CHAPTER II.
When Klytia was sufficiently restored to health to be able to sit up with outstretched foot on a chair specially constructed by her father, the visits of her friends who where most anxious to hear all the details of the accident began, thereby greatly tormenting the poor child. Frau Belier especially wished to know so exactly how it all came to pass that finally nothing was left for Lydia but to avail herself of Barbara's device of the open turnip-pit. Happily private affairs remained still uppermost in the minds of these busy women and maidens, and Lydia was endued with sufficient feminine cunning to parry a disagreeable question by referring to another topic. "I am nothing but a false serpent," she used to say reproachfully to herself, "and repay all this love with deceit." She received more visits than she cared for,--only one remained away, one whom she so much feared, one for whom she so much longed. What could have prevented Paolo from coming to the very place chosen by himself? What prevented him even now from at all events asking her father about the health of his pupil? Had the miller not confirmed the fact that the note had been sent by Laurenzano, she would have preferred to think, that her rivals at the Stift had been making game of her, but after what the old Werner had told her she was forced to believe in Paolo's guilt. "He has no heart," she murmured, "otherwise he would have been here long ago." The less the news that could be obtained of him, the more did his conduct appear inconceivable to her. Had he quitted the town forever, in which he had caused so much misery? In that case he would never return! A feeling of horror crept over her at such a thought. Then she heard in the lofty echoing passage a well known elastic step and the voice of her father as he quietly approached. Erastus' head appeared at the door. "My child, Herr Laurenzano wishes to pay thee a visit. Remain lying down so that thy foot may not suffer." Lydia turned first pale and then red. At that moment she saw the figure of the architect, and with the disappointment her composure returned. Smilingly did she stretch out a small white hand to the Maestro. After that the handsome dark-eyed Italian had congratulated her gracefully on her recovery, he told her, that owing to the state of her health he had not up to the present time occupied himself with the repairs necessary to be made on the row of windows of Erastus' apartments. If she permitted it he would now begin the work. Lydia thanked him for his kind consideration. The work would not disturb her in any way; she would retire to the back rooms. The architect looked as childishly sad at her, as would a boy to whom a long wished for pleasure had been denied.--That she should not deny herself the bright sunshine so necessary to every sick person, was the very cause of his visit, he began with hesitating voice and maidenlike blush. It would be utterly impossible for him to undertake the work with any comfort and happiness if he had hourly to reproach himself with having delayed her convalescence. He would in that case prefer leaving the windows as they were, Erastus smilingly sided with him; in short Lydia had to capitulate and agreed neither to leave the room, nor to shut out the health-bringing pure air. Thus it happened that the merry Maestro appeared daily on the scaffold and seized every opportunity of coming to Lydia's window. He used then to tell her about the work, to complain of the laziness of German workmen who wasted half the day in eating, drinking and sleeping, and to praise the frugality and diligence of his Italian countrymen. Smilingly did the maiden bending over her work listen to the complaints of the Neapolitan, whose great delight seemed to consist in talking. As the neighbours however took to looking up at them, she reminded him half-seriously that he was no diligent Italian. "You say that a German eats and drinks as much as ten Italians, but it seems to me that an Italian chatters as much as twenty Germans. Now let me see for once how industrious you can be." Felix retired feeling rather ashamed, whilst she could not help thinking how much the brothers resembled each other. "I am afraid of the Magister," she thought smiling, "and yet long to see him. I am amused at the architect and yet dismiss him from me. Thou foolish heart to prefer sorrow to joy."
One morning the Maestro mentioned his brother to her. He was staying with the Bishop at Speyer where he had some friends. It was then as she feared. He had become Brother Paulus once more and returned to the Jesuits. Sad, and with beating heart did she stoop over her sewing whilst two large tears fell on her work. The Maestro pretended not to perceive this, but whilst angry with Paul on account of these tears, he himself became suddenly aware of how his own heart yearned towards this beauteous fair maiden.
Klytia herself could no longer be in doubt, that the worthy Maestro, whom she preferred to any one after Paul, earnestly sought her love, but her heart was filled with grief for him whom now she must reckon among the dead. Had he not abandoned her insultingly to her fate, disgraced her in her own eyes, was he not continuing on his own crooked dark paths, and had he not ceased to love her if indeed he had ever done so? What would she have given, not to have been daily reminded of him by his brother, and yet she was never so attentive, as when the latter told her of his youthful days in Naples, how he, Paul, and their little sister had played at ball with the golden fruit of the orange groves, sought for colored shells on the shore, hidden themselves in the hollow trunks of olive trees, looked for antique bits and marble splinters among the laurels and mountain-shrubs; of their adventures with huge earthworms, small snakes, scorpions and butterflies; then she saw standing out so distinctly before her the dark elder and the yet more swarthy younger brother, that she felt for them as a sister, and in her dreams she often imagined herself to be that deceased sister of the Laurenzanos. "Take the brown one, the dark one will render thee unhappy," had said the old witch, and Lydia had become superstitious since that terrible evening at the cross-roads on the Holtermann. The magic words of the old woman seemed to be too true. The maiden's heart could not free itself from the demoniacal priest, and it remained after Paul's faithless flight, in the trusty brother's power. Quite involuntarily, in her dreams, these innermost thoughts, still unknown to herself assumed expression.
Above the door of the Ruprecht building where dwelt Felix, might be seen a beauteous piece of artistic work of old German architecture, before which Lydia had as a child often stood in delighted wonderment. Two lovely angels' heads mutually o'ershadowed by each other's little wings; holding in brotherly affection within a wreath of roses, a pair of compasses, the sign of the masons. The Builder's guild had evidently thus intended to go down to posterity. The common people however related, that these two lovely twins had been the delight of the architect who had built the Schloss. To have them continually at his side he had taken them up on the scaffold, rejoicing in his two fresh-looking courageous boys. One day however one of them stumbled and dragged the other down with him. The architect became almost deranged, so that the building did not proceed. Instead of looking after the work, the sorrowful father daily made a wreath which he adorned with white roses and carried to the cemetery near the Peter's Church where were buried his darlings. The Emperor Ruprecht however became angry at the length of time the building continued, and ordered the Priest, who had buried the children to urge on the architect. He answered that all was ready, but that in his grief he could not conceive a proper ornament for the gateway. The Priest exhorted and consoled him to the best of his ability; the same night the twins appeared as bright angels to the father bringing back with them the wreath of roses which he had laid that morning on their grave. When the architect was roused the next morning by the light of the rising Sun, he thought of his dream, it seemed to him that the perfume of the roses still filled his room, and on rising, behold there lay the wreath fresh and fragrant, which he had the previous morning laid on the grave of his little ones, and which he had seen withered the evening before, but the white roses had turned to red. It was immediately plain to the architect how he should decorate the gate-way. He chiselled his children as angels as they had appeared to him, bearing a rose-wreath, and in the middle he placed a pair of compasses, the symbol of an art, to which he now bade a lasting farewell. On St. John's day 1408, the key-stone of the gate-way was fixed in, and the Emperor Ruprecht himself spoke the dedicatory oration. When he wished however to return his imperial thanks to the workmen, the architect had disappeared. Whilst all the bells were pealing loudly and filling the Neckar valley with their deep notes, the Master whom they were honoring, trod along the Michaelspath over the mountains to the monastery on the Heiligenberg. He became a monk and gazed from his cell at the tower, reared over the graves of his darling children, till his two boys once more appeared to him, crowned him with roses and bore away his soul into Abraham's bosom. This was the story as told to Lydia by her nurse, and when she thought of angels, the beauteous bearers of the wreath over the gate-way before which she daily passed always presented themselves to her memory. None of the noble statues wrought by Master Colins on the magnificent Otto Heinrich building had ever come near the impression made by these angels' heads. One evening after Felix had again been speaking about the games he and his brother Paul had played in their garden fragrant with roses at Naples, Lydia dreamt that night, that she was flying in the air above the Holtermann in the direction of the castle, and just as she was about to settle down the two angels of the Ruprecht building came towards her. The one was grave and cold, whilst the other which resembled Master Felix smiled on her joyously. Presently the one with the earnest, beauteous expression, which Magister Paul always wore when teaching opened his mouth and said: "Take Felice." On this she woke up, hearing also the witch saying distinctly: "the fairer one is the right one;" frightened she raised her head from the pillow and saw how the moon shone clearly into her room. Long did she think over this wondrous dream, in which the dearest impressions of her childhood and the terrible experiences of the previous weeks were so mixed together, then she fell asleep once more. The following morning she could not withstand the temptation of seeing whether the two angels' heads really resembled the brothers? Everything was quiet and peaceful in the court. This was the first time she had ventured out since her accident. She took a glass to draw water from the well-house, supported by the pillars taken from Charlemagne's palace in the Palatinate near Ingelheim. Whilst lowering the bucket she gazed at the beloved images at her ease. No one was there to disturb her at her early task. The glass filled with the pure water of the well sparkled in her hand. Clear shone the morning-sun on the Ruprecht building, and to see the images better the maiden was forced to approach closer. She protected her eyes against the light with her hand and looked intently at the well-known figures. Gently and kindly seemed the angels to smile back on her. The younger one to the left might stand for the grave Paolo, the older one to the right the joyous artist. Right! "He is the right one," the words of the witch kept dinning in her ears. And did not the compasses in the middle refer to Felice's art? Not the breviary, but the implement of the Maestro is surrounded by the roses of love. "But they are both clad as choir-boys." The thought distracted her. The angels' heads seemed to float, to nod to her, to greet her. Dazzled by the light it seemed to her confused eyes as if the wreath were coming away. Suddenly a full blown rose fell at her feet. Surprised she looked around whether she could see anyone. She picked up the flower. It was the same kind of deep-red rose as was sculptured on the wreath round the angels. With a feeling akin to superstition she looked up to see whether the beautiful rose had not fallen out of the wreath encircling the lovely children? But none was missing. The windows on the whole of that side were closed, with the exception of a single one, and that belonged to Felice's room. Smilingly she placed the flower in her glass, and hurried back as fast as her lame foot would permit, for just at that moment a servant maid inclined to question her about her early appearance in the court came out of the house. She did not however feel attracted towards the "red-haired Frances," who in admiration for the rose pressed too familiarly at her side.
Lydia felt mentally and morally perplexed and confused. She could not bring herself to see in her wondrous dream and the extraordinary morning salutation received on her first appearance abroad a mere accident. Thus she sat, dreamingly pondering over these events near her seat at the window, when her father entered and for the first time alluded to her relations with Felix. He praised the architect's knowledge of art and lofty sentiments, he reminded her that though he himself was not so old, yet he was in delicate health and wearied of work. What would become of her, if it pleased God to call him suddenly away, he asked. Lydia wiped her eyes and kissed her beloved father. Erastus did not insist on an answer, but he left her in sweet confusion once more alone in her room, she looked more kindly at the rose and said to herself, "God must know why it is better thus. The demoniacal attraction for the Magister has precipitated me in the fullest sense into an abyss, the more quiet sympathy of the kindly Maestro has guided my feet not to serpents, but to roses," and blushingly she bent her face over the flower and inhaled deep draughts of its perfume.
That very morning Felix had proceeded so far with his work as to have reached Lydia's window. He noticed his rose on her table in the glass of water and looked gratefully at the maiden. Then he set to work repairing the cornices and pilasters over Lydia's window, and it seemed as if these required the most strict attention, the work took so long completing. In the meanwhile the Maestro related amusing anecdotes to the fair patient, who sat sometimes at the window, at other times supported on a pillow she stretched out her injured foot, and however timid Lydia had felt in the presence of the Magister, she did not let herself be overwhelmed in any way by his chatty brother. It was a proud feeling for her to be thus able to completely subjugate such a man, for a handsome horse renders even a timid rider bold and blithesome. "I wish Signorina," he said, "you would advise me about my work; Master Colin's figures seem to me, if I only look in at your window, to become daily stiffer and more inanimate. To you who live now so long under them, have not the aged gentlemen perhaps confided some secrets of their inner life, to which I could give expression on their empty faces?"
"O yes," said Lydia seriously. "Quiet nights they have great quarrels."
"They quarrel, corpo di Venere, you must tell me about this."
"No, I do not betray the secrets of the companions of my home."
"But you nevertheless say, that they quarrel."
"Are you astonished at that? You must see for yourself that they are not on a friendly footing."
As Lydia remained firm in refusing to betray the quarrels of the Statues, Felix rubbed his brows. "As a fact I remember that I myself fell once asleep up here. If I relate to you what I heard in my dreams, you must also tell me what you overheard."
"Perhaps," said Klytia, "let me only hear your story."
"I had been thinking of a fair-haired angel, who dwelt higher than many planets, and soon began to nod." "The angel thanks you," interrupted Klytia pertly. "After a while I suddenly heard, Faith, Hope, and Charity saying close to me: 'We alone are related, in this mixed society, and will have nothing to do with the Heathen world on either side of us.' Then Justice yawned so loud that it could be heard all over the Court and sighed saying: 'How lonely I feel here in the corner near to these dreary virtues. What has Justice in common with self-righteousness? Now if I were only over there next to Strength, I could at least carefully watch to see, that it did not break more columns than were necessary as schoolboy proofs of his juvenile strength.' Hercules next wanted to enter into conversation with Sampson. 'Sir Brother,' said he with a rap of his club, 'it was better fun for us when we were chasing lions, not to mention the honey.' But wasn't he snubbed, 'I am no brother of yours,' answered the proud Jewish hero, 'you are one of the Philistines whom I thrashed, and I will have nothing to do with you.' Next I heard Jupiter sneeze. I looked upwards to see whether the Greek father of the Gods was about to enter into conversation with the Egyptian Serapis? But they both looked different ways and did not deign to exchange a friendly word. Once indeed Zeus cast a look down at Mars and Venus and then sighed: 'Gracious Heavens, how thin they have become.' Is it not true that you meant something of this sort when you said that Colins' figures could not endure one another? You have indeed a quick hearing, bellezza, and a poetical mind."
"Now," replied Lydia, curling up her nose, "do you suppose that when we sit at work all day we think of nothing but the cross-stitch. But it was ever clear to me, even as a child, that a totally different harmony and unison of mind was expressed in the two angels' heads on the Ruprechtsbau, than by any of the figures exhibited here by Master Colins, some of which he took from the cloister-school at Malines, the others from Italy, where you still remain semi-heathens."
"You are right, Signora, but in my home we are accustomed to this mixture."
"Your head is perhaps furnished in such a manner, Sir Artist," said she teasingly, "that the characters of the Bible and the Greek Gods meet each other therein as they do on Master Colins' façade!" Then she blushed at her own boldness, but Felice's boundless veneration was too great a temptation to a little naughtiness on the part of this young Thing just fresh from school, who missed not a little her daily scrimmages with the aristocratic young ladies of the Stift.
"When you speak of a want of harmony," said the Artist, a little excited at Klytia's want of veneration for his learning as a man, "you allude above all to the insipid German texts in monkish verse, which the deceased plump Count Palatine stuck under the Gods and Heroes, in place of which I would willingly read a classic epigram in the latin language. But you are quite right, the entire façade is an emblem of the contention which takes place in our mortal life. The beauties of Greece and the virtues of Christianity strive for mastery in our hearts. And not only are the figures in contradiction, but the Antique and Gothic forms are at variance with one another. The harmony of construction, which composes true classic architecture is wanting. How discordantly do the Gothic arms and shields contrast with the Antique lines of the portal. The highest beauty consists in the artistic blending of the red sandstone and the blue sky, and when the Kurfürst lately stated that he wished he could burn down the, to him, hated sculptured casket, I could not help involuntarily thinking, how beautifully the ruin would stand out, when the blue sky should be seen through the voided casements."
"Gracious powers," cried Lydia. "As long as we live up so high, do not try such an experiment; and now go on with your work; I do not want to hear any lecture which may end by your falling down and breaking your neck."
Pale and hurt Felix drew back. His hopes nevertheless stood higher than he thought; but Lydia had remarked, how the neighbours were craning their necks to look up at the scaffolding, on which Felix was carrying on his assault, and she heard the "red headed Frenz" say that Lydia's windows must have needed an extraordinary amount of repairing, as the Italian gentleman never seemed to leave them. "They will make a handsome couple," Herr Bachmann now asserted in no low tones, "the tall dark Italian, and the fair haired maiden. I shall be rejoiced, Frau Barbara, when they make their first appearance in church together." This then was the cause of her dismissing Felice in so summary a manner.
The beauteous morning was succeeded by a close afternoon. Since that dream the images of the brothers came up before her so continually that she could hardly tell them apart. But the present moment maintained its right. The gloomy priest disappeared in the joyous artist, and from the moment that Lydia had accustomed herself to the thought, that the Magister could never be hers, and that he had only played a sinful part towards her, she sadly compelled herself to find once more her idol in the happy trusty friend. Thus there remained much that was true in her unfaithfulness. In reality she only cared for Felix for Paul's sake. The artist in the meanwhile stood outside on his scaffold in a pensive manner. The oppressive heat, precursor of a storm weighed him down, and Lydia's dismissal had deeply affected him. He made no effort to resume his jokes of the morning, and could not even hum an air. "Could I have offended him?" thought the kind-hearted child within, "he has become so silent;" as she looked upwards at the streaky sky, a gust of wind blew the dust in her eyes, and whirled the loose leaves high up into the air. "May the storm not break forth before that he is safely down from his scaffold," thought she anxiously as a heavier gust burst forth. The windows rattled, the shutters blew to, slates fell from the roof, boards were carried off and crashed into the court beneath; slates, panes of glass, bricks, came tumbling from above, and noise and confusion were heard on all sides of the court. Lydia rushed to shut the window, and then saw Felice clinging convulsively to the shaking scaffold. "Come in here, in here," she cried in her fright to him. He shook his head sadly, and made a motion to show that he would slide down the poles so soon as the wind abated. A more violent gust caused the bricks to shower down from the roof and shook the whole scaffold. "Felix, Felix," cried the terrified maiden stretching out her arms towards him. A happy smile played over his features, and with one bound the active youth was at her side. As she closed the window, he had already folded her within his strong arms. "I have won thee by storm," he cried rejoicingly, but she was silent and loosed herself from his embrace. "You called me in, now keep me," he said earnestly, "you wished to save my life, save it in reality." She gazed on him long and earnestly. It was, as if the image of some departed friend was before her, and she was endeavoring to find some similitude. Then blushing she sank her head. Thoroughly happy he shouted for joy, laid his arms around her neck, his lips sought hers. The storm outside, which now burst forth, did not disturb his happiness. The rain streamed down into the court below. What mattered it to him? At every sheet of lightning he kissed her quivering eyelids, at every clap of thunder he pressed his lips to hers. "I have wooed thee by thunder and lightening, may it strike me if ever I prove unfaithful to thee." Suddenly her father's voice was heard outside, as he himself had likewise been driven home by the storm. Lydia drew back terrified, but Felice seized fast hold of her hand and thus went with her to meet the physician. Astonished Erastus drew back for a moment, and then said smilingly, "Ah, is this so," and kissed Lydia's pure forehead. She remained silent and blushingly laid her innocent head on her beloved father's breast. "You are welcome to me," said Erastus turning to Felice, "provided only that you abjure papistry." The Maestro bounded like a shying steed. "It cannot be your meaning, noble Sir," he said, "that I must confess a belief, which my heart does not admit."
"Such is not my meaning," answered the physician, "but when you stole my child's heart, you must have well known, that Erastus would never choose a papist for son-in-law. What I oppose here in Olevianus' church discipline, is the power of the priesthood, the subjugation of conscience, how could you therefore expect, that I should ever permit my child to confess to one of your priests?"
"That she shall never do, noble Sir. She shall live in her faith, as I in mine."
"Where could that be possible? Certainly not here in Heidelberg. You would never be accepted as citizen, and in your country my child would certainly be imprisoned by the Inquisition."
"In Austria it is however possible," replied Felix. "I shall return to Master Colins in Innsbruck. The noble minded Kaiser Max admits both confessions, and marriages between members of the two religions are not uncommon there." Erastus shook his head thoughtfully. Lydia's resigned calm also led him to ask himself, whether his child was not in reality acting in obedience to his wishes, and whether this young heart was really ripe enough for binding vows? He at last said, "I will seek more information as to how matters stand in Innsbruck, do you likewise seek to know more about our faith. Lydia is still young. Let us put off the final word to a later day." Thus it remained. Master Felice would have willingly appeared in the character of an accepted lover, but as Erastus permitted him to visit Lydia as before, he declared himself satisfied for the time. When his work was over, he hastened to Klytia, and sat joking and lounging at her side. She was ever gentle and kind to him, but never cast her thoughtful quiet manner aside. She had assumed a timid reserve, which forbade any too demonstrative love. The excitement of decision once over the poor child felt herself to be inwardly divided against herself. She loved, but whether Paolo, or Felice she knew not; she was engaged, but the father forbade any public acknowledgment. Good and gentle of disposition she suffered Felice to love her, without however granting him the slightest rights. Usually, when the artist visited her of an evening, her Dante lay ready, and by compelling him to read aloud, she held his passion in due bounds. But even the majesty of Dante's poetry became melodious song when read by the loving artist, and we may well imagine what verses he most looked forward to, in the hope, that the narrative of Francesca da Rimini would serve to thaw her icy reserve. But Lydia had wisely looked over the book beforehand, and was prepared against this would-be adopted means. The fifth canto containing the story of Rimini's unhappy lovers, lay open in its usual place, on the evening so much longed for by Felice, but Lydia received him with maidenlike sedateness. He had that day carefully curled his locks and held in his hand one of those dark-red roses which had first told his love, but he had not the courage to offer it to her, for she had moved her seat further from him than on any previous evening. It is true he read beautifully that day, or nearly as beautifully as "he," but as he was just about to begin the story of the lovers, who also read together, "how Lancelot wrapped in pure love," to "often did their eyes meet and lovingly rose the color in their cheeks, and often did he kiss the smile of his beloved," she closed in maidenly scorn the book and her "we won't read any more to-night" dispelled in an exasperating manner Felice's hopes. Out of humor and disappointed he sat near her turning over the leaves of Lydia's prayer book. He found pressed therein a blue flower. It stabbed him to the heart, for the maiden had thrown his rose out of the window the moment it withered. Hastily did he close the book which only hid Paolo's flowers. The following evening Lydia begged him to read to her one of the sonnets of his beloved Michel Angelo. He noticed with joy whilst he read, how tenderly her blue eyes were fixed on him, but when he left off, to return her gaze, she murmured as if in a dream: "He is paler." Thus it became clear to him that she only sought Paolo's features in his own. She grew more and more sad and still. It appeared to him as if the blooming color on her cheek paled. "She has deceived herself," he sighed. "When the sunflower is forcibly prevented from gazing at the sun, it withers away. Paolo will ever be her Apollo. Poor child!" But a colder feeling entered into his own heart, he could never rejoice in a love, which he owed to another, and which through him was bestowed upon his brother. "She wished to marry Paolo in effigie," he murmured angrily to himself, "and she does not even find the image resembling."