Henry of Ofterdingen: A Romance Part 9

"I comprehend not the meaning of eternity; yet I fancy that what I feel, when I think of thee, must const.i.tute eternity."

"Yes, Matilda, we are eternal, because we love each other."

"Thou canst not believe, dearest, how fervently, when we came home early this morning, I knelt before the image of the holy mother, what unspeakable things I prayed to her. I thought that I should melt away in tears. It seemed as if she smiled upon me. I now for the first time know what grat.i.tude is."

"O beloved, Heaven has given me thee to adore. I wors.h.i.+p thee. Thou art the holy one that carriest my wishes to G.o.d, through whom He reveals himself to me, through whom He makes known to me the fulness of His love. What is religion but an infinite harmony, an eternal unison of loving hearts? Where two are gathered together, He is indeed among them. Thou wilt be my breath eternally. My bosom will never cease to draw thee to itself. Thou art divine majesty, eternal life in the loveliest of forms."

"Alas, Henry, thou knowest the fate of the roses. Wilt thou also press the pale cheek, the withered lips, with tenderness to thy own? Will not the traces of age be also the traces of bygone love?"

"O that thou couldst see through my eyes into my spirit! But thou lovest me, and canst also believe me. I cannot comprehend what is said of the withering of charms. They are unfading! That which draws me so inseparably to thee, that has awakened in me such everlasting desire, is not of this world. Couldst thou but see how thou appearest to me, what a wonderful form penetrates thy shape, and everywhere is raying towards me, thou wouldst not fear age. Thy earthly shape is but a shadow of this form. The earthly faculties strive and swell that they may incarnate it; but nature is yet unripe; the form is only an eternal archetype, a fragment of the unknown holy world."

"I understand thee, dear Henry, for I see something similar when I look upon thee."

"Yes, Matilda, the higher world is nearer to us than we usually believe. Here already we live in it, and we see it closely interwoven with our earthly nature."

"Thou wilt yet reveal much that is glorious to me, beloved?"

"O! Matilda, from thee alone cometh the gift of divination. Everything that I have is indeed thine. Thy love will lead me into the sanctuaries of life, and the most sacred recesses of the mind; thou wilt fill me with enthusiasm, wilt excite me to the highest contemplation. Who knows that our love will not change to wings of flame bearing us upward, and carrying us to our heavenly home, ere old age and death reach us? Is it not a miracle already that thou art mine, that I hold thee in my arms, that thou lovest me, and that thou wilt be mine forever?"

"To me also everything seems possible, and I plainly feel a gentle flame kindling within me. Who knows that it does not transfigure us, and gradually dissolve all earthly ties? Only tell me, Henry, whether thou hast that boundless confidence in me, that I have in thee. Yet I never have felt towards any one as I do towards thee; not even to my father, whom I love so dearly."

"Dear Matilda, it really torments me, that I cannot tell thee everything at once, that I cannot at once give my whole heart to thee.

For the first time in my life am I perfectly frank. No thought, no feeling can I longer conceal from thee,--thou must know everything. My whole being shall mingle itself with thine. A most boundless resignation to thee can alone satisfy my love. In that indeed it consists. It is truly a most mysterious flowing together of our most secret and personal existence."

"Henry, two beings can never thus have loved each other."

"I cannot believe it possible, for till now no Matilda has lived."

"And no Henry!"

"Swear to me once more that thou art mine. Love is an endless repet.i.tion."

"Yes, Henry, by the invisible presence of my good mother, I swear to be thine forever."

"I swear to be thine forever, Matilda, as surely as love, G.o.d's presence, is with us."

A long embrace and countless kisses sealed the eternal alliance of the blessed pair.

CHAPTER IX.

At evening some guests were present; the grandfather drank the health of the young bridal pair, and promised to give them soon a splendid marriage feast. "Of what use is long waiting?" said the old man. "Early marriages make long love. I have always observed that marriages early contracted were the happiest. In latter years there is no longer such a devotion in the marriage relation as in youth. Youth, enjoyed in common, forms an inseparable tie. Memory is the safest ground of love."

After the meal more people came in. Henry asked his new father to fulfil his promise. Klingsohr said to the company, "I have promised Henry to-day to relate a tale. If it would please you I am ready to do so."

"That was a wise idea of Henry's," said Swaning. "We have heard nothing from you for a long time."

All seated themselves by the fire, which was sparkling on the hearth.

Henry sat by Matilda, and stole his arm around her. Klingsohr began.

"The long night had just set in. The old hero struck his s.h.i.+eld, so that it resounded far through the solitary streets of the city. Thrice he repeated the signal. Then the lofty, many-colored windows of the palace began to shed abroad their light, and their figures were put in motion. They moved the more quickly, as the ruddy stream which began to illumine the streets became stronger. Also by degrees the immense pillars and walls began to s.h.i.+ne. At length they stood in the purest milk-blue glimmer, and flickered with the softest colors. The whole region was now visible, and the reflection of the figures, the clas.h.i.+ng of the spears, swords, s.h.i.+elds, and helmets, which bowed from all sides towards crowns appearing here and there, and finally closed round a simple green garland in a wide circle, as the crowns vanished before it; all this was reflected from the frozen sea that surrounded the hill on which the city stood,--and even the far distant mountain range, which girdled the sea, was half enwrapped with a mildly reflected splendor. Nothing could be plainly distinguished; yet a strange sound was heard, as if from an immense workshop in the distance. The city, on the contrary, was light and clear. Its smooth transparent walls reflected the beautiful beams; and the perfect symmetry, the n.o.ble style, and fine arrangement of all the buildings were well defined.

Before every window stood earthern pots with ornaments, full of every variety of ice and snow flowers, which sparkled most brilliantly.

"But fairest of all appeared the garden upon the great square in front of the palace, consisting of metal plants and crystal trees, hung with varied jewel-blossoms and fruits. The manifold and delicate shapes, the lively lights and colors, formed a lordly spectacle, made still more magnificent by a lofty fountain, frozen in the midst of the garden. The old hero walked slowly past the palace doors. A voice from within called his name. He turned towards the door, which opened with a gentle sound, and stewed into the hall. His s.h.i.+eld was held before his eyes.

"'Hast thou yet discovered nothing,' plaintively cried the beautiful daughter of Arcturus. She lay on silken cus.h.i.+ons, upon a throne artfully fas.h.i.+oned from a huge pyrite-crystal, and some maidens were a.s.siduously chafing her tender limbs, which seemed a rare union of milk and purple. On all sides streamed from beneath the hands of the maidens that charming light, which so wondrously illuminated the palace. A perfumed breeze was waving through the hall. The hero was silent.

"'Let me touch thy s.h.i.+eld,' said she softly.

"He approached the throne and stepped upon the costly carpet. She seized his hand, pressed it with tenderness to her heavenly bosom, and touched his s.h.i.+eld. His armor resounded, and a penetrating force inspired his frame. His eyes flashed, and the heart beat loudly against his breastplate. The beautiful Freya appeared more serene, and the light that streamed from her became more brilliant.

"'The king is coming,' cried a splendid bird that was perched behind the throne. The attendants threw an azure veil over the princess, which concealed her heaving bosom. The hero lowered his s.h.i.+eld, and looked upward to the dome, whither two broad staircases wound from each side of the hall. Soft music preceded the king, who soon appeared in the dome, and descended with a numerous train.

"The beautiful bird unfolded its s.h.i.+ning wings, and gently fluttering, sang to the king as with a thousand voices:

"The stranger fair delay no longer maketh.

Warmth draweth near, Eternity begins.

From long and tedious dreams the Queen awaketh, When land in eddying love with ocean spins.

Her farewell hence the chilly midnight taketh, When Fable first the ancient t.i.tle wins.

The world will kindle upon Freya's breast, And every longing in its longing rest."

The King embraced his daughter with tenderness. The spirits of the stars surrounded the throne, and the hero took his place in the order.

A numerous crowd of stars filled the hall in splendid groups. The attendants brought a table and a little casket, containing a heap of leaves, upon which were inscribed mystic figures of deep significance, constructed of constellations. The king reverently kissed these leaves, mixed them carefully together, and handed some to his daughter; the rest he kept. The princess placed them in a row upon the table; then the king closely examined his own, and chose with much reflection before he added one to them. At times he seemed forced to choose this or that leaf. But often his joy was evident, when he could complete by a lucky leaf a beautiful harmony of signs and figures. As the play commenced, tokens of the liveliest sympathy were visible among all the by-standers, accompanied by peculiar looks and gestures, as if each one had an invisible instrument in his hands which he plied diligently. At the same time a gentle but deeply moving music was heard in the air, seeming to arise from the stars gliding past each other in a wondrous motion, and from the other movements so peculiar. The stars floated round, now slowly, now quickly, in continually changing lines, and curiously imitated, to the swell of the music, the figures on the leaves. The music changed incessantly with the images upon the table; and though the transitions were often strange and intricate, yet a simple theme seemed to unite the whole. With incredible adroitness the stars flew together according to the images. Now in great confusion, but now again beautifully arranged in single cl.u.s.ters, and now the long train was suddenly scattered, like a ray, into innumerable sparks, but soon came together, through smaller circles and patterns ever increasing, into one great figure of surprising beauty. The varied shapes in the windows remained all this time at rest. The bird unceasingly ruffled its costly plumage in every variety of form.

Hitherto the old hero had also pursued an unseen occupation, when suddenly the king full of joy exclaimed, "all is well. Iron, throw thy sword into the world, that it may know where peace rests."

The hero s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword from his thigh, raised it with the point to heaven, and hurled it from the window over the city and the icy sea. It flew through the air like a comet, and seemed to penetrate the mountain chain with a clear report, as it fell downward in brilliant flakes of fire.

At this time the beautiful child Eros lay in his cradle and slumbered gently, whilst Ginnistan his nurse rocked him, and held out her breast to his foster-sister Fable. She had spread her variegated wimple over the cradle, so that the bright lamp which stood before the scribe might not trouble the child. Busily he wrote, at times looking morosely at the children, and gloomily towards the nurse, who smiled upon him kindly and kept silence.

The father of the children walked in and out continually, at each turn gazing upon them, and greeting Ginnistan kindly. He always had something to dictate to the scribe. The latter observed his words exactly, and when he had written, handed them to an aged and venerable woman, who was leaning on an altar, where stood a dark bowl of clear water, into which she looked with serene smiles. When she dipped the leaves in the water, and found on withdrawing them, that some of the writing remained still glittering, she gave them to the scribe, who fastened them in a great book, and seemed much out of humor when his labor had been in vain, and all the writing had been obliterated. The woman turned at times towards Ginnistan and the children, and dipping her finger in the bowl, sprinkled some drops upon them, which, as soon as they touched the nurse, the child, or the cradle, dissolved into a blue vapor, exhibiting a thousand strange images, and floating and changing constantly around them. If one of these by chance touched the scribe, many figures and geometrical diagrams fell down, which he strung with much diligence upon a thread, and hung them for an ornament around his meagre neck. The child's mother, who was sweetness and loveliness itself, often came in. She seemed to be constantly occupied, always carrying with her some domestic utensil. If the prying scribe observed it, he began a long reproof, of which no one took any notice.

All seemed accustomed to his fruitless fault-finding. The mother sometimes gave the breast to little Fable, but was soon called away, and Ginnistan took the child back again, for it seemed to love her best. Suddenly the father brought in a small slender rod of iron, which he had found in the court. The scribe looked at it, twirled it round quickly, and soon discovered, that being suspended from the middle by a thread, it turned of itself to the north. Ginnistan also took it in her hand, bent it, pressed it, breathed upon it, and soon gave it the form of a serpent biting, its own tail. The scribe was soon weary of looking at it. He wrote down everything that had occurred, and was very diffuse about the utility of such a discovery. But how vexed was he when all he had written did not stand the proof, and when the paper came blank from the bowl. The nurse continued to play with it. She chanced to touch with it the cradle; the child awoke, threw off his covering, and holding one hand towards the light, reached after the serpent with the other. As soon as he received it, he leaped so quickly from the cradle that Ginnistan was frightened, and the scribe fell nearly out of his chair from wonder; the child stood in the chamber, covered only by his long golden hair, and gazed with speechless joy upon the prize, which pointed in his hands, towards the North, and seemed to awake within him deep emotion. He grew visibly.

"Sophia," said he with a touching voice to the woman, "let me drink from the bowl."

She gave it him without delay, and he could not cease drinking; yet the bowl continued full. At last he returned it, while embracing the good woman heartily. He pressed Ginnistan to his heart, and asked her for the variegated cloth, which he bound becomingly around his thigh. He took little Fable in his arms. She appeared greatly to delight in him, and began to prattle. Ginnistan devoted all her attention to him. She looked exceedingly charming and gay, and pressed him to herself with the tenderness of a bride. She led him with whispered words to the chamber door, but Sophia nodded earnestly and pointed to the serpent.

Just then the mother entered, to whom he immediately flew, and with warm tears welcomed her. The scribe had departed in anger. The father entered: and as he saw mother and son in silent embrace, he approached the charming Ginnistan behind them and caressed her. Sophia ascended the stairs. Little Fable took the scribe's pen and began to write.

Mother and son were deeply engaged in conversation. The father availed himself of the opportunity, and lavished many a tender word and look upon Ginnistan, who returned them willingly; and in their sweet interchange of love, both the presence or absence of any was forgotten.

After some time Sophia returned, and the scribe entered. He drove little Fable with many rebukes from his seat, and took a long time to put his things in order. He handed to Sophia the leaves that Fable had written over, that they might be returned clean; but his displeasure was extreme, when Sophia drew the writing brilliant and uneffaced from the bowl, and laid it before him. Fable clang to her mother, who took her to her breast, and put the chamber in order, opened the windows for the fresh air, and made preparations for a costly meal. A beautiful landscape was visible from the windows, and a serene sky overarched the earth. The father was busily employed in the court. When he was weary, he looked up towards the window, where Ginnistan stood and threw to him all sorts of sweetmeats. Mother and son went out in order to a.s.sist in any manner, and to prepare for the resolution they had taken. The scribe twitched his pen, and always made a wry face, when he was forced to ask any information of Ginnistan, who had a good memory and recollected everything that transpired. Eros soon returned, clad in beautiful armor, round which the varigated cloth was wound like a scarf. He asked Sophia's advice as to when and how he should commence his journey. The scribe was very troublesome, and wanted to furnish him with a complete traveller's guide, but his instructions were not regarded.

"You can commence your journey immediately," said Sophia, "Ginnistan can guide you. She knows the road and is acquainted everywhere. She will take the form of your mother, that she may not lead you into temptation. If you find the king, think of me; for then I shall soon come to a.s.sist you."

Ginnistan exchanged forms with the mother, whereat the father seemed much pleased. The scribe was rejoiced that they were both going away; particularly when Ginnistan on taking leave presented him with a pocket-book, in which the chronicles of the house were circ.u.mstantially recorded. Yet the little Fable remained a thorn in his eye, and he desired nothing more for his peace and content, than that she might also be among the number of the travellers. Sophia p.r.o.nounced a blessing upon the two who knelt down before her, and gave them a vessel full of water from the bowl. The mother was very sad. Little Fable, would willingly have gone with them; the father was too much occupied out of doors, to concern himself much about it. It was night when they left, and the moon stood high in the sky.

"Dear Eros," said Ginnistan, "we must hasten, that we may come to my father, who has not seen me for a long time, and has fought for me anxiously everywhere upon earth. Do you not see his emaciated face?

Your testimony will cause him to recognise me in this strange form."