Book 8 — CHAPTER I.

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

Wilhelm was sitting under the shadow of a huge crag, on a shaggy, impressive spot, where the steep mountain path turned abruptly round a corner, down into the chasm. The sun was still high, and brightening the tops of the pine-trees in the clefts at his feet. He was looking at something in his note-book, when Felix, who had been clambering about, came to him with a stone in his hand. “What is the name of this stone, father?” said the boy.

“I know not,” answered Wilhelm.

“Can this be gold that glitters in it so?” said Felix.

“No, no,” replied Wilhelm; “and now I remember, people call it mica, or cat-gold.”

“Cat-gold!” said the boy, smiling. “And why?”

“I suppose, because it is false, and cats are reckoned false too.”

“Well, I will note that,” said the son, and put in the stone beside the rest with which he had already filled his pockets.

Scarcely was this over when, adown the steep path, a strange enough appearance came in sight. Two boys, beautiful as day, in colored jackets which you might have taken for outer shirts, came bounding down, one after the other; and Wilhelm had opportunity of viewing them more closely, as they faltered on observing him, and stopped for a moment. Round the elder boy’s head waved rich, fair locks, which you looked at first, on observing him; and then his 104clear blue eyes attracted your attention, which spread itself with delight over his beautiful shape. The younger, more like a friend than a brother, was decked with brown, sleek hair, which hung down over his shoulders, and the reflection of which appeared to be imaged in his eyes.

These strange, and, in this wilderness, quite unexpected, beings, Wilhelm had not time to view more narrowly; for he heard a man’s voice calling down round the corner of the crag, in a serious, but friendly, tone, “Why do you stand still? Don’t stop the way.”

Wilhelm looked upwards; and, if the children had surprised him, what he now saw filled him with astonishment. A stout, firm-set, not too tall, young man, tucked up for walking, of brown complexion and black hair, was stepping firmly and carefully down the rock-way, and leading an ass behind him, which first presented its glossy, well-trimmed head, and then the fair burden it bore. A soft, lovely woman was seated on a large and well-pannelled saddle: in her arms, within a blue mantle which hung over her, lay an infant, which she was pressing to her breast, and looking at with indescribable tenderness. The man did as the children had done,—faltered for a moment at sight of Wilhelm. The beast slackened its step, but the descent was too precipitous: the travellers could not halt; and Wilhelm with astonishment saw them vanish behind the contiguous wall of rocks.

Nothing was more natural than that this singular procession should cut short his meditations. He rose in no small curiosity, and looked from his position towards the chasm, to see whether they would not again make their appearance somewhere below. He was just about descending to salute these strange travellers, when Felix came climbing up, and said, “Father, may I not go home with these boys to their house? They want to take me with them. Thou must go too, the man said to me. Come! They are waiting down there.”

“I will speak with them,” answered Wilhelm.

He found them at a place where the path was more level, and he could not but gaze in wonder at the singular figures which had so strongly attracted his attention. Not till now had it been in his power to note the peculiarities of the group. The young, stout man, he found, had a joiner’s axe on his shoulder, and a long, thin iron square. The children bore in their hands large sedge-tufts, like palms; and if, in this point, they resembled angels, they likewise carried little baskets 105with shop-wares in them, thereby resembling the little daily posts, as they pass to and fro over the mountains. The mother also, he observed, on looking more leisurely, wore under her blue mantle a reddish, mild-colored, lower garment: so that “The Flight into Egypt,” which our friend had so often seen painted, he now, with amazement, saw bodied forth before his eyes.

The strangers exchanged salutations; and as Wilhelm, from surprise and attention, could not speak, the young man said, “Our children have formed a friendship in these few moments. Will you go with us to see whether some kind relation will not spring up between the elder parties also?”

Wilhelm bethought himself an instant, and then answered, “The aspect of your little family procession awakens trust and good will, and, to confess it frankly, curiosity no less, and a lively desire to be better acquainted with you. For, at the first glance, one might ask himself the question, Whether you are real travellers, or only spirits that take pleasure in enlivening these uninhabitable mountains by pleasant visions?”

“Then, come home with us to our dwelling,” said the other. “Come with us!” cried the children, already drawing Felix along with them. “Come with us!” said the woman, turning her soft kindliness from the suckling to the stranger.

Without reflecting, Wilhelm answered, “I am sorry, that, for the present moment, I cannot follow you. This night, at least, I must spend up at the Border-house. My portmanteau, my papers,—all is lying up there, unpacked, intrusted to no one. But, that I may prove my wish and purpose to satisfy your friendly invitation, take my Felix with you as a pledge. To-morrow I shall see you. How far is it?”

“We shall be home before sunset,” said the carpenter; “and from the Border-house you are but a league and a half. Your boy increases our household for this night, and to-morrow we expect you.”

The man and the animal set forth. Wilhelm smiled thoughtfully to see his Felix so soon received among the angels. The boy had already seized a sedge-tuft, and taken the basket from the younger of his companions. The procession was again on the point of vanishing behind a ledge of rock, when Wilhelm recollected himself, and cried, “But how shall I inquire you out?”

“Ask for St. Joseph!” sounded from the hollow; and the whole vision had sunk behind the blue, shady wall of 106cliffs. A pious hymn, uplifted on a chorus of several voices, rose echoing from the distance; and Wilhelm thought he could distinguish the voice of his Felix among the rest.

He ascended the path, and thus protracted the period of sunset. The heavenly star, which he had more than once lost sight of, illuminated him afresh as he mounted higher; and it was still day when he reached his inn. Once more he delighted himself with the vast mountain prospect, then withdrew to his chamber, where immediately he seized his pen, and passed a part of the night in writing.

Wilhelm to Natalia.

Now at last I have reached the summit,—the summit of the mountains, which will place a stronger separation betwixt us than all the tract I had passed over before. To my feeling, one is still in the neighborhood of those he loves, so long as the streams run down from him towards them. To-day I can still fancy to myself that the twig which I cast into the forest-brook may, perhaps, float down to her, may in a few days land at her garden; and thus our spirit sends its images more easily, our heart its sympathies, by the same downward course. But over on the other side I fear there rises a wall of division against the imagination and the feelings. Yet this, perhaps, is but a vain anxiety; for over on the other side, after all, it will not be otherwise than it is here. What could part me from thee! From thee, whose own I am forever; though a strange destiny sunders me from thee, and unexpectedly shuts the heaven to which I stood so near. I had time to compose myself; and yet no time could have sufficed to give me that composure, had I not gained it from thy mouth, from thy lips, in that decisive moment. How could I have torn myself away, if the enduring thread had not been spun which is to unite us for time and eternity? Yet I must not speak of all this. Thy tender commands I will not break: on this mountain-top be it the last time that I name the word Separation before thee! My life is to become a restless wandering. Strange duties of the wanderer have I to fulfil, and peculiar trials to undergo. How I often smile within myself when I read the terms which thou prescribedst to me, which I prescribed to myself. Many of them have been kept, many broken; but, even while breaking them, this sheet is of use to me, this testimonial of my last confession,—of my last absolution: it speaks to me as an authoritative 107conscience, and I again turn to the right path. I watch myself; and my faults no longer rush like mountain torrents, one over the other.

Yet I will confess to thee I many times wonder at those teachers and guides of men who impose on their scholars nothing but external, mechanical duties. They make the task light for themselves as well as for the world. For this very part of my obligations, which at first seemed the heaviest, the strangest, I now observe with greatest ease, with greatest satisfaction.

I am not to stay beyond three days under one roof. I am to quit no inn without removing at least one league from it. These regulations are, in truth, calculated to make my life a life of travel, and to prevent the smallest thought of settlement from taking hold of me. Hitherto I have fulfilled this condition to the letter, not even using all the liberty it grants me. This is the first time that I have paused: here, for the first time, I sleep three nights in the same bed. From this spot I send thee much that I have heard, observed, laid up for thee; and early in the morning I descend on the other side,—in the first place, to a strange family, I might almost say, a Holy Family, of which, in my journal, thou wilt find further notice. For the present, farewell; and lay down this sheet with the feeling that it has but one thing to say, but one thing which it would say and repeat forever; yet will not say it, will not repeat it now, till I have once more the happiness of lying at thy feet, and weeping over thy hands for all that I renounce.

Morning.

My packing is done. The porter is girding the portmanteau on his dorsel. As yet, the sun is not up: vapors are streaming out of all the hollows, but the upper sky is clear. We step down into the gloomy deeps, which also will soon brighten over our heads. Let me send my last sigh home to thee! Let my last look towards thee be yet blinded with involuntary tears! I am decided and determined. Thou shalt hear no more complaints from me: thou shalt hear only what happens to the wanderer. And yet now, when I am on the point of ending, a thousand thoughts, wishes, hopes, and purposes come crowding through my soul. Happily the people force me away. The porter calls me; and mine host has already in my presence begun sorting the apartment, as if I were gone: thus feelingless, imprudent 108heirs do not hide from the departing testator their preparations for assuming management.