Book 8 — CHAPTER XII.

Hersilia to Wilhelm.

My valued, and, to speak it plainly, dear friend, you are wrong, and yet, as acting on your own conviction, not wrong either. So the nut-brown maid is found, then,—found, seen, spoken to, known, and acknowledged! And you tell us further, that it is impossible to wish this strange person, in her own way, any happier condition, or, in her present one, to be of any real advantage to her.

And now you make it a point of conscience not to tell us where that wondrous being lives. This you may settle with your own conscience, but to us it is unconscionable. You think to calm Lenardo by assuring him that she is well. He had said, almost promised, that he would content himself with this; but what will not the passionate promise for others and themselves! Know, then, that the matter is not in the least concluded as it yet stands. She is happy, you tell us,—happy by her own activity and merit: but the youth would like to learn the How, the When, and the Where; and, what is worse than this, his sisters, too, would like to learn. Half a year is gone since your departure: till the end of another half-year we cannot hope to see you. Could not you, like a shrewd and knowing man, contrive to play your eternal Rouge-et-Noir in our neighborhood? I have seen people that could make the knight skip over all the chess-board without ever lighting twice on one spot. You should learn this feat: your friends would not have to want you so long.

But, to set my good will to you in the clearest light, I now tell you in confidence, that there are two most enchanting creatures on the road: whence I say not, nor whither; described they cannot be, and no eulogy will do them justice. A younger and an elder lady, between whom it always grieves one to make choice,—the former so lovely, 174that all must wish to be loved by her; the latter so attractive, that you must wish to live beside her, though she did not love you. I could like, with all my heart, to see you hemmed in for three days between these two splendors: on the morning of the fourth, your rigorous vow would stand you in excellent stead.

By way of foretaste I send you a story, which, in some degree, refers to them: what of it is true or fictitious you can try to learn from themselves.

THE MAN OF FIFTY.

The major came riding into the court of the mansion; and Hilaria, his niece, was already standing without, to receive him at the bottom of the stairs which led up to the apartments. Scarcely could he recognize her; for she had grown, both in stature and beauty. She flew to meet him: he pressed her to his breast with the feeling of a father.

To the baroness, his sister, he was likewise welcome; and, as Hilaria hastily retired to prepare breakfast, the major said with a joyful air, “For this time I can come to the point at once, and say that our business is finished. Our brother, the chief marshal, has at last convinced himself that he can neither manage farmers nor stewards. In his lifetime he makes over the estates to us and our children: the annuity he bargains for is high, indeed, but we can still pay it; we gain something for the present, and for the future all. This new arrangement is to be completed forthwith. And, as I very soon expect my discharge, I can again look forward to an active life, which may secure decided advantages to us and ours. We shall calmly see our children growing up beside us; and it will depend on us, on them, to hasten their union.”

“All this were well,” said the baroness, “had not I a secret to inform thee of, which I myself discovered first. Hilaria’s heart is no longer free: on her side thy son has little or nothing to hope for.”

“What sayest thou?” cried the major. “Is it possible? While we have been taking all pains to settle economical concerns, does inclination play us such a trick? Tell me, love, quick, tell me, who is it that has fettered Hilaria’s heart? Or is it, then, so bad as this? Is it not, 175perhaps, some transient impression we may hope to efface again?”

“Thou must think and guess a little first,” replied the baroness, and thereby heightened his impatience. It had mounted to the utmost pitch, when the entrance of Hilaria, with the servants bringing in breakfast, put a negative on any quick solution of the riddle.

The major himself thought he saw the fair girl with other eyes than a little while before. He almost felt as if jealous of the happy man whose image had been able to imprint itself on a soul so lovely. The breakfast he could not relish; and he noticed not that all was ordered as he liked to have it, and as he had used to wish and require it.

In this silence and stagnation Hilaria herself almost lost her liveliness. The mother felt embarrassed, and led her daughter to the harpsichord; but Hilaria’s sprightly and expressive playing scarcely extorted any approbation from the major. He wished the breakfast and the lovely girl fairly out of the way; and the baroness was at last obliged to resolve on breaking up, and proposed to her brother a walk in the garden.

No sooner were they by themselves, than the major pressingly repeated his question, to which, after a pause, his sister answered, smiling, “If thou wouldst find the happy man whom she loves, thou hast not far to go: he is quite at hand; she loves thee!”

The major stopped in astonishment, then cried, “It were a most unseasonable jest to trick me into such a thought, which, if true, would make me so embarrassed and unhappy. For, though I need time to recover from my amazement, I see at one glance how grievously our circumstances would be disturbed by so unlooked-for an accident. The only thing that comforts me, is my persuasion that attachments of this sort are apparent merely, that a self-deception lurks behind them, and that a good, true soul will undoubtedly return from such mistakes, either by its own strength, or at least by a little help from judicious friends.”

“I am not of that opinion,” said the baroness: “by all the symptoms, Hilaria’s present feeling is a very serious one.”

“A thing so unnatural I should not have expected from so natural a character,” replied the major.

“So unnatural it is not, after all,” said his sister. “I myself recollect having, in my own youth, an attachment 176to a man still older than thou. Thou art fifty,—not so very great an age for a German, if, perhaps, other livelier nations do fail sooner.”

“But how dost thou support thy conjecture?” said the major.

“It is no conjecture, it is certainty. The details thou shalt learn by and by.”

Hilaria joined them; and the major felt himself, against his will, a second time altered. Her presence seemed to him still dearer and more precious than before, her manner more affectionate and tender: already he began to put some faith in his sister’s statement. The feeling was highly delightful, though he neither would permit nor confess this to his mind. Hilaria was, in truth, peculiarly interesting: her manner blended in closest union a soft shyness as towards a lover, and a trustful frankness as towards an uncle; for she really, and with her whole soul, loved him. The garden lay in all the pomp of spring; and the major, who saw so many old trees again putting on their vesture, might also believe in the returning of his own spring. And who would not have been tempted to it, at the side of this most lovely maiden.

So passed the day with them; the various household epochs were gone through in high cheerfulness: in the evening, after supper, Hilaria returned to her harpsichord; the major listened with other ears than in the morning: one melody winded into another, one song produced a second; and scarcely could midnight separate the little party.

On retiring to his room, the major found every thing arranged to suit his old habitual conveniences: some copper-plates, even, which he liked to look at, had been shifted from other apartments; and, his eyes being at last opened, he saw himself attended to and flattered in the most minute particulars.

A few hours’ sleep sufficed on this occasion: his buoyant spirits aroused him early. But now he soon found occasion to observe that a new order of things carries many inconveniences along with it. His old groom, who also discharged the functions of lackey and valet, he had not once reproved during many years, for all went its usual course in the most rigid order; the horses were dressed and the clothes brushed at the proper moment: but to-day the master had risen earlier, and nothing suited as it used to do.

Erelong a new circumstance combined with this to ruffle 177him still further. At other times all had been right, as his servant had prepared it for him: now, however, on advancing to the glass, he found himself not at all as he wished to be. Some gray hairs he could not deny, and of wrinkles also there appears to have been a trace or two. He wiped and powdered more than usual, and was fain at last to let matters stand as they could. Then it seemed there were still creases in his coat, and still dust on his boots. The old groom knew not what to make of this, and was amazed to see so altered a master before him.

In spite of all these hinderances, the major got down to the garden in good time. Hilaria, whom he hoped to find there, he actually found. She brought him a nosegay; and he had not the heart to kiss her as usual, and press her to his breast. He felt himself in the most delightful embarrassment, and yielded to his feelings without reflecting whither they might carry him.

The baroness soon joined them and, directing her brother to a note which had just been brought her by a special messenger, she cried, “Thou wilt not guess whom this announces to us!”

“Tell us at once, then,” said the major; and it now appeared that an old theatrical friend was travelling by a road not far off, and purposing to call for a moment. “I am anxious to see him again,” said the major: “he is no chicken now, and I hear he still plays young parts.”

“He must be ten years older than thou,” replied the baroness.

“He must,” said the major, “from all that I remember.”

They had not waited long, when a lively, handsome, courteous man stepped forward to them. Yet the friends soon recognized each other, and recollections of all sorts enlivened the conversation. They proceeded to questions, to answers, to narratives: they mutually made known their present situations, and in a short time felt as if they had never been separated.

Secret history informs us that this person had, in former days, being then a very elegant and graceful youth, the good or bad fortune to attract the favor of a lady of rank; that, by this means, he had come into perplexity and danger, out of which the major, at the very moment when the saddest fate seemed impending, had happily delivered him. From that hour he continued grateful to the brother as well as to 178the sister; for it was she that, by timeful warning, had originated their precautions.

For a while before dinner the men were left alone. Not without surprise, nay, in some measure with amazement, had the major viewed, as a whole and in detail, the exterior condition of his old friend. He seemed not in the smallest altered, and it was not to be wondered at that he could still appear on the stage as an actor of youthful parts. “Thou inspectest me more strictly than is fair,” said he at last to the major: “I fear thou findest the difference between this and by-gone times but too great.”

“Not at all,” replied the major: “on the contrary, it fills me with astonishment to find thy look fresher and younger than mine; though I know thou wert a firm-set man at the time when I, with the boldness of a callow desperado, stood by thee in certain straits.”

“It is thy own fault,” replied the other: “it is the fault of all like thee; and, though you are not to be loudly censured for it, you are still to be blamed. You think only of the needful: you wish to be, not to seem. This is very well so long as one is any thing. But when, at last, being comes to recommend itself by seeming, and this seeming is found to be even more transient than the being, then every one of you discovers that he should not have done amiss, if, in his care for what was inward, he had not entirely neglected what was outward.”

“Thou art right,” replied the major, and could scarcely suppress a sigh.

“Perhaps not altogether right,” said the aged youth; “for though in my trade it were unpardonable if one did not try to parget up the outward man as long as possible, you people need to think of other things, which are more important and profitable.”

“Yet there are occasions,” said the major, “when a man feels fresh internally, and could wish, with all his heart, that he were fresh externally too.”

As the stranger could not have the slightest suspicion of the major’s real state of mind, he took these words in a soldierly sense, and copiously explained how much depended on externals in the art military, and how the officer who had so much attention to bestow on dress might apply a little also to skin and hair.

“For example,” continued he, “it is inexcusable that your temples are already gray, that wrinkles are here and 179there gathering together, and that your crown threatens to grow bald. Now look at me, old fellow as I am! See how I have held out! And all this without witchcraft, and with far less pains and care than others take, day after day, in spoiling, or at least wearying, themselves.”

The major found this accidental conversation too precious an affair to think of ending it soon, but he went to work softly and with precaution towards even an old acquaintance. “This opportunity, alas! I have lost,” cried he; “and it is past recalling now: I must even content myself as I am, and you will not think worse of me on that account.”

“Lost it is not,” said the other, “were not you grave gentlemen so stiff and stubborn, did you not directly call one vain if he thinks about his person, and cast away from you the happiness of being in pleasant company, and pleasing there yourselves.”

“If it is not magic,” smiled the major, “that you people use for keeping yourselves young, it is, at all events, a secret: or, at least, you have arcana, such as one often sees bepraised in newspapers; and from these you pick out the best.”

“Joke or earnest,” said the other, “thou hast spoken truth. Among the many things that have been tried for giving some repair to the exterior, which often fails far sooner than the interior, there are, in fact, certain invaluable recipes, simple as well as compound; which, as imparted to me by brethren of the craft, purchased for ready money, or hit upon by chance, I have proved, and found effectual. By these I now hold fast and persevere, yet without abandoning my further researches. So much I may tell thee, and without exaggeration: a dressing-box I carry with me beyond all price! A box whose influences I could like to try on thee, if we chanced any time to be a fortnight together.”

The thought that such a thing was possible, and that this possibility was held out to him so accidentally at the very moment of need, enlivened the spirit of the major to such a degree that he actually appeared much fresher and brisker already: at table, excited by the hope of bringing head and face into harmony with his heart, and by eagerness to get acquainted with the methods of doing so, he was quite another man; he met Hilaria’s graceful attentions with alacrity of soul, and even looked at her with a certain confidence, which, in the morning, he was far from feeling.

180If the dramatic stranger had contrived, by many recollections, stories, and happy hits, to keep up the cheerful humor once excited, he so much the more alarmed the major, on signifying, when the cloth was removed, that he must now think of setting forth, and continuing his journey. By every scheme in his power the major strove to facilitate his friend’s stay, at least for the night; he pressingly engaged to have horses and relays in readiness next morning: in a word, the healing toilet was absolutely not to get out of the premises, till once he had obtained more light on its contents and use.

The major saw very well that here no time must be lost: he accordingly endeavored, soon after dinner, to take his old favorite aside and speak with him in private. Not having the heart to proceed directly to the point, he steered towards it from afar off, and, taking up the former conversation, signified that he, for his part, would willingly bestow more care on his exterior, were it not that people, the moment they observed a man making such an attempt, marked him down for vain, and so deducted from him, in regard to moral esteem, what they felt obliged to yield him in regard to sensible.

“Do not vex me with such phrases!” said his friend: “these are words to which society has got accustomed without attaching any meaning to them, or, if we take it up more strictly, by which it indicates its unfriendly and spiteful nature. If thou consider it rightly, what, after all, is this same vanity they make so much ado about? Every man should feel some pleasure in himself, and happy he who feels it. But, if he does feel it, how can he help letting others notice it? How shall he hide, in the midst of life, that it gives him joy to be alive? If good society, and I mean this exclusively here, only blamed such indications when they became too violent; when the joy of one man over his existence hindered others to have joy and to show it over theirs,—it were good and well; and from this excess the censure has, in fact, originally sprung. But what are we to make of that strange, prim, abnegating rigor against a thing which cannot be avoided? Why should not a display of feeling on the part of others be considered innocent and tolerable, which, more or less, we from time to time allow ourselves? For it is the pleasure one has in himself, the desire to communicate this consciousness of his to others, that makes a man agreeable,—the feeling of his own grace that makes him graceful. Would to Heaven all men were vain! that is, were 181vain with clear perception, with moderation, and in a proper sense: we should then, in the cultivated world, have happy times of it. Women, it is told us, are vain from the very cradle; yet does it not become them, do they not please us the more? How can a youth form himself if he is not vain? An empty, hollow nature will, by this means, at least contrive to give itself an outward show; and a proper man will soon train himself from the outside inwards. As to my own share, I have reason to consider myself, in this point, a most happy man: for my trade justifies me in being vain; and, the vainer I am, the more satisfaction I give. I am praised when others are blamed, and have still, in this very way, the happiness and the right to gratify and charm the public at an age when others are constrained to retire from the scene, or linger on it only with disgrace.”

The major heard with no great joy the issue of these reflections. The little word vanity, as he pronounced it, had been meant to serve as a transition for enabling him to introduce, with some propriety, the statement of his own wish. But now he was afraid, if their dialogue proceeded thus, he should be led still farther from his aim: so he hastened to the point directly.

“For my own part,” said he, “I should by no means disincline to enlist under thy flag, since thou still holdest it to be in time, and thinkest I might yet in some degree make up for what is lost. Impart to me somewhat of thy tinctures, pomades, and balsams; and I will make a trial of them.”

“Imparting,” said the other, “is a harder task than you suppose. Here, for example, it were still to small purpose that I poured thee out some liquors from my vials, and left the half of the best ingredients in my toilet: the appliance is the hardest. You cannot, on the instant, appropriate what is given you. How this and that suit together; under what circumstances, in what sequence, things are to be used,—all this requires practice and study,—nay, study and practice themselves will scarcely profit, if one bring not to the business a natural genius for it.”

“Thou art now, it seems, for drawing back,” said the major. “Thou raisest difficulties when I would have thy truly somewhat fabulous assertions rendered certain. Thou hast no mind to let me try thy words by the test of action.”

“By such banterings, my friend,” replied the other, “thou wouldst not prevail on me to gratify thy wish, if it were not that I entertain such affection for thee, and, indeed, first made 182the proposal myself. Besides, if we consider it, man has quite a peculiar pleasure in making proselytes; in bringing what he values in himself into view also, without himself, on others; causing others to enjoy what he enjoys; finding in others his own likeness, represented and reflected back to him. In sooth, if this is selfishness, it is of the most laudable and lovable sort,—that selfishness which has made us men and keeps us so. From this universal feeling, then, apart from my friendship to thee, I shall be happy in having such a scholar in the great youth-renewing art. But, as from a master it may be expected that he shall produce no botcher by his training, I confess myself a little at a loss how to set about it. I told thee already that neither recipes nor instructions would avail: the practice cannot be taught by universal rules. For thy sake, and from the wish to propagate my doctrine, I am ready to make any sacrifice. The greatest my power for the present moment I will now propose to thee. I shall leave my servant here,—a sort of waiting-man and conjurer,—who, if he does not understand preparing every thing, if he has not yet been initiated into all the mysteries, can apply my preparations perfectly, and, in the first stage of the attempt, will be of great use to thee, till once thou have worked thy way so far into the art, that I may reveal to thee the higher secrets also.”

“How!” cried the major, “thou hast stages and degrees in thy art of making young? Thou hast secrets, even for the initiated?”

“No doubt of it,” replied the other. “That were but a sorry art which could be comprehended all at once, the last point of which could be seen by one just entering its precincts.”

Without loss of time the waiting-man was formally consigned to the major, who engaged to treat him handsomely. The baroness was called on for drawers, boxes, glasses, to what purpose she knew not; the partition of the toilet-store went forward; the friends kept together in a gay and sprightly mood till after nightfall. At moonrise, some time later, the guest took his leave, promising erelong to return.

The major reached his chamber pretty much fatigued. He had risen early, had not spared himself throughout the day, and now hoped very soon to get to bed. But here, instead of one servant, he found two. The old groom, in his old way, rapidly undressed him; but now the waiting-man stepped forth, and signified, that, for appliances of a renovating and 183cosmetic nature, the peculiar season was night, that so their effects, assisted by a peaceful sleep, might be stronger and safer. The major was obliged to content himself, and let his head be anointed, his face painted, his eyebrows pencilled, and his lips tipped with salve. Besides all this, there were various ceremonies still required; nay, the very night-cap was not to be put on immediately, not till a net, or even a fine-leather cap, had been drawn on next the head.

The major laid himself in bed with a sort of unpleasant feeling, which, however, he had no time to investigate the nature of; as he very soon fell asleep. But, if we might speak with his spirit, we should say he felt a little mummy-like, somewhat between a sick man and a man embalmed. Yet the sweet image of Hilaria, encircled with the gayest hopes, soon led him into a refreshing sleep.

In the morning, at the proper hour, the groom was ready in his place. All that pertained to his master’s equipment lay in wonted order on the chairs; and the major was just on the point of rising, when the new attendant entered, and strongly protested against any such precipitation. He must rest, he must wait, if their enterprise were to prosper, if they were to be rewarded for their pains and labor. The major now learned that he had to rise by and by, to take a slight breakfast, and then go into a bath, which was already prepared for him. The regulations were inflexible, they required a strict observance; and some hours passed away under these occupations.

The major abridged the resting-time after his bath, and thought to get his clothes about him: for he was by nature expeditious, and at present he longed to see Hilaria; but in this point also his new servant thwarted him, and signified, that in all cases he must drop the thought of being in a hurry. Whatever he did, it appeared, must be done leisurely and pleasurably; but the time of dressing was especially to be considered as a cheerful hour for conversation with one’s self.

The valet’s manner of proceeding completely agreed with his words. But, in return, the major, when, on stepping forward to the glass, he saw himself trimmed out in the neatest fashion, really thought that he was better dressed than formerly. Without many words the conjurer had changed the very uniform into a newer cut, having spent the night in working at it. An apparently so quick rejuvenescence put the major in his liveliest mood; so that he felt 184himself as if renovated, both without and within, and hastened with impatient longing to his friends.

He found his sister engaged in looking at the pedigree which she had caused to be hung up; the conversation last night having turned on some collateral relations, unmarried persons, or resident in foreign countries, or entirely gone out of sight, from all of whom the baroness and her brother had more or less hope of heritages for themselves or their families. They conversed a while on these matters, without mentioning the circumstance that all their economical cares and exertions had hitherto been solely directed to their children. By Hilaria’s attachment the whole of this prospect had altered, yet neither the major nor his sister could summon courage to mention it further at this moment.

The baroness left the room: the major was standing alone before this laconic history of his family; Hilaria stepped in to him; she leaned herself on him in a kind, childlike way, looked at the parchment, and asked him whom of all these he had known, and who of them were still left and living.

The major began his delineation with the oldest of whom any dim recollection remained with him from childhood. Then he proceeded farther; painted the characters of several fathers, the likeness or unlikeness of their children to them; remarked that the grandfather often re-appeared in the grandson; spoke, by the way, of the influence of certain women, wedded out of stranger families, and sometimes changing the character of whole branches. He eulogized the virtue of many an ancestor and relative, nor did he hide their failings. Such as had brought shame on their lineage he passed in silence. At length he reached the lowest lines. Here stood his brother, the chief marshal himself, and his sister, and beneath him his son with Hilaria at his side.

“These two look each other straight enough in the face,” said the major; not adding what he thought of the matter in his heart.

After a pause Hilaria answered, in a meek, small tone, and almost with a sigh, “Yet those, surely, are not to blame who look upwards.” At the same time she looked up to him with a pair of eyes out of which her whole love was speaking.

“Do I understand thee rightly?” said the major, turning round to her.

“I can say nothing,” answered she, with a smile, “which you do not know already.”

185“Thou makest me the happiest man under the sun,” cried he, and fell at her feet. “Wilt thou be mine?”

“For Heaven’s sake, rise! I am thine forever.”

The baroness entered. Though not surprised, she rather hesitated. “If it be wrong, sister,” said the major, “the blame is thine: if it be right, we will thank thee forever.”

The baroness from youth upwards had so loved her brother that she preferred him to all men; and perhaps Hilaria’s attachment itself had, if not arisen from this sisterly partiality, at least been cherished by it. All three now united in one love, in one delight; and thus the happiest hours flew over them. Yet, at last, their eyes re-opened to the world around them likewise; and this rarely stands in unison with such emotions.

They now again bethought them of the son. For him Hilaria had been destined: this he himself well knew. Directly after finishing the business with the chief marshal, the major had appointed his son to expect him in the garrison, that they might settle every thing together, and conduct these purposes to a happy issue. But now, by an unexpected occurrence, the whole state of matters had been thrown out of joint; the circumstances which before plied into one another so kindly, now seemed to be assuming a hostile aspect; and it was not easy to foresee what turn the affair would take, what temper would seize the individuals concerned in it.

Meanwhile the major was obliged to resolve on visiting his son, to whom he had already announced himself. Not without reluctance, not without singular forecastings, not without pain at even for a short time leaving Hilaria, he at last, after much lingering, took the road, and, leaving groom and horses behind him, proceeded with his cosmetic valet, who had now become an indispensable appendage, towards the town where his son resided.

Both saluted and embraced each other cordially after so long a separation. They had much to communicate, yet they did not just commence with what lay nearest their hearts. The son went into copious talk about his hopes of speedy advancement: in return for which the father gave him precise accounts of what had been discussed and determined between the elder members of the family, both in regard to fortune in general, to the individual estates, and every thing pertaining to them.

The conversation was, in some degree, beginning to flag, 186when the son took heart, and said to his father, with a smile, “You treat me very tenderly, dear father; and I thank you for it. You tell me of properties and fortune, and mention not the terms under which, at least in part, they are to be mine: you keep back the name of Hilaria; you expect that I should bring it forth, that I should express my desire to be speedily united with that amiable maiden.”

At these words the major felt in great perplexity; but as, partly by nature, partly by old habit, it was his way to collect the purpose of the man he had to treat with before stating his own, he now said nothing, and looked at the son with an ambiguous smile. “You will not guess, father, what I have to say,” continued the lieutenant: “I will speak it out briefly, and once for all. I can depend on your affection, which, amid such manifold care for me, has had due regard for my true happiness as well as my fortune. Some time or other it must be said: be it said, then, even now, Hilaria cannot make me happy! I think of Hilaria as of a lovely relative, towards whom I would live all my days with the friendliest feelings; but another has awakened my affection, another has found my heart. The attachment is irresistible: you will not make me miserable.”

Not without effort did the major conceal the cheerfulness which was rising over his face, and, in a tone of mild seriousness, inquire of the son, Who the person was that had so entirely subdued him?—“You must see her yourself, father,” said the other; “for she can as little be described as comprehended. I have but one fear,—that you yourself will be led away by her, like every one that approaches her. By Heaven, it will be so; and I shall see you the rival of your son!”

“But who is she?” inquired the major. “If it is not in thy power to delineate her personal characteristics, tell me, at least, of her outward circumstances: these, at least, may be described.”

“Well, then, father,” replied the son; “and yet these outward circumstances, too, would be different in a different person, would act otherwise on another. She is a young widow, heiress of an old, rich man lately deceased; independent, and well meriting to be so; acquainted with many, loved by just as many, courted by just as many; yet, if I mistake not very greatly, in her heart wholly mine.”

With joyful vivacity, as the father kept silence, and gave no sign of disapproval, the son proceeded to describe the 187conduct of the fair widow towards him; told of her all-conquering grace; recounted one by one her tender expressions of favor; in which the father truly could see nothing but the light friendliness of a universally courted woman, who, among so many, may indeed prefer some one, yet without on that account entirely deciding for him. Under any other circumstances he would doubtless have endeavored to warn a son, nay, even a friend, of the self-deception which might probably enough be at work here; but, in the present case, he himself was so anxious for his son’s being right, for the fair widow’s really loving him, and as soon as possible deciding in his favor, that he either felt no scruple of this sort, or banished any such from his mind, perhaps even only concealed it.

“Thou placest me in great perplexity,” began the father, after some pause. “The whole arrangement between the surviving members of our family depends on the understanding that thou wed Hilaria. If she wed a stranger, the whole fair, careful combination of a fine fortune falls to the ground again; and thou thyself art not too well provided for. There is certainly another way still, but one which sounds rather strange, and by which thou wouldst gain very little: I, in my old days, might wed Hilaria,—a plan which could hardly give thee any very high satisfaction.”

“The highest in the world!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “for who can feel a true attachment, who can enjoy or anticipate the happiness of love, without wishing every friend, every one whom he values, the like supreme felicity? You are not old, father; and how lovely is Hilaria! Even the transient thought of offering her your hand bespeaks a youthful heart, an unimpaired spirit. Let us take up this thought, this project, on the spot, and consider and investigate it thoroughly. My own happiness would be complete if I knew you happy: I could then rejoice in good earnest, that the care you had bestowed on my destiny was repaid on your own by so fair and high a recompense. I can now with confidence and frankness, and true openness of heart, conduct you to my fair one. You will approve of my feelings, since you yourself feel: you will not impede the happiness of your son, since you are advancing to your own happiness.”

With these and other importunate words the lieutenant repressed many a scruple which his father was for introducing, left him no time to calculate, but hurried off with him 188to the fair widow, whom they found in a commodious and splendid house, with a select rather than numerous party, all engaged in cheerful conversation. She was one of those female souls whom no man can escape. With incredible address she contrived to make our major the hero of this evening. The rest of the party seemed to be her family: the major alone was her guest. His circumstances she already knew very well; yet she had the skill to ask about them, as if she were wishing, now at last, to get right information on the subject from himself: and so, likewise, every individual of the company was made to show some interest in the stranger. One must have known his brother, a second his estates, a third something else concerned with him; so that the major, in the midst of a lively conversation, still felt himself to be the centre. Moreover, he was sitting next the fair one; her eyes were on him, her smile was directed to him: in a word, he felt himself so comfortable, that he almost forgot the cause which had brought him. She herself scarcely ever mentioned his son, though the young man took a keen share in the conversation: it seemed as if, in her eyes, he, like all the rest, was present only on his father’s account.

The guests strolled up and down the rooms, and grouped themselves into accidental knots. The lieutenant stepped up to his fair one, and asked, “What say you to my father?”

With a smile she replied, “Methinks you might well take him as a pattern. Do but look how neatly he is dressed! If his manner and bearing are not better than his gentle son’s!” And thus she continued to cry up and praise the father at the son’s expense; awakening, by this means, a very mixed feeling of contentment and jealousy in the young man’s heart.

Erelong the lieutenant came in contact with his father, and recounted all this to him. It made the major’s manner to his fair hostess so much the more friendly; and she, on her side, began to treat him on a more lively and trustful footing. In short, we may say, that, when the company broke up, the major, as well as the rest, already belonged to her and to her circle.

A heavy rain prevented the guests from returning home as they had come. Some coaches drove up, into which the walkers arranged themselves: only the lieutenant, under the pretext that the carriage was already too crowded, let his father drive away, and staid behind.

189The major, on entering his apartment, felt actually confused and giddy in mind, uncertain of himself; as is the case with us on passing rapidly from one state to the opposite. The land still seems in motion to a man who steps from shipboard, and the light still quivers in the eye of him who comes at once into darkness. So did the major still feel himself encircled with the presence of that fair being. He wished still to see, to hear her, again to see, again to hear her: and, after some consideration, he forgave his son; nay, he thought him happy that he might pretend to the appropriation of such loveliness.

From these feelings he was roused by the lieutenant, who, with lively expressions of rapture, rushed into the room, embraced his father, and exclaimed, “I am the happiest man in the world!” After several more of such preliminary phrases, the two at last came to an explanation. The father remarked, that the fair lady in conversing with him had not mentioned the son, or hinted at him by a single syllable. “That is just her soft, silent, half-concealing, half-discovering way, by which you become certain of your wishes, and yet can never altogether get rid of doubt. So was she wont to treat me hitherto; but your presence, father, has done wonders. I confess it, I staid behind, that I might see her one moment longer. I found her walking to and fro in her still shining rooms; for I know it is her custom, when the company is gone, no light must be extinguished. She walks alone up and down in her magic halls, when the spirits are dismissed which she had summoned thither. She accepted the pretext under cover of which I came back. She spoke with kind grace, though of indifferent matters. We walked to and fro through the open doors, along the whole suite of chambers. We had wandered several times to the end, into the little cabinet, which is lighted only by a dim lamp. If she was beautiful while moving under the blaze of the lustres, she was infinitely more so when illuminated by the soft gleam of the lamp. We had again reached the cabinet; and, in turning, we paused for an instant. I know not what it was that forced this audacity on me: I know not how I could venture, in the midst of the most ordinary conversation, all at once to seize her hand, to kiss that soft hand, and to press it to my heart. It was not drawn away. ‘Heavenly creature!’ cried I, ‘conceal thyself no longer from me. If in this fair heart dwells favor for the happy man who stands 190before thee, disclose it, confess it! The present is the best, the highest time. Banish me, or take me to thy arms!’

“I know not what all I said, what I looked and expressed. She withdrew not, she resisted not, she answered not. I ventured to clasp her in my arms, to ask her if she would be mine. I kissed her with rapture; she pushed me away: ‘Well, yes, then: yes!’ or some such words, said she, in a faint tone, as if embarrassed. I retired, and cried, ‘I will send my father: he shall speak for me.’—‘Not a word to him of this!’ replied she, following me some steps. ‘Go away: forget what has happened.’”

What the major thought we shall not attempt to unfold. He said, however, to his son, “What is to be done now, thinkest thou? To my mind the affair is, by accident, so well introduced, that we may now go to work a little more formally; that perhaps it were well if I called there to-morrow, and proposed in thy name.”

“For Heaven’s sake, no, father!” cried the son: “it would spoil the whole business. That look, that tone, must be disturbed and deranged by no formality. It is enough, father, that your presence accelerates this union without your uttering a word on the subject. Yes, it is to you that I owe my happiness! The respect which my loved one entertains for you has conquered every scruple, and never would your son have found so good a moment had not his father prepared it for him.”

These and such disclosures occupied them till far in the night. They mutually settled their plans: the major, simply for form’s sake, was to make a parting call, and then set out to arrange his marriage with Hilaria; the son was to forward and accelerate his, as he should find it possible.

Hersilia’s Postscript.

Here I break off, partly because I can write no more at present, but partly also to fix a thorn in your heart. Now, answer the question for yourself: How strangely, from all that you have read, must matters stand with these ladies at present! Till now they had no mutual relation to each other: they were strangers, though each seemed to have the prospect of a marriage which was to approximate them. And now we find them in company, but by themselves, without male attendance, and wandering over the world. 191What can have passed, what can be to follow? You, my worthy sir, will doubtless get quit of the difficulty by mournfully exclaiming to yourself, “These, also, are renunciants!” And here you are perfectly right: but expectants too? This I durst not discover, even if I knew it.

To show you the way how this amiable pair may be met with on your wandering, I adopt a singular expedient. You herewith receive a little clipping of a map: when you lay this in its place on the full map of the country, the magnetic needle painted here will point with its barb to the spot whither the desirable are moving. This riddle is not so very hard to read: but I could wish, that, from time to time, you would do the like for us, and send a little snip of chart over hither; we should then, in some measure, understand to what quarter our thoughts were to be directed: and how glad should we be if the needle were at last attracted by ourselves. May all good be given you, and all errors forgiven!

It is said of women, that they cannot send away a letter without tacking postscripts to the end of it. Whatever inferences you may draw from the fact, I cannot deny that this is my second postscript, and the place, after all, where I am to tell you the flower of the whole matter. This arrow-shaft, on the little patch of map, Hilaria herself was at the pains to draw and to decorate with such dainty plumage: the sharp point, however, was the fair widow’s work. Have a care that it do not scratch, or perhaps pierce you. Our bargain is, that whenever you meet, be this where it may, you are forthwith to present the small shred of paper, and so be the sooner and more heartily admitted into trust.

A WORD FROM THE EDITOR.

That a certain deficiency, perhaps discernible in the parts, certainly discernible here and there in the whole, cannot, henceforth, be avoided, we ourselves take courage to forewarn the reader, without fearing thereby to thwart his enjoyment. In the present task, undertaken truly with forethought and good heart, we still meet with all the inconveniences which have delayed the publication of these little volumes for twenty years. This period has altered nothing for the better. We still find ourselves in more than one way 192impeded, at this or that place threatened with one obstruction or another. For we have to solve the uncertain problem of selecting from those most multifarious papers what is worthiest and most important, so that it be grateful to thinking and cultivated minds, and refresh and forward them in many a province of life. Now, here are the journals, more or less complete, lying before us; sometimes communicable without scruple; sometimes, again by reason of their unimportant, and likewise of their too important contents, seemingly unfit for insertion.

There are not even wanting sections devoted to the actual world, on statistic, technical, and other practical external subjects. To cut these off as incongruous, we do not determine without reluctance; as life and inclination, knowledge and passion, strangely combining together, go on here in the straitest union.

Then we come on sketches written with clear views and for glorious objects, but not so consequent and deep searching that we can fully approve of them, or suppose, that, in this new and so far advanced time, they could be readable and influential.

So likewise we fall in with little anecdotes, destitute of connection, difficult to arrange under heads, some of them, when closely examined, not altogether unobjectionable. Here and there we discover more complete narratives, several of which, though already known to the world, nevertheless demand a place here, and at the same time require exposition and conclusion. Of poems, also, there is no want; and yet it is not always easy, not always possible, to decide where they should be introduced with best regard to the preserving and assisting of their true tone, which is but too easily disturbed and overturned. If we are not, therefore, as we have too often done in by-gone years, again to stop in the middle of this business, nothing will remain for us but to impart what we possess, to give out what has been preserved. Some chapters, accordingly, the completion of which might have been desirable, we now offer in their first hurried form, that so the reader may not only feel the existence of a want here, but also be informed what this want is, and complete in his own mind whatever, partly from the nature of the object, partly from the intervening circumstances, cannot be presented to him perfectly completed in itself, or furnished with all its requisite accompaniments. 193