Four Phases of Love Part 1

Four Phases of Love.

by Paul Heyse.

CHAPTER I.

At the open window, which looked out into the little flower-garden, stood the blind daughter of the village sacristan, refreshing herself in the cool breeze that swept across her hot cheeks; her delicate, half-developed form trembled, her cold little hands lay folded in each other upon the window-sill. The sun had already set, and the night-flowers were beginning to scent the air.

Further within the room sat a blind boy on a stool, at the old spinet, playing wild melodies. He might have been about fifteen years old--only, perhaps, a year older than the girl. Whoever had heard and seen him, now throwing up his large eyes, and now turning his head towards the window, would never have suspected his privation--so much energy, and even impetuosity, lay in his every movement.

Suddenly he broke off in the midst of a religious hymn, which he seemed to have altered wildly after his own fancy.

"You sighed!" he said, turning his face towards her.

"I! No, Clement--why should I sigh? I only shrank together as the wind blew in so strongly!"

"But you _did_ sigh. Do you think that I did not hear it as I played?--and I feel even here how you are trembling."

"Yes; it has grown so cold."

"You cannot deceive me. If you were cold you would not stand at the open window. But I know why you sigh and tremble!--because the doctor is coming to-morrow, and will p.r.i.c.k our eyes with needles--that is what makes you so afraid; and yet he said how soon it would all be over, and that it would only be like the p.r.i.c.k of a pin. And _you_, who used to be so brave and patient, that my mother always mentioned you as an example when I was little and cried when anything hurt me, though you were only a girl--have you now lost all your courage? Do you never think of the happiness we have to look forward to?"

She shook her little head, and answered, "How can you think that I am afraid of the pa.s.sing pain! But I am oppressed with silly, childish thoughts, which I cannot drive away. Ever since the day that the doctor the baron sent for came down from the castle to your father, and mother called us out of the garden--ever since that hour something weighs upon me and will not go away. You were so full of joy that you did not perceive it; but when your father began to pray, and blessed G.o.d for this mercy, my heart was silent and did not follow his prayer. I thought within myself, 'What have I to be thankful for?' and could not understand."

Thus she spoke in a quiet resigned voice. The boy again struck a few light chords. Between the sharp whizzing tones, peculiar to the instrument on which he played, rang the distant songs of home-returning peasants--a contrast, like that of _their_ bright active life, with the dream-life of these blind children.

The boy seemed to feel it. He rose quickly, walked with a firm step to the window--for he knew the room and all its furniture--and said, as he threw back his bright fair locks, "You are incomprehensible, Mary! Our parents and all the village congratulate us. Will it not be a gain after all? Until it was promised me I never asked much about it. We are blind, they say; I never understood what was wanting in us. When we sat without there by the wood, and travellers came by, and said, 'Poor children!' I felt angry, and thought, 'What have they to pity in us?'

But that we are different from others, I know well enough. They often talked about things which I could not understand, yet which must be very beautiful. And now that we are going to know them too, the longing never leaves me day nor night."

"I was contented as I was," said Mary, sadly, "I was so happy, and should have liked to be as happy all my life. It will all be different now! Have you never heard people complain that the world is full of sorrow and care--and did we know care?"

"Because we did not know the world--and I _will_ know it at all risks!

I suffered myself to be pleased with groping about in the dark with you, and being obliged to do nothing, but not always! Often, when my father taught us history, and told us about heroes and bold deeds, I asked him if any of them had been blind? But whoever had done anything great could see. And then I often plagued myself all day long with thoughts about it. Then when I played on the spinet, or was allowed to play on the organ, in your father's place, I forgot my uneasiness for a time; but when it came back, I thought, 'Must you always play the organ, and go the few hundred paces up and down the village that you know; and must no one out of the village ever know you; and must none ever name you after you are dead?' Look you, Mary,--since the doctor has been at the castle, I hope that I yet may become a perfect man; and then I will go out into the world and take the path that pleases me, and I shall have nothing to ask any one!"

"And not me, Clement?"

She said it uncomplainingly and without reproach.

But the boy answered vehemently, "Sister Mary, do not talk such nonsense--I cannot bear it! Do you think that I would leave you alone at home and steal away amongst strangers? Do you not trust me?"

"I know well what happens when young men go from the village to the town, or on their wanderings, no one goes with them, not even their own sisters. And here too, even before they are grown up, the boys run away from the little girls and go into the woods with each other, and mock the girls when they meet them. Till now they have left you and me together, and we played and learned with each other. You were blind like me--what did you want with the other boys? But when you can see, and want to sit in the house with me, they will laugh at you, as they do at everyone who won't go with them. And then--then you will go quite away for a long, long time, and I had grown so accustomed to be with you."

She had spoken the last words with difficulty; then her sorrow overcame her and she sobbed aloud. Clement drew her closely to him, stroked her cheek, and said entreatingly, "You _must_ not cry! I will never go away from you! never! never! rather than do that I will remain blind and forget everything. I _will_ not leave you if it makes you cry. Come, be calm, be cheerful. You should not heat yourself, the doctor said, because it is so bad for your eyes, darling, darling Mary!"

He pressed her closer in his arms and kissed her for the first time in his life. His mother called to him from the neighbouring parsonage-house. He led the still weeping girl to an arm-chair by the wall, let her sink gently into it and hastened out.

Shortly after, two dignified looking men strode down from the castle-hill towards the village. The rector, a tall, powerful figure, with all the strength and majesty of an apostle, and the sacristan, a slender man with an expression of humility about him, and whose hair was already as white as snow. They had both been invited by the baron to spend the afternoon with himself and the doctor, who had come from the town, at his invitation, to examine the children's eyes, and to try the effects of an operation. He had again a.s.sured both the rejoicing fathers of his hopes of a perfect cure, and had begged them to hold themselves in readiness for the following day. The mothers had decided on preparing all that was necessary in the parsonage, for they were unwilling to separate the children on the day which was to restore them that light of which they had been together so long deprived.

When the two fathers reached their homes, which lay just opposite to each other, the rector pressed his old friend's hand, and said with a moistening eye, "G.o.d be with us and them!" Then they separated. The sacristan entered his house--all was still--the maid was without in the garden. He entered his chamber and rejoiced in the stillness which permitted him to be alone with his G.o.d. As he stepped over the threshold, he started--his child had arisen from the chair and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes; her bosom heaved painfully; her cheeks and lips were blanched. He spoke to her and entreated her to calm herself, and asked her earnestly, "What has happened to you?" She answered but with tears which she herself understood not.

CHAPTER II.

They had placed the children in bed in two upper rooms of the rectory looking towards the north. In the absence of shutters, the windows were carefully covered with dark curtains, so that in the brightest day scarcely a ray of light could creep in. The rector's wide orchard overshadowed the walls, and kept at a distance the murmur of external life.

The doctor had recommended that particular care should be taken of the little girl; all that depended on him had succeeded; now, in quiet, must nature do the rest; and the girl's easily excitable temperament required the most careful attention and precaution.

At the decisive moment, Mary had been firm, when her mother burst into tears, as she heard the doctor's footstep on the stairs, she had gone to her and encouraged her.

The doctor began with the boy, who, excited but of good courage, sat down and bore all; only at first he would not allow anyone to hold him during the operation, but at Mary's entreaties he at last permitted it to be done.

When the doctor, after some seconds had elapsed, removed his hands from the boy's eyelids, he screamed loudly with joyous terror.

Mary recoiled. Then she bore without a murmur the pa.s.sing pain. But tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame trembled; so that the doctor hastily placed a bandage over her eyes, and a.s.sisted her himself to her room; for her knees trembled under her. There, on her couch, sleep and fainting struggled long over her, whilst the boy declared that he was perfectly well, and only lay down at his father's earnest entreaties.

But he did not sleep at once. Coloured forms--coloured now for the first time--glided by him, full of mystery; forms which, as yet, were nothing to him, and which were to become so much, if the people were right who wished him joy. He asked his father and mother, as they sat by his bedside, about innumerable things, which truly the most profound science could hardly have solved. What does _it_ know of the well-springs of life? His father entreated him to have patience, for with G.o.d's help he would soon be able to resolve his doubts more clearly for himself. Now, rest was necessary for him, and above all for Mary, whom he might so easily awake with his talking. Then he was silent, and listened through the wall. He begged them, in whispers, to open the door, that he might hear whether she slept or was not sighing from pain. His mother did as he wished. Then he lay motionless and listened, and the breathing of his sleeping little friend, as it sighed softly in and out, sang him, too, at last, to sleep.

So they lay for hours. The village without was more quiet than usual.

When a peasant had to pa.s.s the rectory with his cart, he guarded carefully against noise. Even the children, who may have been told by their master, did not storm out of the school as noisily as was their wont, but went in twos and threes, whispering, and glancing shily at the house, as they pa.s.sed to more distant play-grounds. Only the song of the birds ceased not among the branches; but when has _its_ sound disturbed or wearied a rest-seeking child of man?

The bells of the cows returning from pasture first awakened the two children. The boy's first question was, whether Mary had inquired for him yet? He asked her then, in a low voice, how she was. Her heavy sleep had hardly refreshed her, and her eyes burned under their light covering. But she forced herself to say that she was better, and chatted gaily with Clement, over whose lips streamed the wildest thoughts.

Late, when the moon had already risen from behind the wood, hesitating little hands knocked at the rector's door. It was the little village girls, who brought a garland of their fairest garden flowers for Mary, and a nosegay for Clement. When they brought them to the boy, his face brightened; their scent and cool sprinkling of dew refreshed him.

"Thank them for me very much. They are good girls; I am ill now, but when I can see I will defend them against the boys." Mary, when they laid the garland on her bed, pressed it gently back with pale little hands, and said, "I cannot, mother! I feel giddy when flowers are so near me! Take them to Clement, too."

She soon sank again into her feverish half-sleep. The wholesome approach of day tranquillized her at last, and the doctor, who came early, found her freer from danger than he had dared to hope. Long he sat by the boy's bedside, listened smiling to his strange questions, warned him kindly to be patient and quiet, and left with the best prognostications.

Much use recommending calmness and patience to one who has at last caught a distant glimpse of a new and highly praised land! His father was obliged, as often as his duties permitted him, to go up to his room and talk to him. The door then was not to be shut, that Mary might hear the beautiful stories too. Legends of pious men and women on whom G.o.d had laid and removed heavy sufferings were repeated. The tale of poor Henry, for whom the pious maiden was willing in her humility to sacrifice herself, and how G.o.d brought all to a happy ending was related, and all the edifying histories which the worthy man was able to recollect.

When the pious rector glided gradually from tale to prayer, or the mother with her clear voice sang a hymn of thanksgiving, Clement folded his hands, or sang with her; but directly after he began new questionings, which showed that he took more interest in the stories than in the hymns. Mary asked about nothing. She was friendly with every one, and no one suspected what deep thoughts and questions were seething in her little breast.

They grew visibly better from day to day, and on the fourth day after the operation the doctor permitted them to get up. He himself supported the little girl, as she stepped, weak and trembling, across the darkened room towards the open door, in which the boy stood, stretching forth his hands, joyously seeking hers. Then he grasped her hand firmly, and entreated her to lean on him, which she did confidingly.

They paced to and fro in the chamber together, and he, with that delicate sense of locality so peculiar to the blind, guided her carefully past the different pieces of furniture.

"How are you now? he asked her.

"I am well," was her answer, "to-day as ever."

"Come," he said, quickly, "lean on me, you are weak still, it would refresh you to breathe a little sweet meadow air out of doors, for the air here is thick and heavy. But it is not good for us yet, the doctor says. Our eyes would get sore, and be blind again, if they were to look out into the light too soon. Oh, I know already what light and darkness mean. No flute note is so sweet as when your eyes can do that. It hurt me, I must say, yet I could have looked for ever into the beautiful coloured world, so blissful was the pain. You will feel it too. But it must be many days before we are so happy. But then I will do nothing all day long but see. I want to know so many things, Mary. They say that each thing has a different colour. I wonder what colours your face and mine are? Dark or bright? It would be horrible if they were not very bright. Shall I know you with my eyes? now, touching you so, I could pick you out with my little finger from all the other people in the world. But in future we shall have to learn to know each other all anew again. I know now that your hair and cheeks are soft to touch, will they be so to my eyes? I want to know so much, and it is so long to wait."

After this fashion he chattered incessantly, without remarking how silently she walked beside him. Many of his words had sunk deep into her heart. It had never occurred to her that she too was to see, and she hardly knew what to think about it. She had heard of mirrors, without understanding what was meant. She thought now that when a person who saw opened his eyes, his own face appeared to him.

When she was again in her little bed, and her mother thought she slept, the idea flashed across her mind. "It would be horrible if our faces were not bright!" She had heard of ugly and beautiful, and she knew that ugly people were pitied, and often less loved than others. "Oh, if I should be ugly," she thought to herself, "and he care no more about me. It used to be all the same when he played with my hair and called it silken threads. That will all cease now if he sees that I am ugly; and he--even if he _is_ ugly, I will never let him know it, because I shall love him still. But no! I _know_ that he _cannot_ be ugly--he _cannot_ be."