Inside were men and women, many faces
To me well known. Still sorrow lay on all,
And secret fearful grief. With strange emotion,
Wellnigh with looks of pity, on me gazed they
Till my own soul with terror was pervaded,
As though foreboding some unknown misfortune.
Old Margaret I straightway recognized,
Gazed on her fixedly, but yet she spake not.
“Where is Maria?” ask’d I, yet she spake not,
But softly seized my hand, and led me on
Through many a long and brightly-lighted chamber,
Where splendour, pomp, and deathlike silence reign’d
And to a darksome room at length she brought me,
And, with her face averted from me, pointed
Toward the form that sat upon the sofa.
“Art thou Maria?” ask’d I. Inwardly
I was myself astounded at the firmness
With which I spoke. Like stone and hollow
Sounded a voice: “That is the name they call me.”
A piercing agony straight froze me through,
For that cold hollow tone, alas, was yet
The once enchanting voice of my Maria!
And yonder woman in pale lilac dress,
In negligent attire, with unveil’d bosom,
With glassy staring eyes, like leather seeming
The muscles of the cheeks of her white face,—
Alas, that woman once was the most lovely,
The blooming, pleasing, sweet and kind Maria!
“Your travels have been long” she said aloud
In cold, unpleasing, but familiar accents,—
“You look no longer languishing, my friend,
“You’re well in health, your loins and calves elastic.
“Show your solidity.” A silly smile
Play’d the while round her yellow, pallid mouth.
In my confusion utter’d I these accents:
“I’ve been inform’d that thou art married now?”
“Ah yes!” she carelessly replied with laughing:
“I have a stick of wood that’s cover’d over
“With leather, call’d a husband. Still, for all that,
“Wood is but wood!” And then she laugh’d perversely
Till chilling anguish through my spirit ran,
And doubt upon me seized:—are those the modest,
The flowery-modest lips of my Maria?
But presently she rose, took quickly up
From off the chair her cashmere shawl, and threw it
Around her neck, my arm took hold of then,
Drew me away, and through the open housedoor,
And led me on through thicket, field, and meadow.
The sun’s red glowing disk already downward
Was hast’ning, and its purple rays were beaming
Over the trees and flowers, and o’er the river
That flow’d majestically in the distance.
“See’st thou the large and golden eye that’s floating
“In the blue water?” cried Maria quickly.
“Hush, thou poor creature!” said I, as I spied
In the dim twilight a strange wondrous motion.
Figures of mist arose from out the plain,
And with white tender arms embraced each other;
The violets eyed each other tenderly,
The lily cups with yearning bent together;
A loving glow in every rose was gleaming,
The pinks would fain in their own breath be kindled,
In blissful odours revell’d every flower,
And every one wept silent tears of rapture,
And all exulting shouted: Love! Love! Love!
The butterflies were fluttering, and the shining
Gold beetles humm’d their gentle fairy songs,
The winds of evening whisper’d, and the oaks
All rustled, and the nightingale sang sweetly;
And amid all the whispering, rustling, singing,
Prated away, with thin cold soundless voice,
The faded woman hanging on my arm:
“I know your nightly longing for the castle;
“Every long shadow is a simpleton,
“That nods and signs precisely as one wishes;
“The blue coat is an angel; but the red coat
“With his drawn sword, is very hostile to you.”
And many other things in this strange fashion
Continued she to say, till, tired at length,
She sat down with me on the mossy bank
That stands beneath the ancient noble oak-tree.
Together there we sat, both sad and silent,
And gazed upon each other, growing sadder.
The oak, as with a dying sigh, was murmuring;
Deep-grieving, sang the nightingale down on us.
But through the leaves a ruddy light was piercing,
And flicker’d round Maria’s pallid face,
And lured a glow from out her rigid eyes,
Until with her old darling voice thus spoke she:
“How knewest thou that I am so unhappy?
“I read it lately in thy strange wild numbers.”
An ice-cold feeling pierced my breast, I shudder’d
At my own mad delirium, which the future
Saw through, my brain grew giddy with alarm,
And through sheer terror I awoke from sleep.
DONNA CLARA.
In the evening-shaded garden
Rambles the Alcalde’s daughter;
Kettle-drums and trumpets loudly
Echo from the lofty castle.
“Wearisome I find the dances,
“And the honied words of flatt’ry,
“And the knights, who so gallantly
“Tell me I the sun resemble.
“Everything is hateful to me
“Since I by the beaming moonlight
“Saw the Knight whose lute allured me
“To the window every evening.
“As he stood, so slim, but daring,
“And his eyes shot lightning glances
“From his pale and noble features,
“Truly he Saint George resembled.”
In this manner Donna Clara
Thought, and on the ground then looked she;
When she raised her eyes, the handsome
Unknown Knight was standing by her.
Pressing hands with loving whispers
Wander they beneath the moonlight,
And the zephyr gently woos them,
Wondrously the roses greet them.