We were now necessary to each other, we had grown into the habit of seeing each other; but how many a day, how many an evening till far into the night, should I have had to deny myself her company, if I had not reconciled myself to seeing her in her own circles! This was a source of manifold pain to me.
My relation to her was that of a character to a character—I looked upon her as, to a beautiful, amiable, highly accomplished daughter; it was like my earlier attachments, but was of a still higher kind. Of outward circumstances, however, of the interchange of social relations, I had never thought. An irresistible longing reigned in me; I could not be without her, nor she without me; but from the circle which surrounded her, and through the interference of its individual members, how many days were spoiled, how many hours wasted.
The history of pleasure parties which ended in displeasure; a retarding brother, whom I was to accompany, who would however always be stopping to do some business or other which perhaps somewhat maliciously he was in no hurry to finish, and would thereby spoil the whole well-concerted plan for a meeting, and ever so much more of accident and disappointment, of impatience and privation,—all these little troubles, which, circumstantially set forth in a romance, would certainly find sympathizing readers, I must here omit. However, to bring this merely contemplative account nearer to a living experience to a youthful sympathy, I may insert some songs, which are indeed well known but are perhaps especially impressive in this place.
Heart, my heart, O, what hath changed thee?
What doth weigh on thee so sore?
What hath from myself estranged thee.
That I scarcely know thee more?
Gone is all which once seemed dearest,
Gone the care which once was nearest
Gone thy toils and tranquil bliss,
Ah! how couldst thou come to this?
Does that bloom so fresh and youthful,—
That divine and lovely form,—
That sweet look, so good and truthful.
Bind thee with resistless charm?
If I swear no more to see her,
If I man myself, and flee her,
Soon I find my efforts vain
Forc'd to seek her once again.
She with magic thread has bound me,
That defies my strength or skill,
She has drawn a circle round me,
Holds me fast against my will.
Cruel maid, her charms enslave me,
I must live as she would have me,
Ah! how great the change to me!
Love! when wilt thou set mo free!
With resistless power why dost thou press me
Into scenes so bright?
Had I not—good youth—so much to bless me
In the lonely night?
In my little chamber close I found me,
In the moon's cold beams;
And their quivering light fell softly round me.
While I lay in dreams.
And by hours of pure, unmingled pleasure,
All my dreams were blest,
While I felt her image, as a treasure,
Deep within my breast.
Is it I, she at the table places,
'Mid so many lights?
Yes, to meet intolerable faces,
She her slave invites.
Ah! the Spring's fresh fields no longer cheer me,
Flowers no sweetness bring;
Angel, where thou art, all sweets are near me,—
Love, Nature, and Spring.
Whoever reads these songs attentively to himself or better still, sings them with feeling, will certainly feel a breath of the fulness of those happy hours stealing over him.
But we will not take leave of that greater, and more brilliant society, without adding some further remarks, especially to explain the close of the second poem.
Lili's Soirées.
She, whom I was only accustomed to see in a simple dress which was seldom changed, now stood before me on such occasions in all the splendor of elegant fashion, and still she was the same. Her usual grace and kindliness of manner remained, only I should say her gift of attracting shone more conspicuous;—perhaps, because brought into contact with several persons, she seemed called upon to express herself with more animation, and to exhibit herself on more sides, as various characters approached her. At any rate, I could not deny, on the one hand, that these strangers were annoying to me, while on the other I would not for a great deal have deprived myself of the pleasure of witnessing her talents for society, and of seeing that she was made for a wider and more general sphere.
Though covered with ornaments it was still the same bosom that had opened to me its inmost secrets, and into which I could look as clearly as into my own; they were still the same lips that had so lately described to me the state of things amidst which she had grown up, and had spent her early years. Every look that we interchanged, every accompanying smile, bespoke a noble feeling of mutual intelligence, and I was myself astonished, here in the crowd, at the secret innocent understanding which existed between us in the most human, the most natural way.
But with returning spring, the pleasant freedom of the country was to knit still closer these relations. Offenbach on the Main showed even then the considerable beginnings of a city, which promised to form itself in time. Beautiful, and for the times, splendid buildings, were already erected. Of these Uncle Bernard, (to call him by his familiar title) inhabited the largest; extensive factories were adjoining; D'Orville, a lively young man of amiable qualities, lived opposite. Contiguous gardens and terraces, reaching down to the Main, and affording a free egress in every direction into the lovely surrounding scenery, put both visitors and residents in excellent humor. The lover could not find a more desirable spot for indulging his feelings.