CHAPTER IX. THE LAST PANG.
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“Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen!” said Flemming,
as he turned on the brow of the hill, to take
his last look at the lake and the village below, and
felt that this was one of the few spots on the wide
earth to which he could say farewell with regret.
“Thy majestic hills have impressed themselves
upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. The quiet
beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image
of peace and purity and stillness, and that inscription
in thy little churchyard, a sentence of wisdom
for my after life.”
Before the setting of the same sun, which then
shone on that fair landscape, he was far on his
way towards Munich. He had left far behind
him the mountains of the Tyrol; and beheld them
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for the last time in the soft evening twilight, their
bases green with forest trees, and here and there,
a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summit capped
with snow. There they lay, their backs, like the
backs of camels; a mighty caravan, reposing at
evening in its march across the desert.
From Munich he passed through Augsburg and
Ulm, on his way to Stuttgard. At the entrances
of towns and villages, he saw large crucifixes;
and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings
and images of saints. In Gunzburg three priests
in black were slowly passing down the street, and
women fell on their knees to receive their blessing.
There were many beggars, too, in the streets;
and an old man who was making hay in a field by
the road-side, when he saw the carriage approaching,
threw down his rake, and came tumbling over
the ditch, with his hat held out in both hands,
uttering the most dismal wail. The next day, the
bright yellow jackets of the postilions, and the
two great tassels of their bugle-horns, dangling
down their backs, like two cauliflowers, told him
he was in Würtemberg; and, late in the evening,
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he stopped at a hotel in Stuttgard; and from his
chamber-window, saw, in the bright moonlight, the
old Gothic cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windows
and jutting buttresses, right in front of him.
Ere long he had forgotten all his cares and sorrows
in sleep, and with them his hopes, and wishes,
and good resolves.
He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber,
the next morning, when the great bell of the cathedral
opposite began to ring, and reminded him
that it was Sunday. Ere long the organ answered
from within, and from its golden lips breathed forth
a psalm. The congregation began to assemble,
and Flemming went up with them to the house of
the Lord. In the body of the church he found
the pews all filled or locked; they seemed to belong
to families. He went up into the gallery,
and looked over the psalm-book of a peasant,
while the congregation sang the sublime old hymn
of Martin Luther,
“Our God, he is a tower of strength,
A trusty shield and weapon.”
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During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black,
with a white surplice thrown loosely about him,
came pacing along one of the aisles, from beneath
the organ-loft and ascended the pulpit. After the
hymn, he read a portion of Scripture, and then
said;
“Let us unite in silent prayer.”
And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while
the congregation remained standing. For a while
there was a breathless silence in the church, which
to Flemming was more solemnly impressive than
any audible prayer. The clergyman then arose,
and began his sermon. His theme was the Reformation;
and he attempted to prove how much
easier it was to enter the kingdom of Heaven
through the gateways of the Reformed Evangelical
Dutch church, than by the aisles and penitential
stair-cases of Saint Peter's. He then gave
a history of the Reformation; and, when Flemming
thought he was near the end, he heard him
say, that he should divide his discourse into four
heads. This reminded him of the sturdy old
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Puritan, Cotton Mather, who after preaching an hour,
would coolly turn the hour-glass on the pulpit, and
say; “Now, my beloved hearers, let us take another
glass.” He stole out into the silent, deserted
street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor
Dannecker. He found him in his parlour, sitting
alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences
of a life of eighty years. As Flemming entered,
he arose from the sofa, and tottered towards him;
a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed
in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin's,
his white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a
pale, blue eye.
“So you are from America,” said he. “But
you have a German name. Paul Flemming was
one of our old poets. I have never been in America,
and never shall go there. I am now too old. I
have been in Paris and in Rome. But that was
long ago. I am now eight and seventy years
old.”
Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made
him sit down by his side, on the sofa. And
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Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on
touching the hand of the good old man, who sat
so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and
listened to life's curfew-bell, telling, with eight and
seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come,
when the fires of all earthly passion must be
quenched within, and man must prepare to lie
down and rest till the morning.
“You see,” he continued, in a melancholy tone,
“my hands are cold; colder than yours. They
were warmer once. I am now an old man.”
“Yet these are the hands,” answered Flemming,
“that sculptured the beauteous Ariadne
and the Panther. The soul never grows old.”
“Nor does Nature,” said the old man, pleased
with this allusion to his great work, and pointing
to the green trees before his window. “This
pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good.
I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder
mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired.
For all which, I thank God.”
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Then, directing Flemming's attention to a fine
engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the
room, he continued;
“That is an engraving of Canova's Religion. I
love to sit here and look at it, for hours together.
It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native
town, where they had no church, until he built
them one. He placed the statue in it. This engraving
he sent me as a present. Ah, he was a
dear, good man. The name of his native town I
have forgotten. My memory fails me. I cannot
remember names.”
Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his
morning devotions, Flemming did not remain long,
but took his leave with regret. There was something
impressive in the scene he had witnessed;—
this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the
open window, in the bright summer morning,—
the labor of life accomplished, the horizon reached,
where heaven and earth meet,—thinking it was
angel's music, when he heard the church-bells ring;
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himself too old to go. As he walked back to his
chamber, he thought within himself, whether he
likewise might not accomplish something, which
should live after him;—might not bring something
permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and
then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age,
and fold his hands in silence. He wondered how
a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no
longer go to church, but must sit at home and read
the bible in large print. His heart was full of
indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings
to accomplish something worthy of life; regret,
that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had
felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in
spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-menots.
It is only after mid-summer, when the days
grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear.
Then, the heat of the day brings forward
the harvest, and after the harvest, the leaves fall,
and there is a gray frost. Much meditating upon
these things, Paul Flemming reached his hotel.
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At that moment a person clad in green came
down the church-steps, and crossed the street. It
was the German student, of Interlachen. Flemming
started as if a green snake had suddenly
crossed his path. He took refuge in his chamber.
That night as he was sitting alone in his chamber,
having made his preparation to depart the
following morning, his attention was arrested by
the sound of a female voice in the next room. A
thin partition, with a door, separated it from his
own. He had not before observed that the room
was occupied. But, in the stillness of the night,
the tones of that voice struck his ear. He listened.
It was a lady, reading the prayers of the
English Church. The tones were familiar; and
awakened at once a thousand painfully sweet
recollections. It was the voice of Mary Ashburton!
His heart could not be deceived; and all its
wounds began to bleed afresh, like those of a murdered
man, when the murderer approaches. His
first impulse was of affection only, boundless,
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irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of
Interlachen. He waited for the voice to cease;
that he might go to her, and behold her face once
more. And then his pride rose up within him,
and rebuked this weakness. He remembered his
firm resolve; and blushed to find himself so feeble.
And the voice ceased; and yet he did not
go. Pride had so far gained the mastery over affection.
He lay down upon his bed, like a child
as he was. All about him was silence, and the
silence was holy, for she was near; so near that
he could almost hear the beating of her heart.
He knew now for the first time how weak he was,
and how strong his passion for that woman. His
heart was like the altar of the Israelites of old;
and, though drenched with tears, as with rain, it
was kindled at once by the holy fire from heaven!
Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with
the strong excitement; and, in that hour when,
sleep being “nigh unto the soul,” visions are
deemed prophetic, he dreamed. O blessed vision
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of the morning, stay! thou wert so fair! He
stood again on the green sunny meadow, beneath
the ruined towers; and she was by his side, with
her pale, speaking countenance and holy eyes;
and he kissed her fair forehead; and she turned her
face towards him beaming with affection and said,
“I confess it now; you are the Magician!” and
pressed him in a meek embrace, that he, “might
rather feel than see the swelling of her heart.”
And then she faded away from his arms, and her
face became transfigured, and her voice like the
voice of an angel in heaven;—and he awoke, and
was alone!
It was broad daylight; and he heard the postilion,
and the stamping of horses' hoofs on the
pavement at the door. At the same moment his
servant came in, with coffee, and told him all was
ready. He did not dare to stay. But, throwing
himself into the carriage, he cast one look towards
the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment afterwards
had left her forever! He had drunk the
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last drop of the bitter cup, and now laid the golden
goblet gently down, knowing that he should behold
it no more!
No more! O how majestically mournful are
those words! They sound like the roar of the
wind through a forest of pines!
END OF VOL. II.
