but the days grew to weeks, and at length to months. His sojourn surprised no one, for all had already been accustomed to regard him as belonging to the family. Only Christian often sat musing; for it occurred to him that he had already aforetime known the traveller, and yet he could not recollect the occasion when he could have seen him.

At last, after three months, the stranger took his leave, and said, "My dear friends, a wonderful destiny and strange expectations impel me forward into the nearest mountains; a magical form, which I cannot withstand, allures me. I now leave you, and know not whether I shall return to you. I have a sum of money by me, which is safer in your hands than in mine, and therefore I pray you to take charge of it: should I not come back in a year's time, then keep it, and take it as a thank-offering for your kindness shewn to me."

So the stranger departed; and Christian took the money into his keeping. He carefully locked it up; and at times, in the excess of anxiety, looked over it, counted it to see that none was missing, and made himself much ado with it.

"This sum would make us right happy," he once said to his father, "should the stranger not return; we and our children would then be for ever provided for."

"Let alone the gold," said the old man; "therein lies no blessing: hitherto, praise God, we have wanted nothing, and by all means put this thought away from thee."

Christian often arose in the night to waken the servants to their labour, and himself to look after every thing. The father was anxious lest, through excessive diligence, he should injure his youth and health; therefore, one night, he arose in order to admonish him on the subject, when, to his astonishment, he saw him sitting at a table, and with the greatest eagerness counting over the gold.

"My son," said the old man, in sadness, "shall it come to this with thee? has this cursed metal been brought under the roof only to our unhappiness? Bethink thyself, my son, or the wicked fiend will consume thy blood and life."

"Yes," said Christian, "I no longer comprehend myself; neither by night nor by day have I any rest; see now how it looks at me, till the ruddy glow goes deep into my heart. Listen how it clinks, this golden blood; it calls me when asleep; I hear it when music sounds, when the wind blows, when people are talking in the street. If the sun shines, I see only these yellow eyes, with which it blinks at me, and wishes to whisper secretly a word of love into my ear: so I am obliged nightly to get up, though only to satisfy its strong desire, and then I feel it inwardly exulting and rejoicing; when I touch it with my fingers, it grows ruddier and more glorious in its joy. Only look yourself now at the glow of its rapture!"

The grey-haired man, shuddering and weeping, took his son in his arms, prayed, and then said, "Christel, thou must turn again to the word of God; thou must more diligently and devoutly go to church: otherwise thou wilt languish, and in the saddest misery pine thyself away."

The money was again locked up. Christian promised to betake himself to other subjects; and the old man was composed. A year and more had already passed, and no tidings heard of the stranger: the old man at last yielded to the entreaties of his son; and the relinquished money was laid out in lands and other ways. The young farmer's wealth was soon talked of in the village; and Christian seemed extremely contented and joyful, so that his father thought himself happy at seeing him so well and cheerful; all fear had now vanished from his soul. What, then, must have been his astonishment when, one evening, Elizabeth took him aside, and told him, with tears, that she could no longer understand her husband; he spoke so wildly, especially at night; he had perplexing dreams; would often in his sleep for a long time walk about the room without knowing it, and tell of wondrous things which oft made her shudder. But most frightful to her was his merriment in the daytime; his laugh was wild and boisterous, his look strange and wandering. The father stood terror-struck; and the troubled wife continued: "He is always speaking of the stranger, and maintains that otherwise he has long known him, for that this stranger-man is really none other than a woman of wondrous beauty; he also will no longer go out into the field, nor work in the garden, for he says that he hears underground a fearful groaning when he only pulls up a root; he starts and seems terrified at the plant and herbs, as if they were spectres."

"Merciful God!" exclaimed the father, "is the frightful hunger so fast grown within him that it has come to this? Then is his enchanted heart no longer human, but of cold metal; he who loves not flowers, has lost all love and fear of God."

The following day the father went for a walk with his son, and repeated to him much of what he had heard from Elizabeth; he exhorted him to piety, and to devote his spirit to holy contemplations.

Christian replied, "Willingly, my father; and often I feel quite happy, and every thing succeeds well with me: for a long time, for years, I can forget the true form of my inward being, and lead, as it were, a strange life with cheerfulness: but then suddenly, like a new moon, the ruling star, which I myself am, arises on my heart, and vanquishes the foreign influence. I could be quite happy, but that once, on an extraordinary night, a mysterious sign was impressed through my hand deeply within my soul; often the magic figure sleeps and is at rest; I think it has passed away, when suddenly it springs forth again as a poison, and makes its way in all directions. Then I can think and feel nothing else; all around me is changed, or, rather, is by this form swallowed up. As the madman shudders at the water, and the infused poison within him becomes more venomous, so it happens to me with every cornered figure, every line, every beam; all will then unbind the form that dwells within me, and promote its birth; and my body and soul feel the anguish; as my spirit received it by a feeling from without, so into an outward feeling she desires, with agonising throes, to work it forth again, that she may be free from it and at rest."

"It was an unlucky star," said the old man, "that drew thee away from us. Thou wert born for a still life; thy mind tended to quietness and plants; then thy impatience led thee away into the society of savage stones; the rocks, the rent cliffs, with their rugged shapes, have overset thy spirit, and planted within thee the desolating hunger after metal. Thou oughtest ever to have been on thy guard, and kept thy view from the mountains. So I thought to bring thee up; but it was not so to be. Thy humility, thy calmness, thy childlike feelings, have been all overturned by obstinacy, wildness, and overbearing."

"No," said the son; "I remember quite distinctly that it was a plant which first made known to me the misery of the whole earth; only then I understood the sighs and lamentations which are every where perceptible in all nature, if only one will listen. In plants, herbs, flowers, and trees, there moves and stirs painfully only one general wound; they are the corpse of former glorious worlds of rock, they present to our eye the frightfullest corruption. Now I well understand that it was this which that root with its deep-fetched moaning wished to say to me; in its agony it forgot itself, and told me all. Therefore are all green plants so angry with me, and wait for my life; they desire to obliterate the loved figure in my heart; and every spring, with their distorted deathly looks, to win my soul. With unpermitted and malicious art have they deceived thee, old man; for they have gained complete possession of thy soul. Only ask the rocks, thou wilt be astonished when thou hearest them speak."

The father looked at him a long while, but could answer him no more. They went silently back to the house, and the old man was likewise horrified at his son's mirth; for it seemed quite foreign to him, and as if another being was, as from a machine, sporting and awkwardly labouring within him.

The harvest-feast was again to be celebrated; the people went to church, and Elizabeth, with her children, set out to be present at the service; her husband also prepared to accompany them; but at the church-door he turned aside, and, deep in thought, went forth out of the village. He seated himself on the height, and looked down on the smoking cottages beneath him; heard the singing and organ-tones coming from the church; and saw children gaily clad dancing and sporting upon the village-green. "How have I lost my life in a dream!" said he to himself: "years have passed away since I went down this hill among the children; those who then were playing are to-day serious in the church; I also went into the sacred building; but Elizabeth is now no more a blooming child-like maiden; her youth is gone by; I cannot with the longing of that time seek for the glance of her eyes: thus have I wantonly neglected a high eternal happiness, to gain one that is only passing and transitory."

Full of strange desires, he walked to the neighbouring wood, and buried himself in its thickest shades. A shuddering stillness encompassed him; no breeze stirred amid the leaves. Meanwhile he saw a man approaching him from the distance, whom he imagined to be the stranger; he was struck with terror, and his first thought was, that he would demand back his money. But as the form came nearer, he saw how greatly he had been mistaken; for the features which he had fancied, dissolved away as into one another, and an old woman of the extremest ugliness came up to him. She was clad in dirty rags; a tattered cloth bound together some grey hairs; and she hobbled on a crutch. With frightful voice she spoke to Christian, and asked after his name and station. He answered her minutely, and added, "But who art thou?"

"I am called the Woodwoman," said she; "and every child can tell of me. Hast thou never known me?" With the last words she turned herself about, and Christian thought he again recognised among the trees the golden veil, the lofty gait, the majestic limbs. He wished to hasten after her, but he had sight of her no more.

Meanwhile something glittering drew his eye down to the grass. He took it up, and saw again the magic tablet with its coloured precious stones and remarkable figure, that he had lost so many years before. The form and its varied light pressed all his senses with a sudden power. He grasped it firmly, to assure himself that he had it once more in his hands, and then hastened back with it to the village. His father met him.

"See," cried he to him, "that of which I have so often told you, and which I thought only to have seen in a dream, is now truly and surely mine."

The old man contemplated the tablet a long while, and said: "My son, my heart quite shudders as I view the aspect of these stones, and foreboding guess the meaning of this inscription. See here, how cold they sparkle, what cruel looks they cast up, bloodthirsty, like the red eye of the tiger! Throw away this writing, which makes thee cold and cruel, which will turn thy heart to stone.

See the tender flowers beaming,
As from out themselves they waken;
Like as children from their dreaming,
In smiling loveliness are taken.

Their various hues in playful bliss
All turn they to the golden sun;
And when they feel his burning kiss,
'Tis then their happiness is won.

And on his kisses so to languish,
To pine in love and melancholy;
Then smiling in their dearest anguish,
Soon fade in soft tranquillity.

This is to them the highest joy,
The fond delight they love to cherish;
Themselves in death to glorify,
Beneath their lover's glance to perish.

Then all around their perfum'd treasure
They profluent pour in raptur'd calm;
Until the air grows drunk with pleasure,
Enliven'd with the odorous balm.

Love comes all human hearts approving,
Responsive touching every chord;
Well may the conscious soul record,
'Now I know the due reward,
The gladness, sadness, pain of loving.'"

"Wonderful incalculable treasures," answered the son, "must there still be in the depths of the earth! Could some one but explore them, raise them up, and snatch them to himself! Could he but so press to his bosom the earth as a beloved bride, that in anguish and love she would willingly grant to him what she had most precious! The Woodwoman has called me; I go to seek her. Close by is an old ruined shaft, which centuries ago some miner has dug open; perhaps there I shall find her."

He hastened forward. In vain the old man strove to detain him; he soon vanished from his sight. Some hours afterwards, the father, with much exertion, arrived at the old shaft: he saw footsteps impressed on the sand at the entrance; and returned in tears, convinced that his son had, in his madness, gone in, and been drowned in the depths of the old collected waters.

From that time he was always melancholy and in tears. The whole village mourned for the young farmer. Elizabeth was inconsolable; the children lamented aloud. Half a year after the old father died; Elizabeth's parents soon followed him, and she was obliged to take the sole management of the large estate. Her many avocations removed her somewhat from her sorrow; the education of her children, the superintendence of her property, left her no time for care and grief. So after two years she resolved on a new marriage, and gave her hand to a young sprightly man, who had loved her from his youth. But soon all things in the house assumed another form. The cattle died; men and maid-servants were unfaithful; the barns filled with grain were consumed by fire; people in the town who owed them various sums fled away with the money. The landlord soon found himself compelled to sell some fields and meadows; but a failure in the crops, and a year of scarcity, only brought him into new embarrassments. It seemed nought else than as if the gold, so wondrously obtained, were in all ways seeking a speedy flight.

Meanwhile the family increased; and Elizabeth, as well as her husband, became careless and dilatory from despair. He endeavoured to drown his cares by drinking much of intoxicating wine, which made him irritable and passionate, so that Elizabeth often bewailed her misery with bitter tears.

As soon as their fortune declined, their friends in the village kept aloof; so that in a few years, they found themselves quite forsaken, and with the greatest difficulty could struggle on from week to week.

They had only a few sheep and one cow remaining; which Elizabeth herself often tended with her children. She was once sitting thus with her work on the grass, Leonora by her side, and a child at her breast, when they saw from the distance a strange form coming towards them. It was a man in a coat all in tatters, barefoot, his countenance sunburnt to a dark-brown, and still more disfigured by a long rough beard; he wore no covering on his head, but had a garland of green leaves twisted through his hair, which made his wild appearance still more strange and incomprehensible. On his back he carried in a fast-bound sack a heavy burden; in walking he supported himself on a young fir-tree.

When he came nearer, he set down his load, and heavily fetched his breath. He wished the lady good-day; she was terrified at his presence, the child clung closely to her mother. When he had rested a while, he said: "I have just come from a very fatiguing journey among the roughest mountains upon earth; but have, at last, succeeded in bringing with me the most precious treasures which imagination can conceive or heart can wish. Look here and wonder!" Hereupon he opened his sack, and emptied it; it was full of pebbles, mixed with large pieces of flint and other stones. "It is only," he continued, "that these jewels are not yet ground and polished, that they fail to take the eye. The outward fire, with its brightness, is yet too deeply buried in their inmost heart; but one has only to strike it out, and make them feel that no dissimulation will any more serve them, then you will see of what spirit they are the offspring." With these words, he took one of the hard stones and struck it vehemently against another, so that red sparks sprang forth between them, "Did you see the glance?" he cried. "Thus are they all fire and light; they illuminate the darkness with their laughter, but as yet they do it not willingly." So saying, he again packed all up carefully in his sack, which he tied fast together. "I know thee very well," he then said sadly; "thou art Elizabeth." She started with terror.

"How earnest thou to know my name?" she asked, with foreboding shudder.

"Ah, good God!" said the unhappy one; "I am indeed Christian, who once came to thee as a hunter. Dost thou, then, know me no more?"

She knew not, in her horror and deepest compassion, what to say. He fell upon her neck and kissed her. Elizabeth exclaimed, "O God! my husband is coming!"

"Be tranquil," said he; "I am as good as dead to thee. There in the forest my fair one awaits me; the powerful one, she that is adorned with the golden veil. This is my dearest child Leonora. Come hither, my dear, beloved heart; give me too a kiss,--one only,--that I may once again feel thy mouth upon my lips, then I will leave you."

Leonora wept; she clasped close to her mother, who, in sobs and tears, half turned her towards the wanderer; he half drew her to himself, took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom. Then he went silently away, and in the wood they saw him speaking with the frightful Woodwoman.

"What is the matter?" asked the husband, as he found mother and daughter pale and dissolved in tears. Neither would answer him.

But the unhappy one was from that day never again seen.

THE MYSTERIOUS CUP.

The forenoon bells were sounding from the great cathedral. On the open place, men and women were moving in various directions, carriages passing along, and priests going to their churches. Ferdinand stood upon the stairs regarding the multitude, and contemplating those who went up to be present at high mass. The sunshine glistened on the white stones; every one sought shelter against the heat; he only had been long standing in meditation, leaning against a pillar, under the burning beams, without feeling them; for he was lost amid the recollections which had risen up in his thoughtfulness. He thought on his former life, and inspired himself with the feeling which had penetrated his being, and extinguished all other wishes.

At the same hour he had stood here in the former year, to see the women and maidens going to service; with listless heart and smiling eye he had contemplated the various forms. Then there came across the square a youthful form in black, tall and noble, her eyes modestly cast before her on the ground; unembarrassed she ascended the stairs with lovely grace; her silken dress lay around the most beautiful of forms, and vibrated as in music about the moving limbs. She was going to mount the highest step, when unconsciously she raised her eye, and its azure beam met his glance. He was pierced as by lightning. She stumbled, and quickly as he sprang forward, he could not hinder but that for a moment she, in the most charming posture, lay kneeling at his feet. He raised her; she looked not at him, but was all a blush, nor answered his inquiry whether she was hurt. He followed her into the church, and saw only the image as she had knelt before him, and the loveliest of bosoms bent towards him. The following day he again visited the threshold of the temple; for him the place was consecrated. He had intended to take his departure, his friends were impatiently expecting him at home; but now from henceforth this was his father-land; his heart was inverted.

He saw her often--she did not shun him--yet only for separate and stolen moments; for her rich family sufficiently watched her, still more a powerful and jealous bridegroom. They confessed to each other their love, but knew not in their situation what to counsel; for he was a stranger, and could offer his beloved no such great fortune as she was entitled to expect. Now he felt his poverty; yet when he thought on his former way of life, he seemed to himself surpassingly rich, for his existence was hallowed, his heart floated for ever in the fairest emotion. Nature was now friendly to him, and her beauty revealed to his meditations, he felt himself no longer a stranger to devotion and religion; and now he trod this threshold, the mysterious dimness of the temple, with far other feelings than in those days of levity. He withdrew from his former acquaintances, and lived only to love. Whenever he passed through her street, and only saw her at the window, that day was for him a happy one. He had often spoken to her in the twilight of evening, as her garden adjoined to that of a friend, who, however, did not know his secret. Thus a year had elapsed.

All these scenes of his new existence again passed through his remembrance. He raised his eyes; that noble form was even then gliding across the square--she lightened upon him from among the mixed multitude as a sun. A lovely song sounded into his longing heart; and as she approached, he stepped back into the church. He held towards her the holy water; her white fingers trembled as they touched his; she bowed graciously. He followed her, and knelt near her. His whole heart melted away in melancholy and love; it seemed to him as if, from the wounds of longing, his existence was bleeding away in ardent prayers; every word of the priest thrilled through him, every tone of the music gushed devotion into his bosom; his lips quivered as the fair one pressed the crucifix of her rosary to her ruby mouth. How had he not been able to comprehend this faith and this love before?

The priest raised the host, and the bell sounded. She bowed herself more humbly, and crossed her breast. Like lightning it struck through all his powers and feelings; and the altar-picture seemed alive--the coloured dimness of the windows as a light of Paradise. Tears streamed profusely from his eyes, and allayed the inward burning of his heart. Divine service was ended. He again offered her the holy font; they spoke some words, and she withdrew. He remained behind, not to excite notice; he looked after her till the hem of her garment vanished round the corner. Then he felt as the weary bewildered traveller, who in the thick forest beholds the last gleam of the descending sun.

He awoke from his dream, as a dry, withered hand struck him on the shoulder, and some one called him by name. He started back, and recognised his friend the morose Albert, who lived apart from men, and whose lonely house was open only to the young Ferdinand. "Are you mindful of our engagement?" asked the hoarse voice.

"O, yes," said Ferdinand; "and will you keep your promise to-day?"

"This very hour," replied the other, "if you will follow me."

They walked through the city to a distant street, and there into a large building.

"To-day," said the old man, "you must give yourself the trouble to go with me to the back part of the house, into my most solitary chamber, that we may not be at all disturbed."

They passed through many rooms, then up some stairs, and along several passages; and Ferdinand, who had thought that he knew the house well, now could not but wonder at the number of the apartments, as well as the singular arrangement of the spacious building; but more than all, that the old man, who was not married and had no family, should occupy it alone, with only a single servant, and would never let out any portion of the superfluous room to strangers. At length Albert unlocked a door, and said, "Now we are at the place." They entered a large and lofty chamber, hung round with red damask, that was trimmed with golden listings; the seats were of the same stuff; and through heavy red silk curtains, which were let down, there glimmered a purple light.

"Wait a moment," said the old man, as he went into another room.

Ferdinand, in the mean time, took up some books, in which he found strange unintelligible characters, circles and lines, together with many curious plates; and from the little he could read, they seemed to him to be works on alchemy: he knew, also, that the old man had the reputation of being a gold-maker. On the table lay a lute, singularly overlaid with mother-of-pearl and coloured wood, and representing birds and flowers in splendid forms. The star in the middle was a large piece of mother-of-pearl, worked out in the most skilful manner into many intersecting circles, almost like the centre of a window in a Gothic church.

"You are looking at my instrument," said Albert, who had now returned: "it is two hundred years old; I brought it with me as a memorial of my journey into Spain. But now leave all that, and take a seat."

They sat down at the table, which likewise was covered with red cloth; and the old man placed something on it which was carefully wrapped up.

"From pity to your youth," he began, "I lately promised to foretell you whether or not you could become happy; and this promise I am willing to fulfil at the present hour, though you recently wished to treat the matter as a jest. You need not alarm yourself, for what I design can happen without danger. I shall make no dread incantations, nor shall any horrible apparition terrify you. The thing which I shall endeavour may fail in two ways; either if you do not love so truly as you have wished to make me believe, for then my labour is in vain, and nothing will shew itself; or if you should disturb the oracle, and destroy it by a useless question, or by a hasty movement leaving your seat, the figure would break in pieces. So you must keep yourself quite still."

Ferdinand gave his word; and the old man unfolded from the cloths that which he had brought with him. It was a golden goblet, of very costly and beautiful workmanship: around its broad foot ran a wreath of flowers, twined with myrtles and various other leaves and fruit, highly chased with dim and brilliant gold. A similar ring, only richer, adorned with figures of children, and wild little animals playing with them, or flying before them, wound itself around the centre of the cup. The chalice was beautifully turned; above, it was bent back toward the lips; and within, the gold sparkled with a ruddy glow. The old man placed the goblet between himself and the youth, and beckoned him nearer.

"Do you not feel something," said he, "when your eye loses itself in this splendour?"

"Yes," said Ferdinand; "this brightness reflects into my very inmost being,--I might say, I feel it as a kiss in my longing bosom."

"It is right," said the old man. "Now let your eyes no more stray around, but keep them fixed on the glance of this gold, and think as earnestly as you can on your beloved."

Both sat still awhile, and, absorbed in contemplation, beheld the gleaming cup. But soon the old man, with mute gesture, first slowly, then more quickly, and at last with rapid movement, proceeded with extended finger to draw regular circles around the glow of the goblet. Then he paused, and took the circles from the opposite direction. When he had thus continued for some time, Ferdinand thought he heard music, but it sounded as from without in a distant street. Soon, however, the tones came nigher; they struck on his ear louder and louder, and vibrated more distinctly through the air; so that, at last, he felt no doubt but that they issued from the interior of the goblet. The music became still stronger, and of such penetrating power, that the heart of the young man trembled, and tears rose into his eyes. Busily moved the old man's hand in various directions across the mouth of the cup; and it appeared as if sparks from his fingers were convulsively striking and sounding on the gold. Soon the shining points increased, and followed, as on a thread, the motion of his finger; they glittered of various colours, and crowded still more closely on one another, till they rushed altogether in continuous lines. Now it seemed as if the old man in the red twilight was laying a wondrous net over the brightening gold, for at will he drew the beams hither and thither, and wove up with them the opening of the goblet: they obeyed him, and remained lying like a covering, waving to and fro, and playing into one another. When they thus were fastened, he again described the circles around the rim; the music subsided, and became softer and softer, till it could no longer be perceived; and the bright net-work quivered, as if in agony. It burst in increasing agitation, and the beams rained down drops into the chalice; but out of the fallen drops arose a reddish cloud, which formed itself in manifold circles, and floated like foam over the mouth of the cup. A bright point darted up with the greatest rapidity through the cloudy circles. There stood the image; and suddenly, as it were, an eye looked out from the mist; above, golden locks flowed in ringlets; presently a soft blush went up and down the quivering shade; and Ferdinand recognised the smiling countenance of his beloved--the blue eyes, the delicate cheeks, the lovely red mouth. The head waved to and fro, raised itself more distinctly and visibly on the slender white neck, and bowed towards the enraptured youth. The old man kept on describing his circles around the goblet, and thereout issued the glancing shoulders; and at last the whole of the lovely image pressed from out the golden bed, and gracefully waved to and fro.

Ferdinand thought he felt the breath as the beloved form inclined towards him, and almost touched him with burning lips. In his ravishment he could no longer command himself, but impressed a kiss on the mouth, and endeavoured to grasp the beautiful arm, and quite to raise the lovely form out of its golden prison. Then a violent trembling suddenly struck through the image, as in a thousand fragments the head and body broke together; and a rose lay at the foot of the goblet, in whose blush the sweet smile still appeared. Ferdinand passionately seized it, and pressed it to his mouth. At his ardent longing, it withered and dissolved away in the air.

"Thou hast badly kept thy word," said the old man, angrily: "thou canst only impute the fault to thyself."

He again wrapped up his goblet, drew aside the curtains, and opened a window. The clear daylight broke in; and Ferdinand, in a melancholy mood, and with many apologies, took his leave of the murmuring old man. He hastened with emotion through the streets of the city, and sat down under the trees without the gate. She had told him in the morning that she was to go that night with some relations into the country.

Intoxicated with love, he now sat, now wandered into the wood. Still he beheld the fair form as it ascended from the glowing gold: he expected to see her step forth in the splendour of her beauty, when the fairest of shapes broke in pieces before his eyes; and he was angry with himself that, through his restless desire and the bewilderment of his senses, he had destroyed the image, and perhaps his own happiness.

When, after the midday hour, the pathway began to be crowded, he withdrew further into the thicket, but watchfully still kept his eye upon the high-road, and curiously examined every carriage that issued from the gate. Evening drew on, a red glimmer was thrown up by the setting sun; when the richly gilded coach rushed out from the gate, and shone brightly amid the evening glow. He hastened towards it. Already her eye had sought his. Graciously smiling, she leaned her fair bosom from the window. He caught her loving look and greeting. Now he stood by the side of the carriage, her fall glance falling upon him; and as she hastily drew back, the rose which had adorned her bosom flew out, and lay at his feet. He hastily took it up and kissed it; and it seemed to him as if it prophesied that he should no more see his beloved one,--that now his happiness was destroyed for ever.

* * * * *

People were up and down stairs; the whole house was in commotion; all were making a noise and bustle about the morrow's great festival. The mother, as the most active, was also the most joyful. The bride heeded nothing, but retired, meditating her destiny, into her own chamber. They were still expecting the son, the captain and his wife, and two elder daughters with their husbands. Meanwhile Leopold, a younger son, was mischievously busy in increasing the noise and disorder, perplexing every thing, while he pretended to further it. Agatha, his still unmarried sister, endeavoured to make him reasonable, and to persuade him to meddle with nothing, and to leave the others in peace. But the mother said: "Do not disturb him in his folly; for to-day more or less of it does not signify. Therefore I only beg you all that, as I have already so much to think of, you will not trouble me about any thing that is not absolutely necessary. If the china should be broken, or some of the silver spoons be lost, or the strangers' servants break the windows,--with such trifles do not vex me by recounting them. When these days of disquiet are over, then we will have a reckoning."

"You are right, mother," said Leopold; "these are sentiments worthy of a governor. Also, if some of the maids should break their necks--or the cook get drunk, and set the chimney on fire--the butler, for joy, let the malmsey run or be drunk out,--you shall hear nothing of such childish tricks. But if an earthquake should overturn the house,--that, dearest mother, it would be impossible to keep secret."

"When will he ever become wiser?" said the mother. "What will thy sisters think, when they find thee again quite as foolish as they left thee two years ago?"

"They must do my character the justice," replied the lively youth, "that I am not so changeable as they or their husbands, who, in a few years, have so very much altered, and not to their advantage."

The bridegroom now entered, and inquired for the bride. Her maid was sent to call her.

"My dear mother," said he, "has Leopold made known to you my request?"

"That I cannot tell," she replied; "for, amid the disorder now in the house, one can scarcely retain a reasonable thought."

The bride entered, and the young people saluted each other with joy.

"The request I meant," continued the bridegroom, "is, that you would not take it ill if I brought yet another guest into your house, which, in truth, is, for these days, too full already."

"You know yourself," said the mother, "that, spacious as the house is, I could hardly find another chamber."

"Nevertheless," exclaimed Leopold, "I have partly provided for that, by having the large room in the back of the house put in order."

"Why, that is not commodious enough," replied the mother; "for many years it has been only used as a lumber-room."

"It is splendidly restored," said Leopold; "and the friend for whom it is designed does not regard such matters--he is only anxious for our love. Besides, he has no wife, and prefers to be in solitude; so that it will be quite the place for him. We have had trouble enough to persuade him, and bring him again amongst his fellow-creatures."

"Not, surely, your morose gold-maker and conjuror?" asked Agatha.

"No other," replied the bridegroom, "if you please to call him so."

"Then, dear mother, do not let him," continued the sister; "what should such a man do in our house? I have sometimes seen him pass down the street with Leopold; I have been frightened at his countenance. The old sinner, too, almost never goes to church; he loves neither God nor men; and it will bring no blessing on so solemn an occasion to have such infidels under the roof. Who knows what may spring from it?"

"How now thou speakest!" said Leopold, angrily: "because thou dost not know him, therefore thou condemnest him; and because his nose does not please thee, and he is no longer young and handsome, therefore, according to thy notion, he must be familiar with spirits, and a wicked man."

"Grant, dear mother," said the bridegroom, "a little place in your house to our old friend, and let him partake in our general joy. He appears, dear sister Agatha, to have experienced much misfortune, which has made him distrustful and misanthropic. He avoids all society, with the exception of myself and Leopold. I have much to thank him for: he first gave my mind a better direction; yea, I may say, perhaps he alone has rendered me worthy of my Julia's love."

"He lends me all his books," continued Leopold; "and, what is more, his old manuscripts; and, what is still more, money upon my bare word. He has the Christian disposition, my little sister; and who knows but that, when thou comest to be better acquainted with him, thou mayest not forego thy prudery, and fall in love with him, odious as he appears to thee at present?"

"Well, bring him to us," said the mother; "I have already been obliged to hear so much about him from Leopold, that I am curious to make his acquaintance. Only you must answer for it, that we cannot afford him a better lodging."

In the mean while travellers had arrived; they were members of the family, the married daughters and the officer, and had brought their children with them. The good old lady was delighted to see her grandchildren; all was welcoming and joyful talk; and when Leopold and the bridegroom had also received and returned their salutations, they went away to look after their ancient melancholy friend. This latter lived, for the greater part of the year, about three miles from the city; but he also kept a little dwelling for himself in a garden near the gate. Here, by chance, the two young men had become acquainted with him: they now met him at a coffee-house, as they had previously appointed. As it was already evening, they after a little conversation returned back to the house. The mother received the stranger very graciously; the daughters kept themselves somewhat distant; Agatha especially was shy, and carefully avoided his glance. After the first general conversation was over, the eye of the old man turned fixedly on the bride, who had come into the company later; he appeared enraptured, and it was observed that he endeavoured secretly to dry off a tear.

The bridegroom rejoiced in his joy; and when after some time, they stood aside at the window, he took the hand of the old man, and asked him, "What do you say of my beloved Julia? Is she not an angel?"

"O my friend," replied the old man, with emotion, "such beauty and grace I have never yet seen; or rather I should say (for that expression is incorrect), she is so beautiful, so charming, so heavenly, that it seems to me as if I had long known her; as if she were to me, stranger as she is, the dearest picture of my imagination, that which had ever been at home within my heart."

"I understand you," said the young man. "Yes, the truly beautiful, great, and sublime, when it sets us in astonishment and admiration, still does not surprise us as something strange, unheard-of, never seen; but our inmost existence in such moments becomes clear to us, our deepest recollections are awakened, and our dearest feelings are made alive."

At the supper the stranger took but little part in the conversation; his gaze was intensely fixed upon the bride, so that, at length, she became embarrassed and alarmed. The officer told of a campaign, which he had served in; the rich merchant, of his merchandise, and the bad times; and the landowner, of the improvements he had begun on his estate. After supper, the bridegroom took his leave, to return for the last time to his lonely habitation; for in future he was to live with his young wife in the mother's house, in chambers already furnished. The company separated, and Leopold conducted the stranger to his apartment.

"You will excuse it," he began, as they went along, "that we are obliged to lodge you somewhat far away from us, and not so commodiously as my mother wished: but you see yourself how numerous our family is, and other relations are coming to-morrow. You will, at least, not be able to run away from us, for certainly you could not find your way out of this spacious mansion."

They went through several passages, and at last Leopold took leave of his friend, and wished him good night. The servant placed two wax-lights on the table, and having asked the stranger if he should assist him to undress, which service being declined, he also withdrew; and the stranger found himself alone.

"How, then, does it happen," said he, as he walked up and down, "that to-day that image springs so vividly from my heart? I forgot the long past, and thought I saw herself; I was again young, and her voice sounded as of old; it seemed to me as if I was awaking from a heavy dream; but no, now I am awake, and the pleasing delusion was only a sweet dream."

He was too restless to sleep: he contemplated some pictures on the walls, and then the chamber. "To-day," he exclaimed, "every thing is so familiar, I could almost delude myself to imagine that this house and this apartment are not strange to me." He tried to fix his recollections, and took up some large books which were standing in a corner. When he had turned over the leaves, he shook his head: a lute-case was leaning against the wall; he opened it, and took out a strange old instrument, which was damaged and wanted the strings. "No, I am not mistaken," he cried, astonished; "this lute is too remarkable--it is the Spanish lute of my long-deceased friend Albert; there stand his magic-books; this is the room where he wished to awaken for me the happy oracle: faded is the red of the tapestry, the golden embroidery is become dim; but wonderfully vivid in my mind is all pertaining to those hours. Therefore it was that I shuddered as I came hither through those long, complicated passages where Leopold led me. O heaven, on this very table rose the image, springing forth as if watered and refreshed by the redness of the gold. The same image smiled on me here, which this evening has almost made me frenzied in the hall--that hall where I have so often walked in familiar speech with Albert."

He undressed, but slept only little. Early in the morning he arose, and again surveyed the room; he opened the window and saw as formerly the same gardens and buildings before him, only that in the mean time many new houses had been built. "Forty years have since then vanished," he sighed, "and each day of that time contains a longer life than all the remaining period."

He was again called to the company. The morning passed away in varied conversation; at length the bride entered in her marriage-dress. As the old man noticed her he fell into such agitation, that every one in the company observed it. They proceeded to the church, and the nuptial ceremony was performed.

When they had returned to the house, Leopold asked his mother, "Now how do you like our friend, the good morose old man?"

"I had imagined him, from your description," she replied, "to be much more frightful; he is indeed mild and sympathetic, and might gain from one a real trust in him."