The Lost Manuscript Part 114

Her eldest brother came running behind her from the garden, and screamed when he saw the ruins of the bridge.

"I am separated from you," exclaimed Ilse. "Tell father, he need not care for me; the air is pure here; I am under the protection of the Lord, whom I serve; and my heart is light."

_CHAPTER XLI_.

IN THE CAVE.

The dark water gurgled and streamed through the valley; the reflection of the setting sun shone on the bay-windows of the old house; the wife of the Scholar stood alone beneath the rock overhanging the entrance to the cave. Where once the wives of the ancient Saxons listened to the rustling of the forest-trees, and where the wife of the hunted robber hurled stones on his pursuers, now stood the fugitive daughter of the Manor on the Rock, looking down on the wild surging of the water, and up to the house where her husband's foe was resting in the arm-chair of her father. Her breast still heaved convulsively, but she looked kindly on the brown rock which spread its protecting vault above her. Below her roared the wild, destructive flood, while around her the diminutive life of nature carelessly played. The dragon-flies chased one another over the water, the bees hummed about the herbs of the sloping hill, and the wood-birds chanted their evening-carols. She seated herself on the stone bench, and struggled for peaceful thoughts; she folded her hands and bent her head; and the storm within her bosom spent itself in the tears that flowed from her eyes.

"I will not think of myself, but only of those I love. The little ones will inquire after me when they go to bed; to-night they will not hear the stories of the city that I used to tell them, to put them to sleep.

They were all wet after their fis.h.i.+ng, and in the confusion no one will think of putting dry stockings on them. In thinking of other things I have forgotten to care for them. The youngest persists in wis.h.i.+ng to become a professor. My child, you do not know what it is you wish. How much must you learn, and what a change will come over you! For the work which life accomplishes in us is immeasurable. When I formerly sat here near my father, I believed, in my simplicity, that the higher the office, the more n.o.ble were the men, and the most exalted of all the best, and that all that was important on earth was done by great and refined minds. And when the two scholars came, and I talked about books with Felix for the first time, I still imagined that everything in print must be indubitable truth, and every one who wrote, a thoroughly learned man. Many think thus childishly. But I have been an obstinate thing, and have vehemently opposed myself to others, even to my husband, who stood highest in my opinion."

She looked with a sad smile before her, but immediately afterwards bent her head, and again the tears poured from her eyes.

She heard the call of her brother from the garden.

"Holloa, Ilse! are you there? The strangers are still in the house; they are making a sedan chair for the invalid; he is to be taken to the ranger's lodge. Father is busy sending out messengers. The bridge at Rossau has also been carried away by the water; we cannot get to the town, and no one can come from the town to us. We feel very anxious about your getting back to us."

"Do not mind about me, Hans," said Ilse; "tell the girls they must not be so engrossed with the strangers as to forget our dear guest. Greet the children for me; they must not come to the edge of the water to bid me good night, for the bank is slippery."

Ilse placed herself at the entrance of the cave and looked all about.

Early that morning she had seated herself here, and when the water began to rise high, she had hastened over the wooden bridge to warn her brothers and sisters. Her work still lay on the bench, together with a book that had been given her by the Pastor when she was a girl. It was the life of the holy Elizabeth, written by one of the most zealous ecclesiastics of her church.

"When I first read about you," she thought, "Saint Ilse of the Wartburg, my distinguished namesake, your life touched me, and all that you did and that was told of you appeared to me as an example for myself. You were a pious, sensible, and amiable woman, and united to a worthy husband. Then the longing for higher honor in his knightly order, and martial fame, made him blind to the nearest duty of his life, and he left you and the people of his home, and went to the wars in the far-off land of Italy. Two long years he wandered and fought, and finally returned, weary and worn. But he found not his beloved wife as he had left her. In the solitude that surrounded you, you had yearned for your husband, and your overpowering sorrow had brought you to ponder upon the great mysteries of life; your own life had been full of longing, and for this you had become a pious penitent. You wore a garment of hair, and scourged your back; you bowed your head and thoughts before an intolerant priest. You did what was not right nor seemly; to please your G.o.d, you laid the leper in the bed of your dear husband. In your over-strained piety you lost your warm heart and the modesty of womanhood; you were canonized by the clergy; but you, poor woman, in your striving for what they called the grace of G.o.d, had sacrificed human feelings and duties. It is not good, Ilse, that man and wife separate without great necessity."

"When people act harshly towards those they love, they do so because some wrong has been done them or because they fancy themselves offended. But why should you care for invalid strangers on the couch that your husband had forsaken? I fear me, blessed Elizabeth, that it was the spite of offended love, that it was secret revenge for having so hopelessly longed for your husband. Your history is no good teaching for us, but rather a warning. My sweet old friend Penelope, the poor heathen woman, was far more human than you and a far better wife than you. She wept night after night for her loved husband, and when he finally returned, she threw her arms about him for his having recognized the secret signs of the nuptial couch."

Again a voice sounded from the other side of the water.

"Do you hear me, Ilse?" cried her father, from the other bank.

"I hear you," answered Ilse, raising herself.

"The strangers are going away," said the father; "the invalid is so weak that he cannot injure others; you are, in truth, separated from us. It is becoming dark, and there is no prospect of being able to repair the bridge over the water before night. Go along the valley on your side over the hill to Rossau, and there remain with some one of our acquaintances until morning. It is a long way round, but you may reach it before night."

"I will remain here, father," Ilse called back; "the evening is mild, and it is only a few hours till morning."

"I cannot bear, Ilse, that my wilful child should sleep beneath the rocks in the very sight of her home."

"Do not mind about me. I have the moon and the stars over me; you know that I do not fear the dwarfs of the cave, nor on my mountain the power of man."

The twilight of evening fell on the deep valley, and the mist rose from the water; it floated slowly from tree to tree, it undulated and rolled its long, dusky veil between Ilse and her father's house. The trunks of the trees and the roof of the house disappeared, and the grotto seemed to hover in clouds of air separated from the earth amidst indistinct shadows, which hung round the entrance of the rock and fluttered at Ilse's feet, then collected together and dissolved.

Ilse sat on the bench at the entrance, her hands folded over her knees, appearing in her light dress, like a fairy woman of olden times, a ruler of the floating shadows. She gazed along her side of the sh.o.r.e on the mountain-path that led from Rossau.

The distant steps of a wanderer sounded through the damp fog. Ilse took hold of the moist stone. Something moved on the ground near her, and glided indistinctly forward--perhaps it was a night-swallow or owl.

"It is he," said Ilse, softly. She rose slowly, she trembled, and supported herself against the rock.

The figure of a man stepped out of the white mist; he stopped astonished when he saw a woman standing there.

"Ilse!" called out a clear voice.

"I await you here," she answered, in a low tone. "Stop there, Felix.

You find not your wife as you left her. Another has coveted that which is yours; a poisonous breath has pa.s.sed over me; words have been said to me which no honest woman ought to hear, and I have been looked upon as a bought slave."

"You have escaped from the enemy."

"I have, and therefore am here; but I am no longer in the eyes of others what I once was. You had a wife free from all taint; she who now stands before you is evilly talked of, both on account of father and son."

"The noise of tongues dies away like the surging of the water beneath your feet. It signifies little what others think when we have done what is satisfactory to our own consciences."

"I am glad that you do not care for the talk of others. But I am not quite so proud and independent as I was. I conceal my sorrow, but I feel it always. I am lowered in my own eyes, and, I fear, Felix, in yours also; for I have brought on my own misfortune--I have been too frank with strangers, and given them a right over me."

"You have been brought up to trust in those who hold high positions.

Who can give up loyal trust without pain?"

"I have been awakened, Felix. Now answer me," she continued, with agitation, "how do you return to me?"

"As a weary, erring man, who seeks the heart of his wife and her forgiveness."

"What has your wife to forgive, Felix?" she again asked.

"That my eyes were blinded, and that I forgot my first duties to follow a vain chase."

"Is that all, Felix? Have you brought me back your heart, unchanged to me as it was before?"

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed her husband, embracing her.

"I hear your tones of love," she exclaimed, pa.s.sionately, throwing her arms round his neck. She led him into the grotto, stroked the drops of water out of his damp hair, and kissed him. "I have you, my beloved one; I cling firmly to you, and no power shall ever again separate me from you. Sit here, you long-suffering man; I hold you fast. Let me hear all the trouble you have gone through."

The Scholar held his wife in his arms, and related all. He felt her tremble when he told her his adventures.

"Indignant anger and terror impelled me along the road to Rossau after the Sovereign," he said, concluding his account, "and the delay for change of horses seemed insupportable to me. In the town I found a crush of vehicles worse than on a market-day; before the inn a confused noise of wheels, and the cries of men, drovers, and court-lackeys, who could not cross the water. In the city I learned from strangers that the foe of our happiness had been overtaken by a fate which pursued him to the water. We have done with him, and are free. They called out to me that the bridge on the way to you was broken. I sprang out of the carriage in order to seek the footpath over the hills and the road behind the garden. Then the dog of our landlord ran past me, and a coachman from our city came up to me and stated that he had brought Fritz and Laura to the town, but that they had gone further down the stream in order to find a crossing. You may believe that I would not wait."

"I knew that you would seek this path," said Ilse. "To-day you are come to me--to me alone; you belong only to me; you are given to me anew, betrothed to me for the second time. The habitations of men around us have disappeared; we stand alone in the wild cave of the dwarfs. You, my Felix, to whom the whole world belongs, who understand all the secrets of life, who know the past and divine the future--you have nothing now for a shelter but this cleft of the rock, and no covering but the kerchief of poor Anna for your weary limbs. The rock is still warm, and I will strew the gra.s.s of our hills as a couch for you. You have nothing, my hero in the wilderness, but the rocks and herbs, and your Ilse by your side."

The stillness of night reigns about; the stream rushes gently around the roots of the brambles; and the white mists hang like a thick curtain over the cave. Dusky phantoms glide along the valley; they hover, in long white dresses, past the rocky entrance, down into the open country, where a fresh breath of air dissolves them. High above, the moon spreads its white, glimmering tent, woven of rays of light and watery vapors; and the old juggler laughs merrily over the valley and down upon the rocky grotto. As the delusive moonlight hara.s.ses mortals by its unreal halo, so do they hara.s.s themselves by the pictures of their own fancy, in love and hate, in good and bad humor; their life pa.s.ses away whilst they are thinking of their duty and err in doing it, whilst they seek truth and dream in seeking it. The spirit flies high, and the heart beats warm, but the hobgoblin of fancy works incessantly amidst the reality of life; the cleverest deceive themself, and the best are disappointed by their own zeal. Sleep in peace, Ilse. Thou sittest upon thy low stone bench and boldest in thy lap the head of thy husband. Even in this hour of bliss, thou feelest the sorrow that came to him and thee, and a gentle sigh sounds through the cavern like the movement of a moth's wings against the walls of rock. Sleep in peace.

For thou hast lived, in the weeks gone by, through that which for all future time will be a gain to thee. Thou hast learned to seek in the depths of thy own life judgment and firm resolve. It would not be fitting. Ilse, that the lightly-woven tale of that which thou hast suffered, should separately bring up the lofty questions of eternal moment that thou hast raised--thy doubts and thy fierce battles of conscience. That were a too heavy burden for our frail bark. Yet as the mariner at sea, his eye fixed upon things below, recognizes in the waters beneath the reflection of the clouds of heaven, so will thy attainment of freedom, Ilse, be seen in the reflection of thy thoughts, in thy countenance, thy manner, and thy conduct.

Slumber in peace, you children of light! Many of your hopes have been deceived, and much innocent trust has been destroyed by rough reality.

The forms of a past time--forms that you have borne reverentially in your hearts--have laid a real hold on your life; for what a man thinks, and what a man dreams, becomes a power over him. What once has entered in the soul continues to work actively in it, exalting and impelling it onward, debasing and destroying it. About you, too, a game of fantastic dreams has played. If at times it has given you pain, it has still not impaired the power of your life, for the roots of your happiness lie as deep as it is granted man, that transitory flower, to rest in the soil of earth. Slumber in peace under the roof of the wild rock; the warm air of the grotto breathes round your couch, and the ancient vaulting of the roof spreads protectingly over your weary eyes! Around you the forest sleeps and dreams; the old inhabitants of the rock sit at the entrance of the cave. I know not whether they are the elves in whom Ilse does not believe, or the old friends of the scholar, the little goat-footed Pans, who blow their sylvan songs on their reed pipes. They hold their fingers to their mouth, and blow so gently in their pipe that it sounds sometimes like the rus.h.i.+ng of the water or the soft sigh of a sleeping bird.