old froissart tells us, in his chronicles, that when king edward beheld the countess of salisbury at her castle gate, he thought he had never seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he was stricken therewith to the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that endured long after; he thought no lady in the world so worthy to be beloved, as she. and so likewise thought paul flemming, when he beheld the english lady in the fair light of a summer morning. i will not disguise the truth. she is my heroine; and i mean to describe her with great truth and beauty, so that all shall be in love with her, and i most of all.
mary ashburton was in her twentieth summer. like the fair maiden amoret, she was sitting inthe lap of womanhood. they did her wrong, who said she was not beautiful; and yet
"she was not fair,
nor beautiful;--those words express her not.
but o, her looks had something excellent,
that wants a name!"
her face had a wonderful fascination in it. it was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the rising soul shining so peacefully through it. at times it wore an expression of seriousness,--of sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air bright with what the italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell' angelico riso,--the lightning of the angelic smile.
and o, those eyes,--those deep, unutterable eyes, with "down-falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber," and within them a cold, living light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river of paradise, forever gliding,
"with a brown, brown current
under the shade perpetual, that never
ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon."
i dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light;--are luminous, but not sparkling. such eyes the greek poets give to the immortals. but i forget myself.
the lady's figure was striking. every step, every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if inspired by the soul within. angels in the old poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the soul itself imprinted on the air. and what a soul was hers! a temple dedicated to heaven, and, like the pantheon at rome, lighted only from above. and earthly passions in the form of gods were no longer there, but the sweet and thoughtful faces of christ, and the virgin mary, and the saints. thus there was not one discordant thing in her; but a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and soul, in a word of the whole being. and he who had a soul to comprehend hers, must of necessity love her, and, having once loved her, could love no other woman forevermore.
no wonder, then, that flemming felt his heartdrawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she passed him, sitting alone under the great walnut trees near the cloister, and thinking of heaven, but not of her. she, too, was alone. her cheek was no longer pale; but glowing and bright, with the inspiration of the summer air. flemming gazed after her till she disappeared, even as a vision of his dreams, he knew not whither. he was not yet in love, but very near it; for he thanked god, that he had made such beautiful beings to walk the earth.
last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded; and he might have gone on his way, and taken no farther heed. but he would have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at evening he thought of this evening at interlachen. to-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and his restless soul calm. the place seemed pleasant to him; and he could not go. he did not ask himself whence came this calm. he felt it; and was happy in the feeling; and blessed thelandscape and the summer morning, as if they possessed the wonder-working power.
"a pleasant morning dream to you;" said a friendly voice; and at the same moment some one laid his hand upon flemming's shoulder. it was berkley. he had approached unseen and unheard.
"i see by the smile on your countenance," he continued, "that it is no day-incubus."
"you are right," replied flemming. "it was a pleasant dream, which you have put to flight."
"and i am glad to see, that you have also put to flight the gloomy thoughts which used to haunt you. i like to see people cheerful and happy. what is the use of giving way to sadness in this beautiful world?"
"ah! this beautiful world!" said flemming, with a smile. "indeed, i know not what to think of it. sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine, and heaven itself lies not far off. and then it changes suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. in the lives of the saddestof us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad."
"and who says we don't?" interrupted berkley. "come, come! let us go to breakfast. the morning air has given me a rude appetite. i long to say grace over a fresh egg; and eat salt with my worst enemies; namely, the cockneys at the hotel. after breakfast you must give yourself up wholly to me. i shall take you to the grindelwald!"
"to-day, then, you do not breakfast like diogenes, but consent to leave your tub."
"yes, for the pleasure of your company. i shall also blow out the light in my lantern, having found you."
"thank you."
the breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence. flemming watched the entrance of every guest; but she came not,--the guest he most desired to see.
"and now for the grindelwald!" said berkley.
"why such haste? we have the whole day before us. there is time enough."
"not a moment to loso, i assure you. the carriage is at the door."
they drove up the valley of lauterbrunnen, and turned eastward among the mountains of the grindelwald. there they passed the day; half-frozen by the icy breath of the great glacier, upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery. it was a weary day to flemming. he wished himself at interlachen; and was glad when, towards evening, he saw once more the cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnut trees.
that evening is written in red letters in his history. it gave him another revelation of thebeauty and excellence of the female character and intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed and fortified. it was from the lips of mary ashburton, that the revelation came. her form arose, like a tremulous evening star, in the firmament of his soul. he conversed with her; and with her alone; and knew not when to go. all others were to him as if they were not there. he saw their forms, but saw them as the forms of inanimate things. at length her mother came; and flemming beheld in her but another mary ashburton, with beauty more mature;--the same forehead and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as yet, no trace of age. he gazed upon her with a feeling of delight, not unmingled with holy awe. she was to him the rich and glowing evening, from whose bosom the tremulous star was born.
berkley took no active part in the conversation, but did what was much more to the purpose, that it is to say, arranged a drive for the next day with the ashburtons, and of course invited flemming, who went home that night with a halo round hishead; and wondering much at a dandy, who stood at the door of the hotel, and said to his companion, as flemming passed;
"what do you call this place? i have been here two hours already, and find it devilish dull!"
