It is well. My long, long dream of two years,—my dream of heart-gladness is at an end. I saw her, and was a lover, which is but another name for slave. She became my promised bride, and I was happy,—thoughtlessly happy. She proved herself to be a faithless and unworthy creature, and the link which bound us together was broken. And so, my dream is ended, and I am free.
A child, with a basket on his arm, was gathering flowers in a meadow on a bright spring morning. There was no end to the number that he plucked, and none, as he thought, in the world, could be compared to them in loveliness. And thus was it with my hopes,—but the flowers withered, and my hopes are gone.
Softly!—was not that a footstep, and did I not see the gleaming of a silken kirtle? No; it was only an echo and a reflection from the past. I know it, for I am alone, utterly alone.
O how truly hath it been written by the poet, that Art is long and time is fleeting! What a cheerless thought is this to the ambitious Painter! Was I wrong to set my life upon that cast! At any rate, I will stand the hazard of the die. I sometimes think that the cup which others drink, the cup of fame, will never be quaffed by me. Well, what matter? Was I born, merely to create a name? No, no, no! I was brought into the wilderness of life to be tried by pain, sickness, and sorrow, and to leave it as becomes a Christian is my chief ambition. Fame, which I had hoped to win, I panted after, that another’s happiness might be promoted. But she has frowned upon me, and an impassable ocean is forever spread between our hearts. Be it so.
Once, a serpent secreted itself within the petals of a flower. I pressed that flower to my bosom, and the serpent stung me. But I rejoice that the agony of the pain is over and gone.