A Twofold Life

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

A bench stood beside a beautiful forest stream; he involuntarily turned towards it, and sat down with his face turned towards the rushing water. He did not think of going home: he had one no longer; the house in which he lived contained nothing dear to him; the whole world had no spot where love and joy awaited him, where he would be missed; if he remained away, society had no place for him to fill, no interests which it would confide to him. What was he better than an outcast, a homeless man? Could he endure the disgrace of such a life? Was it not more honorable to extinguish it in the pure current of this stream? Who would lose, from whom would he take anything, if he cast off the burden of a hated, purposeless existence? And yet God had so endowed him that his death must have made a void in the world, if he had been to it what he ought. He gazed down into the murmuring water, which incessantly glided by him pursued by the wind; his soul allowed itself be carried on by the waves like a loosened vine. The eternally changing movement before his eyes made him giddy; he looked away, and now, for the first time, became aware to what thoughts he had involuntarily yielded. Did no power then live in him except that of despising and destroying himself? Could he atone for his faults by committing a crime against himself? Should he steal away like an unfaithful steward who allowed the property intrusted to his care to go to ruin? Should he add to the dishonor which had fallen upon his name the eternal disgrace of suicide, incur Cornelia's contempt, because he could not bear the loss of her love? No, he had not fallen so low as not to repel such a thought with a blush.

But what could, what ought he to do now, since the only profession for which his education and studies fitted him--that of politics--was closed to him in every direction? A quiet, inactive, private life, which but a few hours before, in the hope of a marriage with Cornelia, had appeared endurable, now seemed to him a moral death. He did not understand nature, the occupations of an agriculturist had no charms for him. Should he turn his estates into money, and invest it in some other way? But in what? All the pleasures that can be purchased he had already enjoyed to the dregs; life could afford him nothing more. The egotist had reached the end of his career, and could neither advance nor recede. Crushed and helpless, he looked back upon his past life, and now the point at which he had turned from the right path revealed itself to his searching gaze. The hours stood forth before his soul when he had struggled in his first conflict between inclination and duty, and inclination had conquered. All the strange, feverish fancies once more rose before his memory, and he perceived that they were the voices of his own heart which had spoken to him in the forms of delirium. Now he understood--now, after it was fulfilled--what they had said. With the first false step to which egotism urged him, he was lost. The frivolity with which he had degraded the first woman he loved, to be the prey of his passion, robbed him of his best possession, respect for the sex. Thus every base materialism, which only sought the enjoyment of the senses and thereby often formed the sharpest contrast with the demands of his intellectual nature, developed itself. The more frequently this conflict occurred, the greater it became, the further the two extremes became separated from each other, and the more distinctly their characteristics were stamped. The more the feelings were severed from the intellect, the lower they sank into sensuality, the stronger the passions became, and the more peremptorily they demanded their victim; while, on the other hand, the more exclusively the intellect withdrew into its own sphere, the further it banished the feelings, the colder and more obstinate it became, the more dull to everything which did not concern its own advantage, and therefore the more unprincipled. From this sprang the crimes which Henri on the one hand, and Heinrich on the other, had committed, whose consequences now drove him to despair, and had even terrified and driven from him forever the only woman for whom both extremes longed with equal ardor. Thus the cause of all the evil in his whole mistaken life was the separation between the mind and heart; the pleasure-seeking of the one, the immoderate ambition of the other, was the curse which had sprung from this division, the form under which egotism had taken possession of both portions of his nature. And of what he had enjoyed and obtained--nothing was left! His life had been fruitless to himself as well as to others. He had deceived and sacrificed confiding natures, and brought a nation to ruin for the sake of tasting the delights of ruling; the pleasure was over, and the curses of the unhappy accompanied him. Everything life could offer was exhausted, drained, and worn out! All the threads by which the heart draws its nourishment from the world were cut off and withered.

He now felt the deep truth of what Cornelia had wished to teach him, what he had once in a dream bodingly anticipated: "Remember that the end of life is neither to enjoy nor to obtain, but to be useful and accomplish good works." But now, when this great knowledge seized upon him,--when he perceived the fruitlessness of all selfish efforts,--now when a powerful impulse urged him to do what mankind, and accomplish what God, could ask of him,--now it was too late; every path was closed, and the woman who alone could restore harmony to his nature, lost! The guilt of the past had destroyed the hope of the future.

He rested his forehead upon his hand and closed his eyes; he could form no plans for the future, while repentance and anguish stirred his heart so violently--the first true repentance, the first great sorrow, of his life. True, his powers rose and expanded in the struggle with the unknown enemy as they had never done before, and the mighty assault of the contending elements widened and swelled his breast, as if now for the first time he became a man, now for the first time there was room in his heart for lofty feelings, resolutions, and efforts; true, the consciousness of the strength ennobled and increased by sorrow conquered for a moment: but as if with this, the longing for the nature that had always guided him towards the right path strengthened, the thoughts of Cornelia's loss once more gathered in the depths of his soul to break over him with renewed violence. What could life still offer him? There was no longer any love like Cornelia's, any mind like hers, any woman who could compare with her. He felt that this sorrow would never die; that he might perhaps obtain honor, but never happiness again. He threw himself despairingly upon the bench, face downward. The stream hurried along at his feet, plashing and glittering; the birds looked down from the branches at the tall, quiet man, turned their heads inquisitively, and softly twittered a timid question. Far above his head the summits of the ancient firs rustled and told the azure sky of the sorrow concealed beneath their shade.

Softly and slowly the bushes near him parted,--he did not hear it,--and a slender girlish form glided over the soft moss with a light step; cautiously approached, and as she stood beside him, bent down, holding her breath. Her glances beamed through tears, and she trembled like a wild rose under the morning dew. Heinrich heard a heart beating close beside his ear, felt his head raised and pressed to a heaving bosom; looked into a pair of eyes like two shining worlds. It was no dream, and yet he could not utter a sound; all that he thought and felt blended together in an unspeakable something, which swelled his heart with glowing warmth, rose higher and higher till it reached his eyes, overflowed as if his whole soul was gushing forth with it: he had wept his first tears upon Cornelia's breast, and holding her in a mute embrace reveled in this unspeakable bliss!

The noonday sun shone brightly and glowed through the ripe clusters of grapes which hung from a trellis that surrounded the steward's pretty little house not far from Ottmar's castle. A charming young woman stood in the doorway, looking with eager expectation towards the forest; the steward was working busily in the garden, but he, too, often glanced into the distance.

"I don't understand where they could stay so long, if they met each other," said the little woman, at last. "It would be a pity if she missed him. I grieve over every hour the poor master is obliged to spend in his sorrow."

"Yes," gasped the man, wiping his brow, "it was time for her to show herself; the master's melancholy manner and wretched looks were becoming the talk of the whole neighborhood and, after all, she couldn't have been kept concealed much longer: we were always in a fright." He threw his tools aside, went up to his wife, and put his arm around her neck. "You would not have borne seeing me suffer so long, would you, my Röschen?"

She nestled fondly to his side and nodded. "No, indeed, my dear Albert! But these great people are very different from us. Cornelia has a grand, noble soul, which we must not judge by our own."

"You are right; it would not be proper for us to apply our standard to them. Let us thank God we are made as is needful for our situation and welfare."