Volume I Part 14 (1/2)
Such were to me the few brief moments in which I stood upon the Meissner hill that overhangs my native city. Dresden, the home of my childhood, of my earliest and my dearest friends, lay bathed in the soft moonlight of a summer's eve. There, rose the ample dome of the cathedral in all the majesty of its splendid arch, the golden tracery glittering with the night dew; here, wound the placid Elbe, its thousand eddies through purple and blus.h.i.+ng vineyards, its fair surface flas.h.i.+ng into momentary brilliancy, as the ripples broke upon the b.u.t.tresses of that graceful bridge, long accounted the most beautiful in Europe; while from the boat that lay sleeping upon its shadow came the rich tones of some manly voices, bearing to my ear the evening hymn of my fatherland! Oh, how strong within the heart of the wanderer in distant lands is the love of country!--how deeply rooted amid all the feelings which the cares and trials of after-life scatter to the wind! It lives on, bringing to our old age the only touch and trace of the bright and verdant feelings of our youth. And oh, how doubly strong this love, when it comes teeming with a flood of long-forgotten scenes--the memory of our first, best friends--the haunts of our boyhood--the feats of youthful daring--and, far more than all, the recollection of that happy home, around whose hearth we met with but looks of kindness and affection, where our sorrows were soothed, our joys shared in! For me, 'tis true, there remained nought of this. The parents who loved me had gone to their dark homes--the friends of my childhood had doubtless forgotten me. Years of absence had left me but the scenes of past happiness--the actors were gone. And thus it was as I looked down upon the city of my native land.
The hour which in solitude and lowness of heart I had longed and prayed for had at length arrived--that hour which I believed in my heart would repay me for all the struggles, the cares, the miseries of fourteen years of exile; and now I stood upon that self-same spot where I had turned to take a farewell look of my native city, which I was leaving poor, unfriended, and unknown, to seek in Italy those opportunities my forlorn condition had denied to me at home. Years of toil and anxiety had followed; the evils of poverty had fallen on me; one by one the cheerful thoughts and bright fancies of youth deserted me; yet still I struggled on, unshaken in courage. The thought of one day returning to my loved Saxon land, rich in reputation, crowned with success, had sustained and upheld me. And now that hour was come--my earliest hopes more than realised--my fondest aspirations accomplished. Triumphant over all the difficulties of my hard lot, I returned, bearing with me the well-won spoils of labour and exertion. But, alas! where were they who should rejoice with me, and share my happiness? The very home of my infancy was tenanted by strangers; they knew me not in my poverty, they could not sympathise in my elevation. My heart sickened within me as I thought of my lone and desolate condition; and as the tears coursed fast and faster down my cheeks, how gladly would I have given all the proud triumph of success for one short and sunny hour of boyhood's bright antic.i.p.ation, shared in by those who loved me!
Oh! how well were it for us if the bright visions of happiness our imaginations picture forth should ever recede as we advance, and, mirage-like, evade us as we follow! and that we might go down to the grave still thinking that the ”morrow” would accomplish the hopes of to-day--as the Indian follows the phantom-bark, ever pursuing, never reaching. The misery of hope deferred never equalled the anguish of expectation gratified, only to ascertain how vain was our prospect of happiness from the long-cherished desire, and how far short reality ever falls of the bright colouring hope lends to our imaginings. In such a frame of deep despondency I re-entered my native city--no friend to greet, no voice to welcome me.
Happily, however, I was not long left to the indulgence of such regrets; for no sooner was my arrival made known in the city, than my brother artists waited on me with congratulations; and I learned, for the first time, that the reputation of my successes had reached Saxony, and that my very best picture was at that moment being exhibited in the Dresden Gallery. I was now invited to the houses of the great, and even distinguished by marks of my sovereign's favour. If I walked the streets, I heard my name whispered as I pa.s.sed; if I appeared in public, some burst of approbation greeted me. In a word, and that ere many days had elapsed, I became the reigning favourite of a city in which the love of ”art” is an inheritance: for, possessed of a gallery second to none in Europe, the Dresdeners have long enjoyed and profited by the opportunity of contemplating all that is excellent in painting; and, in their enthusiastic admiration of the fine arts, thought no praise too exalted to bestow on one who had a.s.serted the claim of a Saxon painter among the schools of Italy.
To the full and unmeasured intoxication of the flattery that beset me on every side, I now abandoned myself. At first, indeed, I did so as a relief from the sorrowful and depressing feelings my unfriended solitude suggested; and at last, as the pa.s.sion crept in upon and grasped my very heart-strings, the love of praise took entire possession of my being, and in a short time the desire for admiration had so completely supplanted every other emotion, that I only lived with enjoyment when surrounded by flattery; and those praises which before I heard with diffidence and distrust, I now looked for as my desert, and claimed as my right. The ”spoiled child of fortune,” my life was one round of gaiety and excitement, For _me_, and for my amus.e.m.e.nt, _fetes_ were given, parties contrived, and entertainments planned, and the charmed circle of royalty was even deserted to frequent the places at which I was expected.
From these circ.u.mstances it may readily be believed how completely I was beset by the temptations of flattery, and how recklessly I hurried along that career of good fortune which, in my mad infatuation, t deemed would last for ever. I saw my name enrolled among the great ones of my art--myself the friend of the exalted in rank and great in wealth--my very praise, patronage. Little knew I that such sudden popularity is often as fleeting as it is captivating, that the ma.s.s of those who admire and are ever loudest in their praises are alike indifferent to, and ignorant of, art. Led along by fas.h.i.+on alone, they seemed delighted, because it was the rage to appear so. They visited, because my society was courted by others; and if their knowledge was less their plaudits were louder than those of the discriminating few, whose caution and reserve seemed to me the offspring of jealousy and envy.
It is well known to almost all, how, in the society of large cities, some new source of interest or excitement is eagerly sought after to enliven the dull routine of nightly dissipation, and awaken the palled and jaded appet.i.te of pleasure to some new thrill of amus.e.m.e.nt!--how one succeeds another, and how short-lived are all! The idol of to-day is forgotten to-morrow; and whether the object of momentary attraction be a benefactor of mankind, or some monster of moral deformity, it matters but little, so that for the hour he furnish an article for the fas.h.i.+onable journalist, and a subject of conversation to the _coterie_; the end and aim of his being seems to be perfectly accomplished, and all interest for him as readily transferred to his successor, who or whatever he may be, as though his existence had been as unreal as the spectre of a magic lantern.
Little did I suppose when, in the full blaze of my popularity, that to such an ordinance of fas.h.i.+on alone I was indebted for the proud eminence I occupied. I was not long destined to enjoy the deception.
It chanced that about three months after my arrival in Dresden, circ.u.mstances required my absence from the city for a few days. The occasion which called me detained me beyond the time I had calculated on, and it was not till after a fortnight I reached my home. I had travelled that day from sunrise till late in the evening, being anxious, if possible, to redeem a promise I had made to my friend and patron, Count Lowenstein, to be present at a _fete_ in honour of his sister's birthday. The weather had been unusually hot and sultry, even for the season; and although I felt much fatigued and jaded, I lost not a moment on my arrival to dress for the _fete_, over which, calculating on my late career, I deemed my absence would throw a gloom. Besides that, I longed once more to drink of that Circean cup of flattery, for which my short absence from the city had given me new zest; and it was with a high-beating heart and fevered brain I hung upon my breast the many crosses and decorations I had been gifted with in my hours of brilliant success.
Lights gleamed brightly from the ample windows of the Lowenstein palace.
Numerous equipages stood at the portico. I followed the cha.s.seur up the s.p.a.cious marble steps which led to the ante-chamber. I stopped one moment before a large mirror, and almost startled at the brilliancy of my dress, which, a present from my sovereign, I now wore for the first time. With a high-swelling heart and bounding step--for all fatigue was long since forgotten--I approached the door; and oh! the throb with which I heard my name now, for the first time, announced with the t.i.tle of ”Baron,” which his Majesty had conferred upon me the day of my departure! That name, which alone had, talisman-like, opened for me the doors of all who were ill.u.s.trious and exalted in rank--that name, which heard, silenced the hum of voices, to break forth the moment after in accents of praise and welcome! Again it rung through the crowded salon, and I stood within the door. Formerly, when appearing in society, the moment I made my _entree_ I found myself the centre of a group of friends and admirers, all eagerly pressing forward to pay their homage to the star of fas.h.i.+on. Now, what was my amazement to mark no thrill of pleasure, as of old, animate that vast a.s.sembly!--not even surprise!
group after group pa.s.sed by me, as though I were unknown, and had no claim to their attention. It is true, I heard some friendly voices and kind inquiries; but I could neither distinguish the words nor the speaker. My brain was in a whirl; for, alas! long since had I learned to care less for the language of affection than the voice of the flatterer.
I stood thunderstruck and amazed; and it was some minutes before I could, with any appearance of composure, reply to the salutations I met with. Something must have occurred in my absence to weaken the interest my appearance ever excited;--but what could that be? And the a.s.sembly, too! had my own baffled hopes lent their gloomy colouring to all around? I certainly thought it far less brilliant than usual; a sad and depressing influence seemed to pervade all the guests, which they appeared vainly to struggle against. Tortured with doubt and disappointment, I hastened through the crowd to where the Count was standing, surrounded by his suite. His quick eye instantly perceived me, and, familiarly kissing his hand to me, he continued to converse with those about him. Up to this moment I had borne all the chilling indifference of manner I met with, from the secret satisfaction that told me in my heart that he, my protector, my friend, would soon vindicate my claim to notice and distinction, and that, in the suns.h.i.+ne of his favour, I should soon receive the attention my heart thirsted for. But now that hope deserted me, the cold distance of his manner chilled me to the very heart's core* Not one word of kind inquiry, no friendly chiding for protracted absence, no warm welcome for my coming!
I looked around on every side for some clue to this strange mystery; I felt as if all eyes were upon me, and thought for a moment I could perceive the sneer of gratified malice at my downfall. But no: I was unnoticed and un.o.bserved; and even this hurt me still more. Alas! alas!
the few moments of heart-cutting, humbling misery I then endured, too dearly paid for all the selfish gratification I reaped from being the idol of fas.h.i.+on. While I remained thus the Count approached me, and, with something like his usual tone of familiarity, said,--
”Ah, Carl!--you here? You have, of course, heard of our sad disappointment?”
”No, my lord,” I replied, with some bitterness of tone, ”I have scarcely had time, for I have not been yet an hour in Dresden.”
Without noticing either the manner of my answer or the allusion to my absence, the Count continued,--
”This evening we were to have had the happiness to have amongst us one who seems to be gifted with some magic power of diffusing delight and ecstasy on every side where she appears. Those whose hearts were cold to beauty in all others, have yielded to the fascination of hers; and the soul that never before was touched by melody has thrilled with transport at her heavenly voice. Divine La Mercia! the paragon of beauty and the soul of song! There, there stands her harp, and here you see her music; but she is absent. Alas! we have only the wand of the magician--the spell is not there.”
In an instant the veil was lifted from my eyes; the whole truth burst on me like a lightning flash--the course of my popularity was run, the sun of my favour had set for ever.
The fatigue of my journey, the heat of the salon, the confusion of my mind, and the bitter conflict of my feelings, all conspired to unman me, and I sank upon a sofa. As I sat thus unnoticed (for the tone of the Count's manner had divested the few who were previously attentive of all interest for me), I overheard the conversation of those around me. But one name was mentioned, but one person seemed to engross every tongue or heart--that was La Mercia.
From what I could collect it appeared that she, a most beautiful and interesting girl, had appeared at the Opera a few evenings since, and by the charms of her surpa.s.sing beauty, as well as the surprising richness and clearness of her voice, had captivated the whole city, from the palace to the cottage. The enthusiastic repet.i.tion of her praises gradually led to regrets for her absence, and surmises as to the cause, while a young n.o.bleman, who had just joined the circle, said,--
”Trust me, La Mercia would have come if _she_ alone were consulted; but I fear that ill-tempered looking old fellow, whom she calls her 'Dottore,' has had much to say to this refusal.”
”Yes,” said another; ”so late as yesterday evening, at the palace, when she was surrounded by several members of the royal family, eagerly pressing her to repeat a song she had just sung,--just as she consented, a look from the 'Dottore' shot across the room and met her eyes; she immediately hesitated, begged to be permitted not to sing, and immediately afterwards withdrew.”
”How strange!” said the n.o.bleman who spoke before, ”how very strange! It was but a few nights since, at the Opera, I witnessed the deference and submission with which she addressed him, and the cold indifference with which he met looks and heard tones that, would have made another's heart beat beyond his bosom. It must, indeed, be a strange mystery that unites two beings so every way unlike;--one all beauty and loveliness, and the other the most sarcastic, treacherous-looking wretch, ever my eyes beheld.”
The deep interest with which I listened to those particulars of my rival--for such I now felt her to be--gradually yielded to a sense of my own sunken and degraded condition; and envy, the most baleful and pernicious pa.s.sion that can agitate the bosom, took entire possession of me: envy of one whose very existence one hour before I was ignorant of.
I felt that _she--she_ had injured me,--robbed me of all for which life and existence was dear. But for _her_, I should still be the centre of this gay and brilliant a.s.sembly, by whom I am already forgotten and neglected: and, with a fiendish malignity, I thought how soon this new idol of a fickle and ungrateful people would fall from the pinnacle from which she had displaced me, and suffer in her own heart the cruel pangs I was then enduring.
I arose from where I had been sitting, my brain maddened with my sudden reverse of fortune, and fled from the salon to my home* In an agony of grief I threw myself upon my bed, and that night was to me like years of sorrowing and affliction.