r<f . - ■■■ '' ' ' ■ ~
VOL. T.
For the Banner of the South.
Last W ords of Goethe.
HEHMTSE.
“1/1 the light enter,” said the dying poet,
For Death’s cold seal was on his eyes;
•‘L‘ t the light enter”—for the heavenly portals
Were dim between him and the shies.
■ I. t the light enter” —for his mind was darkened,
y. ver ray from Heaven shone there,
Ai:;i yet unconsciously his pale lips muttered
At nice an order and a prayer.
•L. • the light enter”—for his soul was nearing
Tbe. borders of the land ignored;
Darkness was deeper; terrified and trembling,
“L 't the light enter,” he implored.
•■Lei the light enter! That was mist and darkness
Which once my soul mistook for light:
i; . t the strange shadows lengthening ever ’round me
Fa e nothing in them fair or bright.”
He new not that the golden sunlight, streaming
Thro' the wide windows by his bed,
Warmed the damp dews upon his forehead standing,
And formed a halo round his head.
Darkness was only in the mind’s proud temple,
Unlighted by a ray of Grace,
Whose lamp alone can light the soul departing,
And make Death wear a radiant face.
•‘Let the light enter”—still the soul, entreating,
Asked for the Faith it had not known;
And the last spark of life, left dimly burning.
For one brief moment brightly shone.
And the dying Atheist, weak and trembling,
AH his powers seemed to centre,
While from his lips the earnest cry came slowly,
■•Let the light, the bright light, enter!”
It was too late !. No voice of loving mercy,
th e passed his spirit into night,
V ) r'-d, amid the darkness hanging o’er him,
The blessed words, “Let thebe be light!”
And Goethe, with his spirit blind and erring,
Passed out to seek the unknown shore;
But tidiugs of the unillumined vessel
Were heard by mortals nevermore!
From Putnam’s Magazine.
Three Pictures and One Portrait,
0
[concluded.]
At last came the instant, when Robert,
overcome by Helena’s wiles, receives her
in hi> arms, and presses his lips to hers.
Then, tor the first time, 1 held in my
arms the woman that I so wildly loved;
1 clasped her to my heart, and it was no
slight stage salute, but a long and pas
donnt* kiss that I pressed upon her lips,
while, m hoarse, broken accents, I mur
mured—“l love you !”
The remainder of the opera passed off
like a dream. Ido not know how I got
through it; but it ended at last. As I
was preparing to quit the theatre, the
iallet-rnaster addressed me.
A superb piece of acting that between
’ou and Ida in the churchyard scene,”
' e -aid. “What a pity it is tha; we have
lost her.”
‘ Lost her ?” I cried, grasping his
arm.
Ws, I fear she has quitted Prague by
l u> Line. She canceled her engagement
yMoiuay, and only danced to-night on
account of the accident to Cortesi.”
1 ! Mind, half mad, scarce conscious
"Ht 1 did, I rushed from the theatre,
; lnc ! ook mechanically the road that led
t 0 |, ' a s ! od ging in the Anton Strasse. It
v>as a bright, moonlight night, and ere I
reached the house, l saw a cloaked and
'•’-L.i figure issue from it, and enter an
'w’gant traveling carriage, which was
before the door. The vehicle
started at a rapid pace, and my
uterv, “Ida ! Ida!” was unheard.
1 b ar ml events, unnoticed.
L vanished Ida Rosen. Never since
' f !,1 4t have I beheld her, and all my
' to learn any tidings of her fate
;", ruitles9 * The people who kept
, ‘V u ' e e0,, 1d tell me nothing more
' ] 11 ; ut a tall gentleman, wrapped in a
I', i, A ° f ak -’ katl occasionally visited her,
u! *d old Martha had disappeared.
-ars have passed since then, but I
‘Ve never forgotten the fair vision that
a entranced me.
i } * !ave . 11 eve r loved since—l shall never
, e .n 2ain ’ The image of my lost Ida
!n unfading freshness in my heart,
f i V a,lll °t yet hear the music of the
“ °1 “Robert le without
and ban o’ *
1 c*
A tew weeks ago, I chanced to see an
engraving from the Vandyke Diana, in
the portfolio of a friend. Struck with
its resemblance to Ida, I asked where
the original could be found; and, on
learning that it was to be seen in Stutt
gart, I took advantage of mv first leave
of-absenee from the opera to journey
hither to behold it. I have seen the pic
ture. I have gazed again upon that love
liness, whose living brightness shall
gladden my eyes no more, and the old
wounds throb afresh, and with a sharper
pan). I shall quit Stuttgart to-morrow,
and I trust forever.
Friends, my story is ended. Fill up
your glasses; and now, Meissner, last
speaker of the three, your turn has come,
and we wait for your history.
The young artist looked up, and a faint,
melancholy smile flitted over his lips.
He spoke as follows :
THE ARTIST’S STORV.
My sorrow is of recent date; and mine
will prove to be the saddest tale, as it is
the last.
I am, as you know, an artist, and I may
venture to say that I am a successful one.
I am a native of Stuttgart, and I am fre
quently employed by the great bookseller,
Baron Cotta, to design illustrations for
works which he intends to publish. Two
years ago, whilst I was studying in Italy,
I received an order from him for a num
ber of sketches of the scenery around
Naples, to he used in preparing an illus
trated work on Italian scenery. I conse
quently took lodging in Naples, and spent
my days, with pencil and sketch-book,
among the exquisite scenery of the
neighborhood. 1 had scarcely any ac
quaintances in the city, and my only inti
mate associate was a young Russian gen
tleman, the Baron Alexis Z , who,
like most of the educated men of his
nation, was an accomplished and intelli
gent gentleman, and a most agreeable
companion. He was passionately fond of
music and the drama, and often prevailed
upon me to accompany him to see Ristori
or to hearken to the very indifferent
singers who shrieked through Verdi’s
noisiest strains at the San Carlo.
One evening we went together to wit
ness Ristori’s representation of “Mary
Stuart.” The house was crowded, and
the audience was unusually brilliant; so
that, between the acts, I surveyed the
auditorium with less interest thau I had
bestowed upon the stage. Suddenly my
eyes fell upon a face that riveted my
wandering gaze at once. Half hidden in
the dim depths of a curtained box, and
enveloped in cloud-like draperies of black
lace, sat a lady, whose dark shining eyes
and pale, finely-cut features attracted me,
less by their weird and singular beauty,
than by their resemblance to some face,
long ago familiar to me, but whose, or
where seen, I could not at that moment
recollect, She sat leaning back in her
chair, with a listless and pre-occu
pied look, and it was but a careless gaze
that Hie vouchsafed to the movements of
the great actress But, towards the close
ot the third act, the marvellous genius of
Ristori aroused her at last from her seem
ing indifference. Then she leaned for
ward with parted lips and earnest eyes :
a sudden crimson flushed her cheek; and,
as I looked upon her beauty thus trans
figured, the resemblance which so haunted
me ceased to be a mystery.
“Tbe Vandyke Diana !” I exclaimed,
involuntarily.
My companion turned, and looked at me
in astonishment,
“Can you tell me the name of that lady
in black lace, who is sitting in the fourth
box to the left ?” I asked, unheeding his
surprise.
He raised his opera glass, and looked
in the direction which I had indicated.
“Certainly,” he said; “she happens to
be a countrywoman of my own. That is
the Countess Orlanoff, the wealthy Russian
widow, who has taken the Villa Maneini
oi the winter. She is said to be in very
AUGUSTA, Gj\., JAXI L\ I I Y so, 1860.
delicate health, and I am told that her
physicians have advised her to spend her
winters in Italy.”
“Is she a Russian by birth ?” I asked.
“I do not know. Count Orlanoff was
a very eccentric man. He married late
in life, and very mysteriously; and imme
diately after his marriage lie took his
bride to his immense estates in Southern
Russia. He never afterwards quitted
them, and never received visitors; so
that nothing whatever was known about
his wife. There was a rumor that lie in
curred the displeasure of the Emperor by
his marriage, and tha his exile was not
altogether a self-chosen one. He was
just the man to have contracted a iincscit
liance in a moment of infatuation, and to
nave repented of it bitterly forever
after. 7 ’
“Has he been long dead ?” 1 asked.
“No; I heard of his death but little more
than a year ago.”
Madame t hlanoff is lovely enough to
excuse any amount of infatuation.”
‘‘Aes, she is singularly beautiful, al
though it is reported she is a confirmed
invalid. L have an idea tjiat her married
life was not a very happy one. She
quitted Russia immediately after her hus
band’s death, and spent last winter in
A ice. She visits no one, and receives no
one, and seems to l;a>e inherited some
portion of Orlanoff’s eccentricity.”
For weeks after, that pale, cold, beau
tiful face filled my thoughts by day and
haunted my dreams by night. I fre
quented places of public resort and
amusement with unwonted devotion,
hoping to behold Madame Orlanoff again.
Twice was my search rewarded with suc
cess. I saw her once, seated in a luxu
rious carriage, on the Chiaja; and once,
blazing with diamonds, in the curtained
recesses of a box on the ground-tier at the
San Carlo.
One evening I was busied in comple
ting a sketch of a picturesque little nook
of the bay. I had taken my seat on a
rock which lay on the shore, and had
woiked undisturbed for some hours. The
sun was setting, and I was about to lay
down my pencil, when 1 heard a faint
rustle of silk near me; an odor of
verbena filled the air: and, looking up, I
beheld the Countess Orlanoff standing at
my side. I started up, surprised and
agitated.
“You arc Herr Meissner, the artist, I
believe ? ’ she said, in German.
“Such is my name and profession,
madame,” I stammered.
“I am forming a collection of sketches
of Italian scenery; and 1 would like to
give you an order for several drawings of
the views around Naples.”
“That is a commission which I can
easily execute,” I answered, regaining
my composure with a violent effort; “for,
I am already at work on a series lor
Baron Cotta, the celebrated publisher.”
“Indeed ! Then the one you have just
finished is for him, I presume. Will you
permit me to examine it ?”
I placed the sketch in her hands. She
looked at it long and carefully, making,
as she did so, comments on it and criti
cisms, that showed a cultivated and re
fined taste in art.
We conversed together for some time,
and when she left me to re-enter her car
riage, which was stationed at a short dis
tance, she gave me her card.
“Come to the A ilia Maneini to-morrow
evening,” she said, ‘land bring your
sketches. I may wish to possess dupli
cates of some of those which you have
executed for Baron Cotta.”
Such was the beginning of my ac
quaintance with Madame Orlanoff. My
sketches formed the pretext for some of
my first visits; but I soon cast all
excuses aside, and found myself, every
evening, by the side of the fautueil in
which the fair invalid reclined. How
vividly do I recall those evenings !
Madame Orlanoff always received me in
a small room, half library and half re
ception room, which opened out of the
grand salon. It was crowded with rare
trifles and costly toys; books, medals,
gems, small paintings, antique bronzes,
portfolios of engravings and drawings
filled its every corner. We used to con
verse about all the events in the world
of art and literature—the last new poem,
the latest opera, the rising singers of the
day, the newest picture, or the artist last
arrived. I brought her my sketches, and
told her what my ideas were respecting
the large picture on which l was at work;
and she, in return, would lay open for me
her stores of rare engravings and antique
gems. As I speak, I seem to inhale
again the mingled odor of ether and per
fume that always pervaded the atmos
phere; 1 see once more the little room,
with its wilderness of art-treasures, its
gayly-frescoed ceiling, its soft subdued
light, and its one fair, spiritual-looking
occupant, reclining amid the cushions of
her luxurious couch.
But often as I saw the Countess, and
long and freely as we conversed together,
she scarcely ever made even the slightest
allusion to her past life. Once, when I
made some remark about her name of
Feodora, she said that she had not always
borne it. “ I was received into the
Greek Church on my marriage,” she said,
“and was then baptised by that name.”
On another occasion, when I spoke of her
fondness for art and literature, she an
swered, “They were my only solace during
many years,” and then instantly changed
the conversation. Once, too, while she
was displaying to me some drawings by
Gustave Dore, she pointed out one
which she said had been designed by him
at her order. “I call it my portrait,”
she added, with a faint smile. The
drawing, though small, was wonderfully
spirited, and the singularity of the de
sign, combined with the excellence of
the execution, caused it to make an indel
ible impression on my memory. It
represented a veiled female figure ex
tended on a couch. Around and above
her fluttered a host of little weeping
Cupids, each bewailing some mishap that
had belallerf their weapons, some trying
to sharpen their blunted arrows, while
others strove to refasten their broken
bow-strings. In striking contrast to these
airy forms, a mocking fiend stood besido
the lady. With one hand he upheld the
veil from the leftside of her bosom, while
the other pointed with clawed and
hideous forefinger at the dark void hollow
visible beneath the shapely bust There
was no heart there.
The winter passed away; the warmth
and brightness of an Italian Spring re
turned to gladden the earth; but the
health of the Countess diu not improve
with the change of season, as she had
hoped and expected. Her breathing was
much oppressed, and her voice at times
became utterly instinct. Still, though
always suffering, she never seemed to bo
really ill, and she always spoke of her re
covery as certain, though unaccountably
delayed.
One evening, as I was about to enter
the A’ ilia Maneini, I found Dr. Leverrier,
Madame Orlanoff’s physician, in the act
of quitting it. lat once resolved to know
the truth respecting her health.
“Doctor,” I said, “may I speak a word
with you ?”
“You may, if the word is a short one
and briefly said, for I am in a great
hurry,” answered the solemn looking
Frenchman, drawing on his gloves as he
spoke.
“Is the Countess dangerously ill ?”
The Doctor looked fixedly at me for a
moment.
“If you have any influence over her?”
he said, “persuade her to send lor her
relatives or friends, for she has not long
to live. Her disease is not of the lungs,
as she fancies, but an affection of the
heart of the worst type. I cannot tell
her of her condition, for the agitation at
tendant upon such an announcement
would kill her instantly. But, in any
event, she will die suddenly, without a
moment’s warning, before many months
nay, it may be before many weeks
elapse.”
He left me; and I, rushing wildly
from the house, fled to the deserted sea
shore, and there, prostrate on the sands,
I wept out the agony that possessed my
soul. It was then, in that moment of
supreme anguish, I realized that I loved
the Countess—l, the poor, almost un
known artist, loved her—but with a
passion as vain, as hopeless, as unre
quited, as ever filled a hapless soul with
despair.
Time passed on; the spring days grew
brighter, sweeter, longer, and the health
ol Madame Orlanoff seemed visibly to
improve. She was stronger, suffered
less, and her rare, sweet smile hovered
oftener upon her lips. So marked was
the change, that I sought Dr. Leverrier
again, in the hope of hearing a reverse of
his former opinion; but he merely reit
erated what he had already said; and I
left him with my new-born hope dying in
my heart.
It was afteiij this interview had taken
place that 1 came to the desperate resolu
tion of avowing my love to the Countess.
I was perfectly well aware of the social
gulf which existed between us, and
which separated so widely the wealthy
widow of Count Orlanoff from the poor
and almost unknown artist; but I was
half frenzied at the idea of the woman I
loved dying alone, among strangers, and
tended only by menial hands. “She may
hearken to me,” 1 argued ; “and in that
case I gain the right of a husband, or of
a betrothed lover, to watch over the last
days of her life, and to soothe the suffer
ings she may yet endure.” A strange,
sad prospect for a young lover, was it
not ? yet such was my last, my fondest
hope.
One beautiful evening in April, I
sought her presence, with the avowal of
my love trembling upon my lips. I found
her, as usual, in the reception room,
seated in a half-reclining attitude on a
low couch covered with scarlet satin. A
volume of Victor Hugo’s poems lay open
before her, but she was not reading; her
clasped bauds rested on the open page,
and the vague fixedness of her glance be
trayed that her thoughts were far away.
She started when I entered, as though
aroused from her reverie, but smiled and
welcomed me with all her customary
courtesy and grace. We conversed lor
some little time; but her answers were
vague and distraite ; and, at last, she
said :
“I am but a dull companion this even
ing, Herr Meissner. My thoughts have
wandered to the past; and, do what I
will, I cannot induce them to return.”
“Shall I leave you, then, gracious
Countess V 1 stammered, half rising;
“1 fear that my presence annoys you.”
“No, oh no! Remain with me, for I
W’ould fain speak to you of many inci
dents whose memory haunts me ” She
remained for a few moments as if lost in
thought, “Mine has been a checkered
life,” she resumed, “and cursed with
granted prayers, i have been ambitious;
but I never formed a wish too wildly
aspiring to be realized ; and each wish,
in its fulfilment., brought a curse. I had
youth, beauty, genius; I staked them all
in one desperate game, and I won—what ?
The right to choose the spot where I
shall die, and the power to wear such
baubles as these,” and she touched with a
light, disdainful stroke one of the great
solitaire diamond ear-rings which she
habitually wore.
“Are you ill, gracious Countess?” I
inquired, anxiously; “your relations—
your friends—”
She interrupted me with a smile.
“1 have no relations,” she said; “and,
like Schiller’s Mary Stuart, though I have
been much loved, unlike her, I have never
loved—never; so I have no friends—un
less it be yoursel£ my kind Franz.”
It was the first time she had ever so
called me by that name. I would have
ISTo. 46.
