University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
A TALK ON THE STAIRS.

No! I will not describe that scene; nor how
pale the stately lady sat on the border of the green,
sunny meadow! The hearts of some women tremble
like leaves at every breath of love which
reaches them, and then are still again. Others,
like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a
storm, and not so easily lulled to rest. And such
was the proud heart of Mary Ashburton. It had
remained unmoved by the presence of this stranger;
and the sound of his footsteps and his voice
excited in it no emotion. He had deceived himself!
Silently they walked homeward through
the green meadow. The very sunshine was sad;
and the rising wind, through the old ruin above
them, sounded in his ears like a hollow laugh!

Flemming went straight to his chamber. On
the way, he passed the walnut trees under which
he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton.
Involuntarily he closed his eyes. They were full
of tears. O, there are places in this fair world,
which we never wish to see again, however dear
they may be to us! The towers of the old Franciscan
convent never looked so gloomily as then,
though the bright summer sun was shining full
upon them.

In his chamber he found Berkley. He was
looking out of the window, whistling.

“This evening I leave Interlachen forever,” said
Flemming, rather abruptly. Berkley stared.

“Indeed! Pray what is the matter? You look
as pale as a ghost!”

“And have good reason to look pale,” replied
Flemming bitterly. “Hoffmann says, in one of his
note-books, that, on the eleventh of March, at half
past eight o'clock, precisely, he was an ass. That
is what I was this morning at half past ten o'clock,
precisely, and am now, and I suppose always shall
be.”

He tried to laugh, but could not. He then related
to Berkley the whole story, from beginning
to end.

“This is a miserable piece of business!” exclaimed
Berkley, when he had finished. “Strange
enough! And yet I have long ceased to marvel
at the caprices of women. Did not Pan captivate
the chaste Diana? Did not Titania love Nick
Bottom, with his ass's head? Do you think that
maidens' eyes are no longer touched with the juice
of love-in-idleness! Take my word for it, she is
in love with somebody else. There must be some
reason for this. No; women never have any reasons,
except their will. But never mind. Keep
a stout heart. Care killed a cat. After all,—what
is she? Who is she? Only a—”

“Hush! hush,” exclaimed Flemming, in great
excitement. “Not one word more, I beseech you.
Do not think to console me, by depreciating her.
She is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded,
noble woman.”

“Yes,” answered Berkley; “that is the way

with you all, you young men. You see a sweet
face, or a something, you know not what, and
flickering reason says, Good night; amen to common
sense. The imagination invests the beloved
object with a thousand superlative charms; furnishes
her with all the purple and fine linen, all the
rich apparel and furniture, of human nature. I did
the same when I was young. I was once as desperately
in love as you are now; and went through
all the
I adored and was rejected. `You are in love with
certain attributes,' said the lady. `Damn your attributes,
Madam,' said I; `I know nothing of attributes.'
`Sir,' said she, with dignity, `you have
been drinking.' So we parted. She was married
afterwards to another, who knew something about
attributes, I suppose. I have seen her once since,
and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown.
I hate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad I am
she did not marry me. One of these days, you
will be glad you have been rejected. Take my
word for it.”

“All that does not prevent my lot from being a
very melancholy one!” said Flemming sadly.

“O, never mind the lot,” cried Berkley laughing,
“so long as you don't get Lot's wife. If the cucumber
is bitter, throw it away, as the philosopher
Marcus Antoninus says, in his Meditations. Forget
her, and all will be as if you had not known her.”

“I shall never forget her,” replied Flemming,
rather solemnly. “Not my pride, but my affections,
are wounded; and the wound is too deep ever
to heal. I shall carry it with me always. I enter
no more into the world, but will dwell only in
the world of my own thoughts. All great and unusual
occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow, lift us
above this earth; and we should do well always
to preserve this elevation. Hitherto I have not
done so. But now I will no more descend; I will

sit apart and above the world, with my mournful,
yet holy thoughts.”

“Whew! You had better go into society; the
whirl and delirium will cure you in a week. If you
find a lady, who pleases you very much, and you
wish to marry her, and she will not listen to such a
horrid thing, I see but one remedy, which is to
find another, who pleases you more, and who will
listen to it.”

“No, my friend; you do not understand my
character,” said Flemming, shaking his head. “I
love this woman with a deep, and lasting affection.
I shall never cease to love her. This may be madness
in me; but so it is. Alas and alas! Paracelsus
of old wasted life in trying to discover its elixir,
which after all turned out to be alcohol; and instead
of being made immortal upon earth, he died
drunk on the floor of a tavern. The like happens
to many of us. We waste our best years in
distilling the sweetest flowers of life into love-potions,
which after all do not immortalize, but

only intoxicate us. By Heaven! we are all of us
mad.”

“But are you sure the case is utterly hopeless?”

“Utterly! utterly!”

“And yet I perceive you have not laid aside
all hope. You still flatter yourself, that the lady's
heart may change. The great secret of happiness
consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing.
But it is hard, very hard. Hope has as many
lives as a cat or a king. I dare say you have heard
the old Italian proverb, `The King never dies.'
But perhaps you have never heard, that, at the
court of Naples, where the dead body of a monarch
lies in state, his dinner is carried up to him
as usual, and the court physician tastes it, to see
that it be not poisoned, and then the servants bear
it out again, saying `The King does not dine to-day.'
Hope in our souls is King; and we also
say, `The King never dies.' Even when in reality
he lies dead within us, in a kind of solemn mockery
we offer him his accustomed food, but are constrained

to say, `The King does not dine to-day.'
It must be an evil day, indeed, when a king of Naples
has no heart for his dinner! but you yourself
are a proof, that the King never dies. You are
feeding your King, although you say he is dead.”

“To show you, that I do not wish to cherish
hope,” replied Flemming, I shall leave Interlachen
to-morrow morning. I am going to the Tyrol.”

“You are right,” said Berkley; “there is nothing
so good for sorrow as rapid motion in the open
air. I shall go with you; though probably your
conversation will not be very various; nothing but
Edward and Kunigunde.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Go to Berlin, and you will find out. However,
jesting apart, I will do all I can to cheer you,
and make you forget the Dark Ladie, and this
untoward accident.”

“Accident!” said Flemming. “This is no
accident, but God's Providence, which brought us
together, to punish me for my sins.”

“O, my friend,” interrupted Berkley, “if you
see the finger of Providence so distinctly in every
act of your life, you will end by thinking yourself
an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary. I see nothing
so very uncommon in what has happened to
you.”

“What! not when our souls are so akin to each
other! When we seemed so formed to be together,—to
be one!”

“I have often observed,” replied Berkley coldly,
“that those who are of kindred souls, rarely
wed together; almost as rarely as those who are
akin by blood. There seems, indeed, to be such a
thing as spiritual incest. Therefore, mad lover, do
not think to persuade thyself and thy scornful lady,
that you have kindred souls; but rather the
contrary; that you are much unlike; and each
wanting in those qualities which most mark and
distinguish the other. Trust me, thy courtship
will then be more prosperous. But good morning.
I must prepare for this sudden journey.”

On the following morning, Flemming and Berkley

started on their way to Innsbruck, like Huon
of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way to Babylon.
Berkley's self-assumed duty was to console
his companion; a duty which he performed like
an old Spanish Matadora, a woman whose business
was to attend the sick, and put her elbow into
the stomach of the dying to shorten their agony.