Four Phases of Love

by Paul Heyse

She led her son, stepping lightly before him, but still holding his hand in hers, up the stairs. Gently she opened the door, beckoned to Clement, and stepping backwards herself, pushed him in. "There he is," she cried; "at last you have him." The old man started as out of deep thought. "Who?" he asked, almost impatiently. Then he looked in his son's face, brightly lighted by a gleam of sun. "Clement," he cried, between astonishment and joy, "you here?" "I longed for home," said the son, and pressed the proffered hand warmly. "I shall stay here for the feast, father, if you have room for me, now that Mary is under your roof." "How can you talk so," interrupted his mother, quickly; "if I had seven sons I could find place for them all. But I will leave you to your father. I must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." She was already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other; "I have disturbed you," said Clement, at last; "you were writing your sermon; tell me if I shall go." "You only disturb one who has disturbed himself. Since this morning have I paced to and fro, thinking on my text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth. I have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that I cannot shake off." He went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way to which lay through the churchyard. There it glowed tranquil with its flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "Come here, Clement," said the old man, gently; "place yourself by me. Do you see that grave to the left, with primroses and monthly roses? You have never seen that one before. Do you know who sleeps there? My good, true friend, the father of our Mary!" He left the window at which his son, deeply struck, remained standing. He paced again to and fro through the chamber, and in the silence they could hear the sand crackle under his steady tread. "Aye!" said the old man, with a deep sigh, "no one knew him as I knew him; no one gained so much from him, no one lost so much with him as I did. What knew he of the world and its wisdom; that is but folly before God. What he knew was all revealed to him from within, and from the Holy Book, and from sorrow. He has become blessed, because he was blessed."

After a pause he spoke again: "Whom have I now to shame when I am proud of heart, and save me when my faith wavers; and to decide the thoughts that accuse and excuse me? The world grows too wise for me! What I hear I understand not, and what I read my soul will not understand, for it is grief to it! How many rise up and think that they speak with tongues? and, behold! it is but lip-work! And the mockers hear it and rejoice therein. Mine old friend, would I were where thou art."

Clement turned. He had never before heard his father talk of the sorrows of his own soul. He went to him and sought for words of consolation. "Cease, my son," said the old man, checking him, "What can you give me, that Heaven could not have given me better? See, it was shortly after his death, I slept above here. The night awoke me with its storm and rain; I felt sad, even to death; then he appeared to me--a light shone about him--he was in his garments as when he lived--he spoke not, but stood at the foot of my bed, and looked calmly down upon me. At first, it oppressed me sorely! I was not enough grown in grace to look on the face of a glorified being. The next day I felt the peace that it had left behind it. From that time it came not again until last night. I had been reading a book in the evening, blasphemous against God and God's word; I had gone to my bed in anger--then it was that, after midnight, I again started suddenly from my sleep, and he stood before me--dressed as at the first time, but with the Bible in his hand, open, and written with letters of gold. He pointed to a passage with his finger, but there came a gleam from out the leaves, so that I gazed on it in vain, and for the fullness of the light could read never a word! I drew myself nearer to him, half rising up; he stood--pity and love in his face, which changed to grief as I strove to read and could not. Then the tears sprang to my eyes--from the brightness, they grew dark---and he vanished softly away, and left me weeping."

The old man had gone again to the window, and Clement saw a strong shudder pass over him. "Father!" he cried, and seized his nerveless hand--it was damp and cold; "Father, you alarm me! You should send for the physician."

"To the physician!" cried the old man, almost angrily, and stretched himself up in every limb, "I am well. Therein it lies. My soul longs and strives for death, and my body selfishly withstands it!"

"These dreams, father, agitate you."

"Dreams! I tell you that I was awake, as I am at this moment."

"I do not doubt, father, that you were awake; but so much the more does this severe attack, which pursues you with visions even when you are awake, alarm me. See! even now you are quite overcome by the mere recollection, and your pulse rises. I know, little of a doctor as I am, that you had fever last night and are under its influence now."

"And you think that you know as much as that poor worm!" cried the old man. "Oh, the marvellous wisdom! Oh, the gracious science! But what right have I to complain? Do I not deserve punishment for blurting out God's secrets, and making my full heart a mark for the scorner? Is this the fruit of your learning? Do you expect to gather figs from this bramble? But I know you well--you miserable ones, who make new gods for the people, and in your hearts worship yourselves alone--your days are numbered."

He went towards the door; his bare forehead was flushed. He did not look towards Clement, who stood gazing on the floor; suddenly he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.