Chương Chương 13 · Chapter XIII

. Chapter XIII

“I saw a ship sailing upon the sea

Deeply laden as ship could be;

But not so deep as in love I am

For I care not whether I sink or swim.”

OLD BALLAD.

“But Love is such a Mystery

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I’m best resolv’d,

I then am in most doubt.”

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

One story I will try to reproduce. But, alas! it is like trying to

reconstruct a forest out of broken branches and withered leaves. In the

fairy book, everything was just as it should be, though whether in

words or something else, I cannot tell. It glowed and flashed the

thoughts upon the soul, with such a power that the medium disappeared

from the consciousness, and it was occupied only with the things

themselves. My representation of it must resemble a translation from a

rich and powerful language, capable of embodying the thoughts of a

splendidly developed people, into the meagre and half-articulate speech

of a savage tribe. Of course, while I read it, I was Cosmo, and his

history was mine. Yet, all the time, I seemed to have a kind of double

consciousness, and the story a double meaning. Sometimes it seemed only

to represent a simple story of ordinary life, perhaps almost of

universal life; wherein two souls, loving each other and longing to

come nearer, do, after all, but behold each other as in a glass darkly.

As through the hard rock go the branching silver veins; as into the

solid land run the creeks and gulfs from the unresting sea; as the

lights and influences of the upper worlds sink silently through the

earth’s atmosphere; so doth Faerie invade the world of men, and

sometimes startle the common eye with an association as of cause and

effect, when between the two no connecting links can be traced.

Cosmo von Wehrstahl was a student at the University of Prague. Though

of a noble family, he was poor, and prided himself upon the

independence that poverty gives; for what will not a man pride himself

upon, when he cannot get rid of it? A favourite with his fellow

students, he yet had no companions; and none of them had ever crossed

the threshold of his lodging in the top of one of the highest houses in

the old town. Indeed, the secret of much of that complaisance which

recommended him to his fellows, was the thought of his unknown retreat,

whither in the evening he could betake himself and indulge undisturbed

in his own studies and reveries. These studies, besides those subjects

necessary to his course at the University, embraced some less commonly

known and approved; for in a secret drawer lay the works of Albertus

Magnus and Cornelius Agrippa, along with others less read and more

abstruse. As yet, however, he had followed these researches only from

curiosity, and had turned them to no practical purpose.

His lodging consisted of one large low-ceiled room, singularly bare of

furniture; for besides a couple of wooden chairs, a couch which served

for dreaming on both by day and night, and a great press of black oak,

there was very little in the room that could be called furniture.

But curious instruments were heaped in the corners; and in one stood a

skeleton, half-leaning against the wall, half-supported by a string

about its neck. One of its hands, all of fingers, rested on the heavy

pommel of a great sword that stood beside it.

Various weapons were scattered about over the floor. The walls were

utterly bare of adornment; for the few strange things, such as a large

dried bat with wings dispread, the skin of a porcupine, and a stuffed

sea-mouse, could hardly be reckoned as such. But although his fancy

delighted in vagaries like these, he indulged his imagination with far

different fare. His mind had never yet been filled with an absorbing

passion; but it lay like a still twilight open to any wind, whether the

low breath that wafts but odours, or the storm that bows the great

trees till they strain and creak. He saw everything as through a

rose-coloured glass. When he looked from his window on the street

below, not a maiden passed but she moved as in a story, and drew his

thoughts after her till she disappeared in the vista. When he walked in

the streets, he always felt as if reading a tale, into which he sought

to weave every face of interest that went by; and every sweet voice

swept his soul as with the wing of a passing angel. He was in fact a

poet without words; the more absorbed and endangered, that the

springing-waters were dammed back into his soul, where, finding no

utterance, they grew, and swelled, and undermined. He used to lie on

his hard couch, and read a tale or a poem, till the book dropped from

his hand; but he dreamed on, he knew not whether awake or asleep, until

the opposite roof grew upon his sense, and turned golden in the

sunrise. Then he arose too; and the impulses of vigorous youth kept him

ever active, either in study or in sport, until again the close of the

day left him free; and the world of night, which had lain drowned in

the cataract of the day, rose up in his soul, with all its stars, and

dim-seen phantom shapes. But this could hardly last long. Some one form

must sooner or later step within the charmed circle, enter the house of

life, and compel the bewildered magician to kneel and worship.

One afternoon, towards dusk, he was wandering dreamily in one of the

principal streets, when a fellow student roused him by a slap on the

shoulder, and asked him to accompany him into a little back alley to

look at some old armour which he had taken a fancy to possess. Cosmo

was considered an authority in every matter pertaining to arms, ancient

or modern. In the use of weapons, none of the students could come near

him; and his practical acquaintance with some had principally

contributed to establish his authority in reference to all. He

accompanied him willingly.

They entered a narrow alley, and thence a dirty little court, where a

low arched door admitted them into a heterogeneous assemblage of

everything musty, and dusty, and old, that could well be imagined. His

verdict on the armour was satisfactory, and his companion at once

concluded the purchase. As they were leaving the place, Cosmo’s eye was

attracted by an old mirror of an elliptical shape, which leaned against

the wall, covered with dust. Around it was some curious carving, which

he could see but very indistinctly by the glimmering light which the

owner of the shop carried in his hand. It was this carving that

attracted his attention; at least so it appeared to him. He left the

place, however, with his friend, taking no further notice of it. They

walked together to the main street, where they parted and took opposite

directions.

No sooner was Cosmo left alone, than the thought of the curious old

mirror returned to him. A strong desire to see it more plainly arose

within him, and he directed his steps once more towards the shop. The

owner opened the door when he knocked, as if he had expected him. He

was a little, old, withered man, with a hooked nose, and burning eyes

constantly in a slow restless motion, and looking here and there as if

after something that eluded them. Pretending to examine several other

articles, Cosmo at last approached the mirror, and requested to have it

taken down.

“Take it down yourself, master; I cannot reach it,” said the old man.

Cosmo took it down carefully, when he saw that the carving was indeed

delicate and costly, being both of admirable design and execution;

containing withal many devices which seemed to embody some meaning to

which he had no clue. This, naturally, in one of his tastes and

temperament, increased the interest he felt in the old mirror; so much,

indeed, that he now longed to possess it, in order to study its frame

at his leisure. He pretended, however, to want it only for use; and

saying he feared the plate could be of little service, as it was rather

old, he brushed away a little of the dust from its face, expecting to

see a dull reflection within. His surprise was great when he found the

reflection brilliant, revealing a glass not only uninjured by age, but

wondrously clear and perfect (should the whole correspond to this part)

even for one newly from the hands of the maker. He asked carelessly

what the owner wanted for the thing. The old man replied by mentioning

a sum of money far beyond the reach of poor Cosmo, who proceeded to

replace the mirror where it had stood before.

“You think the price too high?” said the old man.

“I do not know that it is too much for you to ask,” replied Cosmo; “but

it is far too much for me to give.”

The old man held up his light towards Cosmo’s face. “I like your look,”

said he.

Cosmo could not return the compliment. In fact, now he looked closely

at him for the first time, he felt a kind of repugnance to him, mingled

with a strange feeling of doubt whether a man or a woman stood before

him.

“What is your name?” he continued.

“Cosmo von Wehrstahl.”

“Ah, ah! I thought as much. I see your father in you. I knew your

father very well, young sir. I dare say in some odd corners of my

house, you might find some old things with his crest and cipher upon

them still. Well, I like you: you shall have the mirror at the fourth

part of what I asked for it; but upon one condition.”

“What is that?” said Cosmo; for, although the price was still a great

deal for him to give, he could just manage it; and the desire to

possess the mirror had increased to an altogether unaccountable degree,

since it had seemed beyond his reach.

“That if you should ever want to get rid of it again, you will let me

have the first offer.”

“Certainly,” replied Cosmo, with a smile; adding, “a moderate condition

indeed.”

“On your honour?” insisted the seller.

“On my honour,” said the buyer; and the bargain was concluded.

“I will carry it home for you,” said the old man, as Cosmo took it in

his hands.

“No, no; I will carry it myself,” said he; for he had a peculiar

dislike to revealing his residence to any one, and more especially to

this person, to whom he felt every moment a greater antipathy. “Just as

you please,” said the old creature, and muttered to himself as he held

his light at the door to show him out of the court: “Sold for the sixth

time! I wonder what will be the upshot of it this time. I should think

my lady had enough of it by now!”

Cosmo carried his prize carefully home. But all the way he had an

uncomfortable feeling that he was watched and dogged. Repeatedly he

looked about, but saw nothing to justify his suspicions. Indeed, the

streets were too crowded and too ill lighted to expose very readily a

careful spy, if such there should be at his heels. He reached his

lodging in safety, and leaned his purchase against the wall, rather

relieved, strong as he was, to be rid of its weight; then, lighting his

pipe, threw himself on the couch, and was soon lapt in the folds of one

of his haunting dreams.

He returned home earlier than usual the next day, and fixed the mirror

to the wall, over the hearth, at one end of his long room.

He then carefully wiped away the dust from its face, and, clear as the

water of a sunny spring, the mirror shone out from beneath the envious

covering. But his interest was chiefly occupied with the curious

carving of the frame. This he cleaned as well as he could with a brush;

and then he proceeded to a minute examination of its various parts, in

the hope of discovering some index to the intention of the carver. In

this, however, he was unsuccessful; and, at length, pausing with some

weariness and disappointment, he gazed vacantly for a few moments into

the depth of the reflected room. But ere long he said, half aloud:

“What a strange thing a mirror is! and what a wondrous affinity exists

between it and a man’s imagination! For this room of mine, as I behold

it in the glass, is the same, and yet not the same. It is not the mere

representation of the room I live in, but it looks just as if I were

reading about it in a story I like. All its commonness has disappeared.

The mirror has lifted it out of the region of fact into the realm of

art; and the very representing of it to me has clothed with interest

that which was otherwise hard and bare; just as one sees with delight

upon the stage the representation of a character from which one would

escape in life as from something unendurably wearisome. But is it not

rather that art rescues nature from the weary and sated regards of our

senses, and the degrading injustice of our anxious everyday life, and,

appealing to the imagination, which dwells apart, reveals Nature in

some degree as she really is, and as she represents herself to the eye

of the child, whose every-day life, fearless and unambitious, meets the

true import of the wonder-teeming world around him, and rejoices

therein without questioning? That skeleton, now—I almost fear it,

standing there so still, with eyes only for the unseen, like a

watch-tower looking across all the waste of this busy world into the

quiet regions of rest beyond. And yet I know every bone and every joint

in it as well as my own fist. And that old battle-axe looks as if any

moment it might be caught up by a mailed hand, and, borne forth by the

mighty arm, go crashing through casque, and skull, and brain, invading

the Unknown with yet another bewildered ghost. I should like to live in

_that_ room if I could only get into it.”

Scarcely had the half-moulded words floated from him, as he stood

gazing into the mirror, when, striking him as with a flash of amazement

that fixed him in his posture, noiseless and unannounced, glided

suddenly through the door into the reflected room, with stately motion,

yet reluctant and faltering step, the graceful form of a woman, clothed

all in white. Her back only was visible as she walked slowly up to the

couch in the further end of the room, on which she laid herself

wearily, turning towards him a face of unutterable loveliness, in which

suffering, and dislike, and a sense of compulsion, strangely mingled

with the beauty. He stood without the power of motion for some moments,

with his eyes irrecoverably fixed upon her; and even after he was

conscious of the ability to move, he could not summon up courage to

turn and look on her, face to face, in the veritable chamber in which

he stood. At length, with a sudden effort, in which the exercise of the

will was so pure, that it seemed involuntary, he turned his face to the

couch. It was vacant. In bewilderment, mingled with terror, he turned

again to the mirror: there, on the reflected couch, lay the exquisite

lady-form. She lay with closed eyes, whence two large tears were just

welling from beneath the veiling lids; still as death, save for the

convulsive motion of her bosom.

Cosmo himself could not have described what he felt. His emotions were

of a kind that destroyed consciousness, and could never be clearly

recalled. He could not help standing yet by the mirror, and keeping his

eyes fixed on the lady, though he was painfully aware of his rudeness,

and feared every moment that she would open hers, and meet his fixed

regard. But he was, ere long, a little relieved; for, after a while,

her eyelids slowly rose, and her eyes remained uncovered, but

unemployed for a time; and when, at length, they began to wander about

the room, as if languidly seeking to make some acquaintance with her

environment, they were never directed towards him: it seemed nothing

but what was in the mirror could affect her vision; and, therefore, if

she saw him at all, it could only be his back, which, of necessity, was

turned towards her in the glass. The two figures in the mirror could

not meet face to face, except he turned and looked at her, present in

his room; and, as she was not there, he concluded that if he were to

turn towards the part in his room corresponding to that in which she

lay, his reflection would either be invisible to her altogether, or at

least it must appear to her to gaze vacantly towards her, and no

meeting of the eyes would produce the impression of spiritual

proximity. By-and-by her eyes fell upon the skeleton, and he saw her

shudder and close them. She did not open them again, but signs of

repugnance continued evident on her countenance. Cosmo would have

removed the obnoxious thing at once, but he feared to discompose her

yet more by the assertion of his presence which the act would involve.

So he stood and watched her. The eyelids yet shrouded the eyes, as a

costly case the jewels within; the troubled expression gradually faded

from the countenance, leaving only a faint sorrow behind; the features

settled into an unchanging expression of rest; and by these signs, and

the slow regular motion of her breathing, Cosmo knew that she slept. He

could now gaze on her without embarrassment. He saw that her figure,

dressed in the simplest robe of white, was worthy of her face; and so

harmonious, that either the delicately moulded foot, or any finger of

the equally delicate hand, was an index to the whole. As she lay, her

whole form manifested the relaxation of perfect repose. He gazed till

he was weary, and at last seated himself near the new-found shrine, and

mechanically took up a book, like one who watches by a sick-bed. But

his eyes gathered no thoughts from the page before him. His intellect

had been stunned by the bold contradiction, to its face, of all its

experience, and now lay passive, without assertion, or speculation, or

even conscious astonishment; while his imagination sent one wild dream

of blessedness after another coursing through his soul. How long he sat

he knew not; but at length he roused himself, rose, and, trembling in

every portion of his frame, looked again into the mirror. She was gone.

The mirror reflected faithfully what his room presented, and nothing

more. It stood there like a golden setting whence the central jewel has

been stolen away—like a night-sky without the glory of its stars. She

had carried with her all the strangeness of the reflected room. It had

sunk to the level of the one without.

But when the first pangs of his disappointment had passed, Cosmo began

to comfort himself with the hope that she might return, perhaps the

next evening, at the same hour. Resolving that if she did, she should

not at least be scared by the hateful skeleton, he removed that and

several other articles of questionable appearance into a recess by the

side of the hearth, whence they could not possibly cast any reflection

into the mirror; and having made his poor room as tidy as he could,

sought the solace of the open sky and of a night wind that had begun to

blow, for he could not rest where he was. When he returned, somewhat

composed, he could hardly prevail with himself to lie down on his bed;

for he could not help feeling as if she had lain upon it; and for him

to lie there now would be something like sacrilege. However, weariness

prevailed; and laying himself on the couch, dressed as he was, he slept

till day.

With a beating heart, beating till he could hardly breathe, he stood in

dumb hope before the mirror, on the following evening. Again the

reflected room shone as through a purple vapour in the gathering

twilight. Everything seemed waiting like himself for a coming splendour

to glorify its poor earthliness with the presence of a heavenly joy.

And just as the room vibrated with the strokes of the neighbouring

church bell, announcing the hour of six, in glided the pale beauty, and

again laid herself on the couch. Poor Cosmo nearly lost his senses with

delight. She was there once more! Her eyes sought the corner where the

skeleton had stood, and a faint gleam of satisfaction crossed her face,

apparently at seeing it empty. She looked suffering still, but there

was less of discomfort expressed in her countenance than there had been

the night before. She took more notice of the things about her, and

seemed to gaze with some curiosity on the strange apparatus standing

here and there in her room. At length, however, drowsiness seemed to

overtake her, and again she fell asleep. Resolved not to lose sight of

her this time, Cosmo watched the sleeping form. Her slumber was so deep

and absorbing that a fascinating repose seemed to pass contagiously

from her to him as he gazed upon her; and he started as if from a

dream, when the lady moved, and, without opening her eyes, rose, and

passed from the room with the gait of a somnambulist.

Cosmo was now in a state of extravagant delight. Most men have a secret

treasure somewhere. The miser has his golden hoard; the virtuoso his

pet ring; the student his rare book; the poet his favourite haunt; the

lover his secret drawer; but Cosmo had a mirror with a lovely lady in

it. And now that he knew by the skeleton, that she was affected by the

things around her, he had a new object in life: he would turn the bare

chamber in the mirror into a room such as no lady need disdain to call

her own. This he could effect only by furnishing and adorning his. And

Cosmo was poor. Yet he possessed accomplishments that could be turned

to account; although, hitherto, he had preferred living on his slender

allowance, to increasing his means by what his pride considered

unworthy of his rank. He was the best swordsman in the University; and

now he offered to give lessons in fencing and similar exercises, to

such as chose to pay him well for the trouble. His proposal was heard

with surprise by the students; but it was eagerly accepted by many; and

soon his instructions were not confined to the richer students, but

were anxiously sought by many of the young nobility of Prague and its

neighbourhood. So that very soon he had a good deal of money at his

command. The first thing he did was to remove his apparatus and

oddities into a closet in the room. Then he placed his bed and a few

other necessaries on each side of the hearth, and parted them from the

rest of the room by two screens of Indian fabric. Then he put an

elegant couch for the lady to lie upon, in the corner where his bed had

formerly stood; and, by degrees, every day adding some article of

luxury, converted it, at length, into a rich boudoir.

Every night, about the same time, the lady entered. The first time she

saw the new couch, she started with a half-smile; then her face grew

very sad, the tears came to her eyes, and she laid herself upon the

couch, and pressed her face into the silken cushions, as if to hide

from everything. She took notice of each addition and each change as

the work proceeded; and a look of acknowledgment, as if she knew that

some one was ministering to her, and was grateful for it, mingled with

the constant look of suffering. At length, after she had lain down as

usual one evening, her eyes fell upon some paintings with which Cosmo

had just finished adorning the walls. She rose, and to his great

delight, walked across the room, and proceeded to examine them

carefully, testifying much pleasure in her looks as she did so. But

again the sorrowful, tearful expression returned, and again she buried

her face in the pillows of her couch. Gradually, however, her

countenance had grown more composed; much of the suffering manifest on

her first appearance had vanished, and a kind of quiet, hopeful

expression had taken its place; which, however, frequently gave way to

an anxious, troubled look, mingled with something of sympathetic pity.

Meantime, how fared Cosmo? As might be expected in one of his

temperament, his interest had blossomed into love, and his love—shall I

call it _ripened_, or—_withered_ into passion. But, alas! he loved a

shadow. He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not

hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would

cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon he sang to

himself:

“I shall die for love of the maiden;”

and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready

to break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for

her, the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never

appeared to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown

would give his life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his

separation from her, by thinking that perhaps some day she would see

him and make signs to him, and that would satisfy him; “for,” thought

he, “is not this all that a loving soul can do to enter into communion

with another? Nay, how many who love never come nearer than to behold

each other as in a mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward

life; never enter the other soul; and part at last, with but the

vaguest notion of the universe on the borders of which they have been

hovering for years? If I could but speak to her, and knew that she

heard me, I should be satisfied.” Once he contemplated painting a

picture on the wall, which should, of necessity, convey to the lady a

thought of himself; but, though he had some skill with the pencil, he

found his hand tremble so much when he began the attempt, that he was

forced to give it up. . . . . .

“Who lives, he dies; who dies, he is alive.”

One evening, as he stood gazing on his treasure, he thought he saw a

faint expression of self-consciousness on her countenance, as if she

surmised that passionate eyes were fixed upon her. This grew; till at

last the red blood rose over her neck, and cheek, and brow. Cosmo’s

longing to approach her became almost delirious. This night she was

dressed in an evening costume, resplendent with diamonds. This could

add nothing to her beauty, but it presented it in a new aspect; enabled

her loveliness to make a new manifestation of itself in a new

embodiment. For essential beauty is infinite; and, as the soul of

Nature needs an endless succession of varied forms to embody her

loveliness, countless faces of beauty springing forth, not any two the

same, at any one of her heart-throbs; so the individual form needs an

infinite change of its environments, to enable it to uncover all the

phases of its loveliness. Diamonds glittered from amidst her hair, half

hidden in its luxuriance, like stars through dark rain-clouds; and the

bracelets on her white arms flashed all the colours of a rainbow of

lightnings, as she lifted her snowy hands to cover her burning face.

But her beauty shone down all its adornment. “If I might have but one

of her feet to kiss,” thought Cosmo, “I should be content.” Alas! he

deceived himself, for passion is never content. Nor did he know that

there are _two_ ways out of her enchanted house. But, suddenly, as if

the pang had been driven into his heart from without, revealing itself

first in pain, and afterwards in definite form, the thought darted into

his mind, “She has a lover somewhere. Remembered words of his bring the

colour on her face now. I am nowhere to her. She lives in another world

all day, and all night, after she leaves me. Why does she come and make

me love her, till I, a strong man, am too faint to look upon her more?”

He looked again, and her face was pale as a lily. A sorrowful

compassion seemed to rebuke the glitter of the restless jewels, and the

slow tears rose in her eyes. She left her room sooner this evening than

was her wont. Cosmo remained alone, with a feeling as if his bosom had

been suddenly left empty and hollow, and the weight of the whole world

was crushing in its walls. The next evening, for the first time since

she began to come, she came not.

And now Cosmo was in wretched plight. Since the thought of a rival had

occurred to him, he could not rest for a moment. More than ever he

longed to see the lady face to face. He persuaded himself that if he

but knew the worst he would be satisfied; for then he could abandon

Prague, and find that relief in constant motion, which is the hope of

all active minds when invaded by distress. Meantime he waited with

unspeakable anxiety for the next night, hoping she would return: but

she did not appear. And now he fell really ill. Rallied by his fellow

students on his wretched looks, he ceased to attend the lectures. His

engagements were neglected. He cared for nothing. The sky, with the

great sun in it, was to him a heartless, burning desert. The men and

women in the streets were mere puppets, without motives in themselves,

or interest to him. He saw them all as on the ever-changing field of a

_camera obscura_. She—she alone and altogether—was his universe, his

well of life, his incarnate good. For six evenings she came not. Let

his absorbing passion, and the slow fever that was consuming his brain,

be his excuse for the resolution which he had taken and begun to

execute, before that time had expired.

Reasoning with himself, that it must be by some enchantment connected

with the mirror, that the form of the lady was to be seen in it, he

determined to attempt to turn to account what he had hitherto studied

principally from curiosity. “For,” said he to himself, “if a spell can

force her presence in that glass (and she came unwillingly at first),

may not a stronger spell, such as I know, especially with the aid of

her half-presence in the mirror, if ever she appears again, compel her

living form to come to me here? If I do her wrong, let love be my

excuse. I want only to know my doom from her own lips.” He never

doubted, all the time, that she was a real earthly woman; or, rather,

that there was a woman, who, somehow or other, threw this reflection of

her form into the magic mirror.

He opened his secret drawer, took out his books of magic, lighted his

lamp, and read and made notes from midnight till three in the morning,

for three successive nights. Then he replaced his books; and the next

night went out in quest of the materials necessary for the conjuration.

These were not easy to find; for, in love-charms and all incantations

of this nature, ingredients are employed scarcely fit to be mentioned,

and for the thought even of which, in connexion with her, he could only

excuse himself on the score of his bitter need. At length he succeeded

in procuring all he required; and on the seventh evening from that on

which she had last appeared, he found himself prepared for the exercise

of unlawful and tyrannical power.

He cleared the centre of the room; stooped and drew a circle of red on

the floor, around the spot where he stood; wrote in the four quarters

mystical signs, and numbers which were all powers of seven or nine;

examined the whole ring carefully, to see that no smallest break had

occurred in the circumference; and then rose from his bending posture.

As he rose, the church clock struck seven; and, just as she had

appeared the first time, reluctant, slow, and stately, glided in the

lady. Cosmo trembled; and when, turning, she revealed a countenance

worn and wan, as with sickness or inward trouble, he grew faint, and

felt as if he dared not proceed. But as he gazed on the face and form,

which now possessed his whole soul, to the exclusion of all other joys

and griefs, the longing to speak to her, to know that she heard him, to

hear from her one word in return, became so unendurable, that he

suddenly and hastily resumed his preparations. Stepping carefully from

the circle, he put a small brazier into its centre. He then set fire to

its contents of charcoal, and while it burned up, opened his window and

seated himself, waiting, beside it.

It was a sultry evening. The air was full of thunder. A sense of

luxurious depression filled the brain. The sky seemed to have grown

heavy, and to compress the air beneath it. A kind of purplish tinge

pervaded the atmosphere, and through the open window came the scents of

the distant fields, which all the vapours of the city could not quench.

Soon the charcoal glowed. Cosmo sprinkled upon it the incense and other

substances which he had compounded, and, stepping within the circle,

turned his face from the brazier and towards the mirror. Then, fixing

his eyes upon the face of the lady, he began with a trembling voice to

repeat a powerful incantation. He had not gone far, before the lady

grew pale; and then, like a returning wave, the blood washed all its

banks with its crimson tide, and she hid her face in her hands. Then he

passed to a conjuration stronger yet.

The lady rose and walked uneasily to and fro in her room. Another

spell; and she seemed seeking with her eyes for some object on which

they wished to rest. At length it seemed as if she suddenly espied him;

for her eyes fixed themselves full and wide upon his, and she drew

gradually, and somewhat unwillingly, close to her side of the mirror,

just as if his eyes had fascinated her. Cosmo had never seen her so

near before. Now at least, eyes met eyes; but he could not quite

understand the expression of hers. They were full of tender entreaty,

but there was something more that he could not interpret. Though his

heart seemed to labour in his throat, he would allow no delight or

agitation to turn him from his task. Looking still in her face, he

passed on to the mightiest charm he knew. Suddenly the lady turned and

walked out of the door of her reflected chamber. A moment after she

entered his room with veritable presence; and, forgetting all his

precautions, he sprang from the charmed circle, and knelt before her.

There she stood, the living lady of his passionate visions, alone

beside him, in a thundery twilight, and the glow of a magic fire.

“Why,” said the lady, with a trembling voice, “didst thou bring a poor

maiden through the rainy streets alone?”

“Because I am dying for love of thee; but I only brought thee from the

mirror there.”

“Ah, the mirror!” and she looked up at it, and shuddered. “Alas! I am

but a slave, while that mirror exists. But do not think it was the

power of thy spells that drew me; it was thy longing desire to see me,

that beat at the door of my heart, till I was forced to yield.”

“Canst thou love me then?” said Cosmo, in a voice calm as death, but

almost inarticulate with emotion.

“I do not know,” she replied sadly; “that I cannot tell, so long as I

am bewildered with enchantments. It were indeed a joy too great, to lay

my head on thy bosom and weep to death; for I think thou lovest me,

though I do not know;—but——”

Cosmo rose from his knees.

“I love thee as—nay, I know not what—for since I have loved thee, there

is nothing else.”

He seized her hand: she withdrew it.

“No, better not; I am in thy power, and therefore I may not.”

She burst into tears, and kneeling before him in her turn, said—

“Cosmo, if thou lovest me, set me free, even from thyself; break the

mirror.”

“And shall I see thyself instead?”

“That I cannot tell, I will not deceive thee; we may never meet again.”

A fierce struggle arose in Cosmo’s bosom. Now she was in his power. She

did not dislike him at least; and he could see her when he would. To

break the mirror would be to destroy his very life, to banish out of

his universe the only glory it possessed. The whole world would be but

a prison, if he annihilated the one window that looked into the

paradise of love. Not yet pure in love, he hesitated.

With a wail of sorrow the lady rose to her feet. “Ah! he loves me not;

he loves me not even as I love him; and alas! I care more for his love

than even for the freedom I ask.”

“I will not wait to be willing,” cried Cosmo; and sprang to the corner

where the great sword stood.

Meantime it had grown very dark; only the embers cast a red glow

through the room. He seized the sword by the steel scabbard, and stood

before the mirror; but as he heaved a great blow at it with the heavy

pommel, the blade slipped half-way out of the scabbard, and the pommel

struck the wall above the mirror. At that moment, a terrible clap of

thunder seemed to burst in the very room beside them; and ere Cosmo

could repeat the blow, he fell senseless on the hearth. When he came to

himself, he found that the lady and the mirror had both disappeared. He

was seized with a brain fever, which kept him to his couch for weeks.

When he recovered his reason, he began to think what could have become

of the mirror. For the lady, he hoped she had found her way back as she

came; but as the mirror involved her fate with its own, he was more

immediately anxious about that. He could not think she had carried it

away. It was much too heavy, even if it had not been too firmly fixed

in the wall, for her to remove it. Then again, he remembered the

thunder; which made him believe that it was not the lightning, but some

other blow that had struck him down. He concluded that, either by

supernatural agency, he having exposed himself to the vengeance of the

demons in leaving the circle of safety, or in some other mode, the

mirror had probably found its way back to its former owner; and,

horrible to think of, might have been by this time once more disposed

of, delivering up the lady into the power of another man; who, if he

used his power no worse than he himself had done, might yet give Cosmo

abundant cause to curse the selfish indecision which prevented him from

shattering the mirror at once. Indeed, to think that she whom he loved,

and who had prayed to him for freedom, should be still at the mercy, in

some degree, of the possessor of the mirror, and was at least exposed

to his constant observation, was in itself enough to madden a chary

lover.

Anxiety to be well retarded his recovery; but at length he was able to

creep abroad. He first made his way to the old broker’s, pretending to

be in search of something else. A laughing sneer on the creature’s face

convinced him that he knew all about it; but he could not see it

amongst his furniture, or get any information out of him as to what had

become of it. He expressed the utmost surprise at hearing it had been

stolen, a surprise which Cosmo saw at once to be counterfeited; while,

at the same time, he fancied that the old wretch was not at all anxious

to have it mistaken for genuine. Full of distress, which he concealed

as well as he could, he made many searches, but with no avail. Of

course he could ask no questions; but he kept his ears awake for any

remotest hint that might set him in a direction of search. He never

went out without a short heavy hammer of steel about him, that he might

shatter the mirror the moment he was made happy by the sight of his

lost treasure, if ever that blessed moment should arrive. Whether he

should see the lady again, was now a thought altogether secondary, and

postponed to the achievement of her freedom. He wandered here and

there, like an anxious ghost, pale and haggard; gnawed ever at the

heart, by the thought of what she might be suffering—all from his

fault.

One night, he mingled with a crowd that filled the rooms of one of the

most distinguished mansions in the city; for he accepted every

invitation, that he might lose no chance, however poor, of obtaining

some information that might expedite his discovery. Here he wandered

about, listening to every stray word that he could catch, in the hope

of a revelation. As he approached some ladies who were talking quietly

in a corner, one said to another:

“Have you heard of the strange illness of the Princess von Hohenweiss?”

“Yes; she has been ill for more than a year now. It is very sad for so

fine a creature to have such a terrible malady. She was better for some

weeks lately, but within the last few days the same attacks have

returned, apparently accompanied with more suffering than ever. It is

altogether an inexplicable story.”

“Is there a story connected with her illness?”

“I have only heard imperfect reports of it; but it is said that she

gave offence some eighteen months ago to an old woman who had held an

office of trust in the family, and who, after some incoherent threats,

disappeared. This peculiar affection followed soon after. But the

strangest part of the story is its association with the loss of an

antique mirror, which stood in her dressing-room, and of which she

constantly made use.”

Here the speaker’s voice sank to a whisper; and Cosmo, although his

very soul sat listening in his ears, could hear no more. He trembled

too much to dare to address the ladies, even if it had been advisable

to expose himself to their curiosity. The name of the Princess was well

known to him, but he had never seen her; except indeed it was she,

which now he hardly doubted, who had knelt before him on that dreadful

night. Fearful of attracting attention, for, from the weak state of his

health, he could not recover an appearance of calmness, he made his way

to the open air, and reached his lodgings; glad in this, that he at

least knew where she lived, although he never dreamed of approaching

her openly, even if he should be happy enough to free her from her

hateful bondage. He hoped, too, that as he had unexpectedly learned so

much, the other and far more important part might be revealed to him

ere long.

“Have you seen Steinwald lately?”

“No, I have not seen him for some time. He is almost a match for me at

the rapier, and I suppose he thinks he needs no more lessons.”

“I wonder what has become of him. I want to see him very much. Let me

see; the last time I saw him he was coming out of that old broker’s

den, to which, if you remember, you accompanied me once, to look at

some armour. That is fully three weeks ago.”

This hint was enough for Cosmo. Von Steinwald was a man of influence in

the court, well known for his reckless habits and fierce passions. The

very possibility that the mirror should be in his possession was hell

itself to Cosmo. But violent or hasty measures of any sort were most

unlikely to succeed. All that he wanted was an opportunity of breaking

the fatal glass; and to obtain this he must bide his time. He revolved

many plans in his mind, but without being able to fix upon any.

At length, one evening, as he was passing the house of Von Steinwald,

he saw the windows more than usually brilliant. He watched for a while,

and seeing that company began to arrive, hastened home, and dressed as

richly as he could, in the hope of mingling with the guests

unquestioned: in effecting which, there could be no difficulty for a

man of his carriage.

In a lofty, silent chamber, in another part of the city, lay a form

more like marble than a living woman. The loveliness of death seemed

frozen upon her face, for her lips were rigid, and her eyelids closed.

Her long white hands were crossed over her breast, and no breathing

disturbed their repose. Beside the dead, men speak in whispers, as if

the deepest rest of all could be broken by the sound of a living voice.

Just so, though the soul was evidently beyond the reach of all

intimations from the senses, the two ladies, who sat beside her, spoke

in the gentlest tones of subdued sorrow. “She has lain so for an hour.”

“This cannot last long, I fear.”

“How much thinner she has grown within the last few weeks! If she would

only speak, and explain what she suffers, it would be better for her. I

think she has visions in her trances, but nothing can induce her to

refer to them when she is awake.”

“Does she ever speak in these trances?”

“I have never heard her; but they say she walks sometimes, and once put

the whole household in a terrible fright by disappearing for a whole

hour, and returning drenched with rain, and almost dead with exhaustion

and fright. But even then she would give no account of what had

happened.”

A scarce audible murmur from the yet motionless lips of the lady here

startled her attendants. After several ineffectual attempts at

articulation, the word “_Cosmo!_” burst from her. Then she lay still as

before; but only for a moment. With a wild cry, she sprang from the

couch erect on the floor, flung her arms above her head, with clasped

and straining hands, and, her wide eyes flashing with light, called

aloud, with a voice exultant as that of a spirit bursting from a

sepulchre, “I am free! I am free! I thank thee!” Then she flung herself

on the couch, and sobbed; then rose, and paced wildly up and down the

room, with gestures of mingled delight and anxiety. Then turning to her

motionless attendants—“Quick, Lisa, my cloak and hood!” Then lower—“I

must go to him. Make haste, Lisa! You may come with me, if you will.”

In another moment they were in the street, hurrying along towards one

of the bridges over the Moldau. The moon was near the zenith, and the

streets were almost empty. The Princess soon outstripped her attendant,

and was half-way over the bridge, before the other reached it.

“Are you free, lady? The mirror is broken: are you free?”

The words were spoken close beside her, as she hurried on. She turned;

and there, leaning on the parapet in a recess of the bridge, stood

Cosmo, in a splendid dress, but with a white and quivering face.

“Cosmo!—I am free—and thy servant for ever. I was coming to you now.”

“And I to you, for Death made me bold; but I could get no further. Have

I atoned at all? Do I love you a little—truly?”

“Ah, I know now that you love me, my Cosmo; but what do you say about

death?”

He did not reply. His hand was pressed against his side. She looked

more closely: the blood was welling from between the fingers. She flung

her arms around him with a faint bitter wail.

When Lisa came up, she found her mistress kneeling above a wan dead

face, which smiled on in the spectral moonbeams.

And now I will say no more about these wondrous volumes; though I could

tell many a tale out of them, and could, perhaps, vaguely represent

some entrancing thoughts of a deeper kind which I found within them.

From many a sultry noon till twilight, did I sit in that grand hall,

buried and risen again in these old books. And I trust I have carried

away in my soul some of the exhalations of their undying leaves. In

after hours of deserved or needful sorrow, portions of what I read

there have often come to me again, with an unexpected comforting; which

was not fruitless, even though the comfort might seem in itself

groundless and vain.