MIMILI.
The capital of the world, as the French term their noisy Paris, lay behind me. I had grown heartily tired of it. My soul longed for repose—nothing but repose. I was worn out with the fatigues of the glorious campaign. After passing a year amid the turmoil of a military life, I was in quest of a spot where I could enjoy rest—a peaceful, tranquil spot, where I could belong exclusively to myself. With this view I hastened by way of Fontainebleau and Dijon to Switzerland.
I shall reserve for another occasion an account of all that I saw on the road thither, and in the friendly Neufchatel, and beyond it on the right and on the left, and shall for the present confine myself to the Valley of Lauterbrunn.
Leaving my companion, who was not well, at Unterseen, I pursued my route on the day of our arrival there. My guide was a stout, active fellow. We ascended, with rapid step, along the bank of the foaming Lutschine, which winds between rocks of immense height, first to Matten, past the ruins of Unspunnen and Wilderswyl; then continuing our course along the impetuous torrent which ran on our left, whilst on the right we had almost perpendicular rocks, some bare, others covered with wood. The ravine gradually became darker and narrower, and the country assumed a wilder appearance. My guide walked on in silence; on coming to a mass of rock as large as a house he crossed himself. “What is the matter?” cried I inquisitively, and beheld with surprise a stream of black water running past the block, over a stony bed, into the Lutschine.—“That, sir, is the bad stone, and this is the bad stream,” answered my guide. “Here the Baron of Rothenflüh killed his brother for the sake of his property, and then fled, and wandered about without house or home, till he died miserably and left nobody behind him; so that his name became extinct with him for ever.” I beheld in imagination the fratricide washing his brother’s blood from his hands in the white foam of the rapid Lutschine, and then, smarting under the lash of conscience, hurrying away, and leaving his peace of mind for the rest of his life behind him in the awfully wild valley. I shuddered at the picture, and hastened from the murderous scene.
From Zweilutschinen a bold bridge conducts to the Iselten Alp. Here the Black Lutschine, from Grindelwald, and the White Lutschine, from Lauterbrunn, meet; and after uniting their streams pursue their headlong course to the Aar.
At certain points of this route the traveller is surprised by the most striking and magnificent views of the dazzling white summit of the Jungfrau to the south, and of the beautiful glacier of the Wetterhorn on the east.
Before I reached Lauterbrunn, I was met by a number of poor boys, who solicited charity in so persuasive a manner that it was impossible to refuse them. “I am a very poor boy,” was the usual cry of these urchins, while extending their little hands; and as soon as they had received a trifle, they gratefully offered themselves for all sorts of services; but they particularly vied with each other in offers to show me the finest places in their valley.
In the French towns you are beset in every street by boys who importune strangers with offers to conduct them to the haunts of vice. Here the innocent children of the herdsmen were desirous to show me the magnificence of their peaceful valleys. Each of these boys had his favourite place: one would have shown me this, another that; and had I accepted all their invitations, I should not have done with them at this day.
At Lauterbrunn I observed several clever carvers in wood, seated at the doors of their cottages, and making the neatest articles of maple, which are sold far and wide; particularly milk-bowls, milk-ladles, and butter-knives.
We pursued our way, and soon heard at a distance the roar of the Staubbach. This torrent falls eight hundred feet down a perpendicular precipice of the Pletschberg. The eye of the spectator may feast itself for hours together on the extraordinary accidents of this fall. Pouring over the ledge of the abrupt precipice, the water of the stream is broken in its descent into thousands of millions of particles resembling dust, or waves in the air like a light riband of silver, and reaches the bottom in the form of a gentle dew. At times it assumes the appearance of a curtain of gauze, nearly three hundred yards in length, hanging down from the top of the cliff. Such a magnificent work of nature no pen can adequately describe—no pencil represent. The water-works of Versailles are a mere bauble to this cascade.
Opposite to the fall, at the extremity of a simple orchard, stands the parsonage. The pastor’s wife, a blooming young woman, a native of Berne, came out with a chubby child in her arms; and after we had chatted some time, pressed me to walk in and partake of such cheer as the house afforded: but I was obliged to decline the courteous invitation, as I had still a great way to go.
A narrow footpath led us farther up the valley, on either side of which, as we advanced, the descending torrents formed waterfalls. My aim was to approach this evening so near to the Jungfrau as to obtain a good view of that majestic mountain. My guide promised, if I was a good climber, to take me to a herdsman’s hut, from which I should have the best view of the Jungfrau in all the country round. We accordingly quitted the valley, and ascended a noble Alp. Here and there we met herdsmen with milk-vessels at their backs, going down to the lower grounds to milk their cows. We continued to ascend, but the labour was richly rewarded; for at every step the prospect became more extensive and more magnificent. At length we reached the hut. Its situation was so delightful, and the herdsman so kind and obliging, that I immediately resolved to pass the night there, and to send back my guide to Unterseen; my host promising that his boy should accompany me next morning to Grindelwald.
The herdsman was poor, like all the rest of his class. He offered me clean hay for a bed and milk and cheese for supper. I thanked him, and hastened out of the hut, that I might not lose for a moment, while it was daylight, the exquisite enjoyment which Nature here presented. I sat down on the flowery turf, and revelled in the delightful contemplation of the wonderful works of the Almighty Hand.
The Jungfrau stood in all its magnificence before me. Beside and beyond it rose the Mittaghorn, the Tchingelhorn, the Ebenflue, and other gigantic mountains; but the Jungfrau towered high above all these colossal neighbours, and reared its silver head aloft into the azure firmament.
At the time when this globe yet floated in the midst of the great deep, these stupendous masses of granite probably peered in the form of small verdant islands above the surface of that immeasurable expanse. Thousands of years have since elapsed. Seas, oceans, have since dried up; but these mountains still stand firm. Their venerable heads are covered with everlasting ice, and their topmost peaks no human foot has ever yet trodden. They silently, but effectually, perform the important and beneficial object for which they were destined: they feed the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, the North Sea and the Adriatic; and from their inexhaustible reservoirs they send forth a thousand streams to fertilize the countries of Europe.
The summit of the Alp on which I lay engaged in these meditations was yet covered with snow. All around was as still as if everlasting Peace had here erected her altars. Far below me appeared the lovely valley of Lauterbrunn and the awfully romantic Ammertenthal: in the distance roared the torrents which, for thousands of years, have poured their never-failing tribute into the valleys; still farther down glistened the flames of the smelting-houses. From the hills round about me resounded the solitary tinkling of the bells of the dispersed cattle, now and then intermingled with the bleating of a young kid, or the hum of a droning beetle.
The evening was mild and serene; a slight breeze blew refreshingly from the glaciers, and millions of flowers of all hues perfumed the pure mountain air with their aromatic fragrance. It was one of the most delicious moments of my life. From my couch, enamelled with clover blossom, I contemplated with increasing rapture the wonders of the unexplored regions of snow above me. An indefinable sensation of delight pervaded me: I could have given utterance to my joy aloud, had not a certain feeling of humility or melancholy chained my tongue. I cannot describe it; but it seemed to me as if I had never felt so devout. The colossal mountains of granite and the sparkling seas of ice before me—what were they but a speck to the myriads of worlds that bespangle the nocturnal sky!
I folded my hands and prayed; never was I so sensible of the presence of God. All at once I heard the sound of distant footsteps. “Some 
Mimili. one is coming,” said I to the herdsman, who just then stepped out of the hut; “does any body else live here besides you?”
“Nobody,” replied he; “but Miss comes sometimes in the evening, and sleeps here.”
“Who is Miss?”
“My master’s daughter.”
I rose, while the herdsman went to meet her. She was not yet in sight, for the path led up in the rear of the hut, when I heard her call to him, with a sweet voice, “Good evening, Rütli. I am come to stop with you to-night; the weather is so beautiful, and it bids fair for a fine morning.”
The herdsman must have acquainted her that I was there, for I heard him say something about the stranger. She paused, as if hesitating whether to proceed or not; at least, I heard no more footsteps. I therefore walked round the hut to pay my respects to the mistress of my Alp.
Whoever has been in Switzerland must be acquainted with the theatrical costume of the damsels of the Alps. When I first entered the canton of Berne, and beheld the fanciful dresses of the Swiss girls, I was ready to imagine that some friend had played me a trick, and sent the most beautiful of their sex, arrayed after the elegant fashion of some tender idyl, to make me believe that I had found the Arcadian scenes of my youthful reveries. By degrees I became accustomed to the pleasing reality; but at the sight of this maiden I could not help reverting to the notion, and regarding her as one of the lovely beings of the poetic world in that happy age when Innocence still dwelt in human form upon the earth. Her head, covered with dark curly locks, was shaded by a large Leghorn hat, adorned by a bunch of wild flowers; and two light blue ribands floated loosely from the broad brim down to her hips. Her large blue eye bespoke the sweetest disposition, childlike simplicity, and innocent love. These silent mirrors of the heart and soul were overarched by the dark bows of the eyebrows, and long silken lashes tempered the fire of their ardent glances. Youth and health revelled in her dimpled cheeks, in her coral lips, and in the plumpness of her whole beauteous figure.
The corset was of black velvet, laced with gold chains, and richly and tastefully wrought with gold and silk of various colours. The wide sleeves, of the finest cambric, reached to the small delicate hand; and the habit-shirt, of the same material, modestly concealed the neck and bosom. The petticoat, of black silk, with its hundred plaits, was, according to our notions, extremely short. Fine white cotton stockings displayed the shape of the leg and elegantly turned ancle. A pretty basket dangled carelessly from her arm. In her whole exterior were combined the freshness and vigour of the most unsophisticated native of the Alps, with the dignity and grace of the most accomplished of our leaders of fashion. Such was the female who intended to pass the night here!
I approached her respectfully, and accosted her in polite terms as the mistress of the place; she, with true Swiss cordiality, gave me her soft little hand and bade me welcome. After the first salutations, I expressed my joy at spending so lovely an evening in such society, sent me, as it were, by Providence itself. “It is lucky for us, indeed,” replied she, “that I have come up, else you would certainly have passed an uncomfortable night on our Alp; for you would have had nothing but hay to lie on. As it is, I shall give up to you my closet, where you will sleep more commodiously.”
With these words she led me into the hut, and ushered me into the closet just mentioned. I had been at Trianon, Versailles, St. Cloud, and many other mansions of the great of that gaudy world which lay spread out at my feet. More superb chambers I had certainly beheld, but none that was neater, or wore an air of superior comfort. The furniture, of maple or black poplar wood, was extremely tasteful; and the walls were hung with Swis landscapes by the most eminent native artists, many of them of very great value. The queen of my Alp threw up the window of the fairy cabinet, and my ravished looks rested on the immense glaciers before me. It was as though the whole wide circle had approached nearer to heaven—as though it had become more holy since the maiden had appeared within it. I felt that I had become better in these elevated regions; still my nature was not wholly purified from its dross: for when my fascinating hostess drew back the snow-white curtains that veiled her virgin couch, and I perceived the most elegant of all nightcaps on the pillow, my fancy began to picture the dark ringlets of the enchanting maiden covered with the cap, and her lovely self — — — From this reverie she recalled me by the assurance, that I should here sleep very comfortably. I replied, that I had never beheld so inviting a chamber, but that I could not possibly accept it, as she had intimated to the herdsman her intention of passing the night on the Alp; adding, that I should be quite satisfied with the accommodation offered me by her servant, and had no doubt, that with her so near me I should sleep more soundly on my hay than many a prince on his bed of down.
“God forbid!” exclaimed she with a smile; “what would you think of me if I were to stay, now you are here! I must be a strange girl, indeed! No! I will stay a little while with you, if you allow me, and then I will go home and send you up some supper; for the man has nothing but a crust of bread, butter-milk, and some dried fruit.”
She talked a great deal, sometimes as simply and familiarly as a child, at others expressing herself with all the elegance and intelligence of the best-bred lady. Her Swiss German sounded inexpressibly sweet from her rosy lips. It was only when she came to any of the expressions of common life that she employed her native provincialisms, but from my previous travels in Switzerland I was at no loss for their meaning.
We were soon as familiar as if we had been brought up together on this Alp. “What is your name, enchanting girl?” asked I.
“Father calls me Mimili,” replied she, with a tone that made every fibre of my heart vibrate. “Come,” continued she, “I will lead you higher: you shall see something still finer. I will show you a valley and two glaciers that are not to be matched in the whole country.”
I gave her my arm, and we ascended. She climbed the steepest places with the greatest agility. Her cheeks were suffused with a higher glow, and her bosom heaved quicker. It became cooler as we advanced, for we had not much higher to mount to the snow, which still covered the summit of the Alp. What the sun had melted in the middle of the day trickled down in a hundred little rills, and the most delicate verdure began to clothe the sides of the mountain lower down, from which the snow had but recently disappeared.
Here grazed Mimili’s cattle. She had a name for every cow, and they would all turn round and look at her when she called them, and stand still to be patted. Their coats were as smooth as glass, and the animals were in high condition. The kids came bleating to her from the distant crags, licked her hands, and nibbled the biscuits and slices of bread and butter which she reached to them from the basket. She stooped down, played with and fondled them; so that I fairly envied the creatures, and would fain have implored Jupiter to transform me on the spot into a kid.
“Auli! Auli! Auli!” she then cried, and a curly-woolled lamb, having a little bell fastened round its neck with a yellow riband, came, bounding like a roe, and frisked about her. “This poor thing lost its mother,” said Mimili, scratching the poll of the little brute orphan, and putting its red nose into the hollow of her white hand,” and so I took care of the creature, and brought it up; and now it loves me, as if I were its mother.” With this pretty favourite she spoke pure Swiss. Observing a little blood on its left fore-foot, probably occasioned by the scratch of a thorn, she held it up, wiped off the blood with her handkerchief, and said, with inimitable tenderness, “Has something hurt thee, my poor Auli? Observe,” she proceeded, rising, and pointing to the cows, which never stopped to graze on one spot, but moved from place to place, cropping the freshest and tenderest herbage—“observe how cunning the cattle are: they know the different herbs as well as our Haller and Gessner, and your Wildenow.”
I looked at her in astonishment. “What,” I asked, “do you know about Haller and Gessner and Wildenow?”
“I know something about them,” replied she, with a smile. “Look you,” she continued, with an artlessness that might be termed the shadow to the light which she now unconsciously placed upon the bushel, and picking, as she spoke, a handful of flowers—“look you, if I did not know that this is Anemone alpina, this Dryas octopetala, and this Ranunculus nivalis, should I not have reason to be ashamed of my ignorance? Why should we not be as well acquainted with the plants and grasses of our pastures, as the girls of your country with those which grow in your fields? No sooner is the snow gone than they all shoot up here vigorously.—But come along a little higher. You have not there the blue-bell of the Alps, Soldanella Alpina, which flowers even upon the snow, and the Crocus vernus beneath it. These are fond of a cool situation; for when the snow melts, they fade and go off too. Both always appear to me like infants who die at the mother’s breast. The air of the earth is too heavy for them; they aspire to a more ethereal atmosphere.—But I must show you our gold-mines; for if you could naturalize the Alpine clover, and the milk-vetch, and the Alpine plantain, and the Phillandrium mutellina, and the Apargia aurea, and the Pimpinella alba, you would not want our cheeses; for you might make the same sorts yourselves. What is your country, sir?”
“The same as your friend Wildenow’s?”
“What! and this, then, I suppose,” pointing to my breast, “is the iron” She could not finish for surprise. “O, welcome—doubly welcome, Knight of the Iron Cross! No, indeed! Now you must come along to my father! He would never forgive me if I left you to sleep up here. Do me the favour to accompany me home: all that our house affords shall be at your service. My father is a warm admirer of your king and your nation, and tells me about them every Sunday, when he returns from church, where the sexton reads the newspaper to them all under the great walnut-tree.”
Who could refuse such a girl any thing? I cheerfully complied with her wish, and away we went. We walked arm in arm. She no longer regarded me as a stranger; I seemed to her to be an old acquaintance of her father’s. She talked to me about her mother, who had been dead eight years—about the good sister Crescentia in the nunnery at Zug, and about every thing that concerned herself, with the same artlessness as if I had been one of the family. “The Alp on which we are,” continued she, “is my mother’s portion, and father gives it me for pocket-money; but I don’t know what to do with it all. Oh, I am rich! Only think, I have six-and-thirty cows; each cow produces yearly two hundred weight of cheese, which sells for at least ten crowns the hundred weight. My Alp always supplies my cows with fresh grass in summer, and more hay than they want in winter; and this is all that I need care about. Have you any mountains in your country?”
Lest I should only embarrass her by the mention of such as are less known, I named the Giant Mountains of Silesia.
“Giant Mountains, forsooth!” said she, smiling. “Why, their greatest height is but five thousand feet. Our Finster-Aarhorn is above thirteen thousand. There’s a mountain for you!”
I could not conceal my surprise at her knowledge.
“You must not banter me, sir,” said she bashfully, “or I shall hold my tongue.”
“Ah Mimili! speak on,” cried I, kissing her hand, which lay within my arm. “I could listen to you for a day together, while you are talking of your Alps.”
“Don’t you think our mountains beautiful?” she again began, in her former friendly tone. “You should stay here always. I fancy I should not like any spot in the whole world as I do our own. It must be very disagreeable to live in a flat country. Now look, sir, at the Jungfrau: such a sight as evening now presents may perhaps be afforded by the Lebanon in Syria, the Ophyr in Sumatra, and the Chimborasso and Nerona Roa, but certainly not by your Silesian hills: we call it the glow of the Alps. Come, let us sit down under yon spreading beech; that is a favourite place of mine in the evening, and so our old herdsman has put up a soft mossy seat for me in the shade.”
We sat down. The turf around us was variegated with the red willow-herb (Epilobium alpinum angustifolium), thyme, red fescue-grass (Festuca rubra), Androsace villosa, gentian, ironwort, and a thousand other beautiful flowers.
All at once there was a tremendous peal of thunder, which slowly resounded in the immense mountains, and rolled far—far away, through the tranquil atmosphere, to the most remote valleys and ravines. A silvery stream poured from an opposite Alp, and fell, surrounded by a light sparkling arch of snow, deeper and deeper with the roaring of the most terrific tempest, to the bottom of the abyss.
I sprung up, affrighted, from the mossy seat, raising my hands instinctively above my head. I imagined that the everlasting Alps were toppling about our ears. The ground shook under us: the snow, like a cloud of brilliants sparkling in the radiance of evening, flew far around, and even fell in a light shower at our feet.
“What was that? For Heaven’s sake, what was that, Mimili?” cried I, seeking, with impatient look, the shortest way by which we might escape into the valleys.
“I am glad—heartily glad you have seen that,” rejoined my companion, with emotion, but yet with a smile. “Such circumstances happen around us almost every day; but we do not always see them so near or so distinctly as we saw this. Was it not a grand—a magnificent spectacle? That was an avalanche.”
“That an avalanche! But are they not said to be very dangerous?”
“The summer avalanches are not; they happen only in our highest mountains, which are not visited by man: but those which fall towards the end of winter, frequently do a great deal of mischief. When the snow begins to thaw, then it is very dangerous travelling in our valleys. Owing to the slightest concussion of the air, frequently to the mere tinkling of the bells of the pack-horses, one of these tremendous masses is detached, carries away all before it, buries houses and villages, dashes rocks in pieces, overthrows the strongest walls, and squeezes up woods of the most ancient larch-trees, like a handful of toothpicks. Do you hear it still rumbling at a distance?” I listened, and faint echoes were yet distinctly audible.
The sun meanwhile sunk lower behind the western mountains; the sky was without a cloud, and now commenced what is properly called the glow of the Alps. The whole firmament resembled an ocean of fire. Its radiance was magnificently reflected by the glistening ice-capped peaks of the Jungfrau, and the sea-green pyramids and obelisks of the neighbouring glaciers. In the glowing ether the vast masses of snow appeared nearly transparent; it seemed as though the everlasting ice had imbibed the fire of the contiguous sky, as if heaven and earth were blended together in those unattainable elevations.
Mimili contemplated this enchanting scene with silent awe, and folding her hands over her breast, she prayed to its Almighty Author. “This is a heavenly evening!” she ejaculated, while the warm glow of the sky and the white summit of the Jungfrau were reflected in her dark-blue eyes, and her bosom heaved beneath the velvet corset.
There was no longer any thing earthly in me; I felt so supremely happy, that I could have died in Mimili’s arms, and flown with her on the purple pinions of eve into the regions of roseate light that dawned before us.
“Let us go!” said she at length, after a pause of such bliss as I had never yet experienced. I awoke as from a trance, gave her my arm, and we descended into the silent valleys. Neither of us could speak for some time. We had understood each other without words—love needs no interpreter.
When we had nearly reached the house, Mimili ran on before, to acquaint her father with my coming: the old man, a genuine cabinet-picture by Denner, came out to meet me, extended his nervous right hand, and squeezed mine so cordially, that I could have roared with agony. “Welcome to my house, sir,” said he, in a kind but solemn tone. “I have never yet had the happiness of entertaining one of your nation. You are the first to afford me that gratification. Share with us such as we have. We shall make no stranger of you; but while you stay here, we shall consider you as one of the family. Mimili, let us have the best that the kitchen and cellar can furnish: I will enjoy myself to-night with you, and talk, over a glass of wine, about the important events in which, as that cross shows, you have borne a part. I have longed much for an opportunity of conversing with some one who has made the last campaign.”
Mimili bustled about. Presently she came to the door with a maple rod, having a small net fastened to the end of it, across her shoulder. “Will you come along with me to the trout-stream?” And away I tripped with her to the brook, which ran past the house, at the distance of eighty or a hundred paces. A small square open cistern, hewn out of the rock, and furnished with a close grate, for the passage of the water, contained many score of the liveliest fish. The water was as transparent as crystal, so that one might see the bottom. Here Mimili was again quite the playful girl. Had you seen her cowering on the margin of the cistern, crumbling bread into the water, whistling and talking to the trout, which darted like lightning to the surface, you could not have supposed her to be more than thirteen at the utmost. Dipping the net into the water, she took up at once as many fish as were sufficient for supper. In this operation, in spite of all her care, she wetted her fingers a little, and rompingly shook off the drops in my face. As soon as I could open my eyes after this unexpected salute, I took up as much water as I could hold in my hand, for the purpose of returning it with interest, when she bounded with her net, and the fish floundering in it, across the brook, over stock and stone, like a young chamois; and when she had got to some distance, she turned round, and pelted me with turnips, till she made me spill every drop of the water with which I was pursuing her.
It was not till I had given her a solemn promise not to resent the trick she had played me, that peace was restored between us. I carried her net, and we returned, laughing and joking, to the old man, who was amused by our frolics, and seemed to survey with peculiar complacency the lovely figure of the blooming girl.
Mimili hastened into the house to prepare supper. “How much you are to be envied the possession of such a daughter!” said I, observing the silent rapture with which his eyes hung upon her.
“Indeed, sir,” replied he, “a man who has such a child may well be envied. She is my only joy and my only pride. The years she passed at Zug were like ages to me and yet I am glad I sent her thither, for she learned something there, perhaps more than she will ever have occasion for. My neighbour, Mr. * * * *, is very fond of her”—(these words struck me breathless)—“he reads the ancient poets with her, and supplies her with new books and music. She draws and paints very prettily; and when she sings to me, and accompanies herself on the guitar, I feel as if nothing were wanting to my happiness in this world.”
The mention of the confounded neighbour had thrown such a weight upon my heart, that I scarcely attended to all that followed. Ten times was I on the point of asking who this neighbour was—his age—whether he was married, &c. &c.; but was checked by the reflection, that my host would not fail to discover, at the very first word, the drift of my inquiries.
Of this I was not myself thoroughly sensible till now. The mention of this neighbour occasioned the first pang that I had felt in Switzerland.
Mimili came, and brought the old Ryf wine, which her father had expressly ordered. We seated ourselves under a venerable walnut-tree, which three men could not have encompassed, and which overshadowed the whole house with its spreading branches.
I was quite uneasy—my cheerfulness was gone. Mimili could not be mine—that was clear enough: this unlucky neighbour stood in the way, with his new books and his ancient poets. The thought oppressed me, as though I was buried beneath an avalanche. At length I found a clue to conduct me out of the dark labyrinth of my gloomy forebodings.
“At the inn at Unterseen,” said I, trumping up a lie, with front of brass, “I met to-day with a genteel young man, who seemed to be well acquainted with this part of the country, well-informed and sociable, lively and polite. Could this have been the neighbour whom you mean?
I chuckled like a child at having hit upon such a happy idea; for it was impossible for either of them to discover, from this question, what I was driving at.
“No,” replied Mimili, with a smile; “that must have been a stranger. Neighbour * * * * is a man of sixty: father and he were boys together, and his wife was the bosom-friend of my late mother. It is a pity that they happen to be from home. They are people that you ought to see: indeed they are too good for this world.”
This explanation removed from my heart the intolerable weight by which it had been oppressed. I could once more breathe freely, and now I truly enjoyed the generous Ryf. Mimili placed herself opposite to me, and her father took his seat by my side. We chatted about the campaign, and I had to tell them about our loyal nation—how it boldly and unanimously rose to shake off a foreign yoke; how gallantly our unfledged youths combated the bearded and whiskered guards of our enemy; how our landwehr, though never in action before, stood like rocks amid the fire of the artillery; how our troops, frequently without firing a gun, advanced to the charge with fixed bayonets; how young heroines of unimpeachable character fought courageously under our banners; how tenderly our matrons and damsels nursed the sick and the wounded; how all classes of the nation voluntarily contributed whatever they possessed most valuable to promote the good cause; how the silver hair of our Marshal Forward was everywhere the banner of our victorious army; how our gallant king undauntedly faced death in every battle for the deliverance of his people, and three times in the course of that sanguinary campaign, at Culm, at Leipzig, and at Bar-sur-Aube, secured victory by his presence of mind, his intelligence, and his personal valour.
During my relation the tears stole from between the silken lashes of the susceptible girl; and when I had finished, her father rose, and drank prosperity to my king, my nation, and our victorious arms. He again replenished the glasses, and proposed my health; but Mimili declared she would not drink it till I had promised to stay at least a week with them. “You are the man for my father,” added she; “I have not seen him for a long time so happy as he is to-night.”
“Don’t talk of a week, Mimili,” said the old man: “if this gentleman should like to stay longer than that with us, surely you would not forbid him. When people are happy in each other’s company, they ought never to talk about parting.
My intimation that I should set out early next morning was rejected as wholly inadmissible.
We now went into the house to supper. I no longer felt myself a stranger, but like one of the family, and as if I had lived here from my infancy. Mimili had prepared a supper fit for a lord: the Côte wine, with which the father plied me with friendly hospitality, and the strong Vaux, which he brought after the cloth was removed, infused such a heat into my veins, that I seemed to be all on fire.
“Now,” said the old man to Mimili, as we rose from table, “you two shall take a walk to the little cascade: the dark basin into which the stream precipitates itself in foam has a singular appearance at night. I am tired, and shall go to bed; but don’t stay long, children, for it is already late.”
I observed, half in jest and half in earnest, that it was rather venturous to trust the girl with me alone.
He smiled. “That man, sir,” said he, with emphasis, “whose breast his king has adorned with this cross, a virtuous father may certainly trust with his virtuous daughter either by day or by night.”
The old man might indeed well talk thus coolly: he was past sixty, and he had only sipped at the wines, of which I had been led by thirst and hilarity to make copious libations. We wished him a good night, and away we went.
The evening was warm and delicious. All nature was hushed in solemn repose. The dew rested upon the herbage, from which balmy odours were wafted to us by gentle breezes, and the roaring of the cascade was heard in the distance. Before us, the head of the everlasting Jungfrau, magnificently tinged with a roseate hue, reared itself aloft in the dark concave of heaven. No pencil ever yet attempted a representation of this magical effect; how then can my feeble pen be so presumptuous? The radiant glow of evening had subsided: a faint light only glimmered in the west, and was wonderfully reflected by the topmost icy peaks of the stupendous Jungfrau, which seemed to have imbibed the fires of the departed sun, and to be pouring them forth again in a flood of pale rose-coloured effulgence.
I stood lost in the contemplation of this to me novel scene, and Mimili, with her eyes fixed on the brilliant Jungfrau, hung on my arm. “We will not go down into the basin,” said she softly; “it is cold, and dark, and gloomy there. Come with me to the seat where there is so much clover; there it is more cheerful and agreeable.”
We seated ourselves, and began to chat. She was so kind, so familiar, so confiding, that I was often tempted to imagine that I had an angel by my side.
She made me promise her—“merely for her father’s sake,” said the sly hussy—not to leave them in the morning, and then she became once more the lively romp, all fun and frolic. I suppose I had ventured a step beyond the line, for I cannot recollect exactly what I had done, owing to the powerful effect of the wine I had taken, when she caught hold of both my hands, pressed them to her bosom, and said, in a tone that might have melted the everlasting mountains which towered above us, “Don’t behave so; I am but a weak girl, and you are a strong man, with whom my father has trusted his maiden.” Throwing her left arm round me, she pressed the Iron Cross to her lips with the right, as the superstitious, when in imminent danger, would an amulet. It would be impossible to express how much the self-denial cost me: I sat upon the granite seat like St. Laurence on his gridiron.
It was not till this moment that I was aware what an insurmountable bar the old man had placed before me with his cross.
In this manner we chatted for about a couple of hours, enveloped in the mantle of night, and then returned home. Mimili conducted me to my chamber, but I felt not the least inclination to sleep. Taking the candle in my hand, I examined the valuable drawings, engravings, and pictures, with which the walls, like those of Mimili’s cabinet on the Alp, were hung. I turned to the book-case, which was filled from top to bottom with select and costly works; among the rest, all the ancient classics, and the most eminent modern publications in botany and natural history. On the pianoforte lay a guitar, and the latest productions of the first composers of the present day. All this, however, had but little effect on me; and it was nearly morning before I was sufficiently composed to betake myself to my solitary bed.
Next morning, when I rose, Mimili was up. She bade me good morning, and called me a sluggard. She had already dispatched a messenger to my fellow-traveller, with a letter, in which, without having said a word to me about the matter, she intimated that I intended to meet him in a week at Schwytz.
After breakfast, which we took with the father under the walnut-tree, two horses were led out. Mimili mounted one, and I the other; and away we rode, to enjoy the delightful morning. She wished to make me acquainted with the whole country round her native place; and she assured me, that if I were to live there for ten years together, she could every day show me fresh scenes, every one of which I should think more beautiful than all the preceding.
On horseback a new charm was diffused over this extraordinary girl. On the brink of the most frightful precipices, along which the animal, accustomed to these romantic tracks, cautiously proceeded with his lovely burden, Mimili sat with perfect negligence and ease, as though flying over abysses of such tremendous depth that the eye could not discover the bottom. If the beast were to make but one false step, the angelic girl must inevitably perish. I durst not look down into the dark ravines, where the loftiest pines appeared no taller than a gooseberry bush, and the cottages of the inhabitants no bigger than children’s card-houses. I turned giddy with looking down into the immeasurable depth, where an impetuous torrent roared along its rocky channel, and fixed my eyes in silent confidence on my adventurous guide, who paused at intervals, to admire the glory of the morning and the rich and diversified scenery of nature.
About nine o’clock we dismounted. Mimili had brought with her a sandwich and a bottle of red Corteillod in the pocket of her saddle. We sat down on the turf, beside a limpid stream, in the shade of a grove of walnut-trees. She poured out the sparkling beverage into a silver goblet, and, with a thousand jokes and gambols, we emptied the bottle, and rested ourselves on the sweet grass. Not a creature in the wide world could enjoy a repast more than I did this. The whole atmosphere was an ocean of perfumes, wafted from innumerable flowers of all colours around us; the crystal stream murmured at our feet; there was not a human eye in the whole valley to overlook us; and the umbrageous roof formed over our heads by the overarching boughs of the venerable walnut-tree was so thick, that the sun himself could not peep through it.
Sportive zephyrs, born in the cups of the flowers that enamelled the pastures, and wafted to us by a gentle western breeze, played with her locks, her ribands, and the handkerchief that covered her bosom, and most distinctly whispered me to do the same. Mimili, however, aware that I was not a sportive zephyr, rapped my knuckles for me, and poutingly mounted her horse.
The heavenly moments were fled, and I had enough to do to appease the offended fair-one. “I never felt such kindness for any body as for you,” said she, giving me at the same time a most angry look; “but then you must behave accordingly, otherwise I shall never trust myself alone with you again. I shall cry, to be sure, when I am in my valleys without you; but if you mean to go on as you have done last night and this morning, the sooner the mountains are between us the better.”
I rode along behind her as still as a mouse, like Sancho after the sound dressing which he deservedly received from his master; and it was a long—long while before she held her hand behind her, saying, in a kind tone, but without turning round, “You are not angry, I hope.” I sprang from my horse, seized her hand, and pressed it fervently to my lips: her good humour returned, and she patted my cheeks with playful innocence.
We were just then on the summit of a hill. As I walked along by her side, another of those frolicsome zephyrs overtook us, and, more audacious than his brethren in the valley, he seemed determined to play his wanton pranks with Mimili’s plaited petticoat. “Come up to me,” said she, “for I shall sit better”—a mere pretext to prevent me from seeing any more of the freaks of the amorous wind. I accordingly sprang up behind her, and we proceeded merrily home. I laid all the blame of my offence on the fiery Corteillod. “Oh,” replied she, laughing, “there is a remedy for that! Drink water! We have the finest in the world, and plenty of it; so that you need never be at a loss.”
If we had a lordly dinner the preceding day, we had a princely entertainment on this. The old man, with genuine Swiss hospitality, produced his best wine, and we chatted away one of the most delicious hours over an abundant and elegant dessert. There were the finest southern fruits, various sorts of confectionery, the rarest dessert wines, and pine-apple ice—in short, nothing was wanting to gratify the palate even of a professed epicure.
We took coffee under the walnut-tree in front of the house. Mimili’s numerous subjects assembled at her feet—turkeys, ducks, geese, hens, doves, of all sorts and colours. All eyes were fixed upon their queen; and in a hundred different languages, the variegated favourites gabbled, cackled, quacked, crowed, and cooed their delight on beholding their lovely mistress, who, with bountiful hand, distributed the golden grain among the innocent courtiers.
I had seen poultry fed a hundred—nay, a thousand times; but whoever had seen Mimili in this animated circle could not but have been enchanted with her humour, her sprightliness, her happy knack of extracting pleasure from the simplest office and occupation. She talked the Swiss Patois with the faithful companions of her calm domestic life, and unluckily I did not understand a tenth part of what she said. She made herself, however, perfectly intelligible to the animals: the chickens, attracted by the melody of her voice, came close to her, and pecked out of her hand; the loquacious ducks waddled 
Mimili feeding Poultry. up, and related to her all that had passed in the poultry-yard during the last four and twenty hours; and the pigeons fluttered about her head. Mimili said something kind to each of them, called many by their names, scolded such as were greedy, and caressed those which waited with patience till it came to their turn to be served.
Mimili then sat down, after some persuasion, to the pianoforte. I threw myself into a corner of the sofa, and silently admired her fluency and the delicacy of her touch. She first played a very difficult sonata, and then digressing from the theme of the sonata to a fantasia of her own, she lost herself in the boundless spaces of harmony. Now the instrument poured forth a powerful volume of wild sounds; presently the strain changed to a simple pastoral song; and again the soul of the lovely performer poured itself forth in a tender adagio. She ceased, and, still seated before the instrument, she hung her head, and played with the gold chains of her corset. With a heart full of the melancholy of her concluding adagio, I rose and went to her. Her large blue eyes were filled with tears. “What is the matter?” I softly asked, and kissed the hand which had produced tones so sweet from the rigid strings. “Why do you weep, Mimili?”
She shook her head, and smiled through her tears, with a look of mingled kindness and sorrow.
“Why these tears, my Mimili? Speak! May I not know the cause?”
“You would not understand me,” answered she, after a considerable pause, with downcast look. Her full heart now overflowed, and she sobbed aloud.
“Dearest Mimili! what ails you? Tell me, I beseech you.”
“You would not understand me,” repeated she, “and I have nobody to whom I can tell it. This,” pointing to the pianoforte, “knows my sorrows, and has answered me.”
“Don’t laugh at me, sir,” she proceeded, after a short pause; “I am a girl—a silly girl, that have my dreams. Now I have had my cry out, I shall be easier.”
I partly understood her, for I was not vain enough to comprehend her whole meaning. She went up to her room, to wash her eyes with fresh spring-water, lest her father might observe that she had been weeping; while I, overpowered with rapture, began to have a glimpse of the bliss that awaited me.
“Mimili mine!” These two words comprised the sum and substance of my earthly felicity. No sooner were these two words associated together in the recesses of my soul—for as yet they had not escaped my lips—than I made up my mind to offer my hand to no other female in the wide world than to this angelic creature.
Mimili was fond of me! I had abundant assurance of that. For so holy a love as dwelt in Mimili’s virgin bosom no word in our poor language was sufficiently expressive. Could I not speak that very moment? Such were my meditations as I paced the floor. I still heard in imagination the soft tones of her adagio.
“But” Alas! how this provoking but poisons every enjoyment during our pilgrimage through this world! But will Mimili be willing to quit the paradise of her home to accompany me? Will she, who has grown up here, among the flowers of her pastures, be able to live in those sandy plains where the stunted heath can scarcely gain nourishment? Will she there find any thing to compensate for the loss of the thousand natural beauties which attach her to this spot? Will this heart—this poor heart alone—indemnify her for her separation from all she loves? Will her father assent to the removal of this girl, the joy of his old age, into our deserts? Will not Mimili be obliged to exchange her corset, her plaited petticoat, and all her native paraphernalia, for the French costumes which fashion has forced upon us? Will she not, with her Swiss apparel, throw off also her Swiss simplicity? Will the free maiden of the Alps be able to accommodate herself to the restraints of our way of life? Will she not wish herself back out of our still and formal circles, which are frequently held together only by the red and black pips on fifty-two cards, with her frolicsome kids and lambkins, her gabbling ducks and geese, and her cooing doves? Will she”
I should have stumbled upon a hundred more such “Will she’s?” had not a servant just then entered to inform me that supper was on the table.
Mimili too must have been meanwhile holding a soliloquy, which probably began with “Will he?” for she was serious and reserved.
It was not till her father inquired if any thing ailed her, that she made an effort to resume her accustomed cheerfulness, and to joke with him and me: but I was more sharp-sighted than the old man; I could see to the very bottom of her pure soul, and I cast into it the anchor of my hopes.
“To the seat where there is so much clover,” I softly whispered to her after supper. She nodded assent with a smile, and fetched her guitar. “Father,” said she, “the gentleman is fond of the bench where we sat last night; I will sing him to sleep there, and then I’ll chain him, and make him stay with us till the clover has done blossoming.”
The old man laughed, and we walked arm in arm to the seat. Mimili touched, unsolicited, the strings of her guitar, and sang the sweetest of her native songs. It was as though not a leaf stirred—as if the flowers raised their dewy heads to listen to the enchanting tones of her melodious voice. I was thrilled with transport; I moved nearer to her, and when quite close, she still seemed to be too far from me.
“This morning,” said she, “long before you were up, I was abroad. I taught all the rocks round about your name, that they may be able to repeat it to me when you are gone; then I shall have something to talk to me about you when I am alone. I will tell you now why I wept, and why I was so low-spirited at the beginning of supper. When you are gone—but perhaps it is wrong for me to tell you, and yet there is no harm in it, and it seems to me as if you ought to know all I think and feel—when you are gone, I shall have nothing worth living for. I dare not tell father so; he will say, ‘Have you not your cattle and your aulis, your kids and your doves, your Alps and your flowers?’—Very true; but I have not any one to call me his little Mimili, to chat and toy with me, and to tell me, a hundred times a day, that he is fond of me.—You will be far—far away, and not a creature in the whole world will think of poor little Mimili in her solitary mountains. My spirit will fly over them after you, and they will bury me under the cold rocks. It was this that came into my mind yesterday, at dusk, when I played to you, and my heart overflowed, so that I could not help weeping. Now I am easier; and I have been able to tell you that which, I know not why, I could not then, on any account, have brought across my lips. But now you know this, if you really love me as dearly as you say, and as I would fain believe you do, you will stay here a week longer than you have promised—won’t you? I will do all that lies in my power to please you, but then you must stay another week; indeed you must. Recollect, when that is gone, we shall never—never see each other again—and what is one short week to a whole life!”
“Mimili!” said I, “my own dear Mimili! how, if we were to remain together for good?”
“How for good?” asked she, in a mild but serious tone, as if she were alarmed, and suspected the drift of the question which her wishes had suggested.
“Mimili, pronounce my sentence,” said I, with feelings more serious and solemn than I had ever before experienced. “If you could read my heart as plainly as I can yours, you would then know what I hope you now believe, that my views with respect to you are honourable; that I love you above every thing in the world; that I cannot live without you; and that I swear, by the Almighty God, to be faithful to you till death. Be mine, Mimili; be my beloved wife!”
Mimili looked stedfastly at me, and laughed. “Surely you must have lost your wits, sir,” cried she. “What could you do with a silly girl from the Alps in your fine city? What would your generous maids and matrons say, if you were to carry home one who has done nothing—nothing at all, for your king and country—one who is not acquainted with your ways and manners—one who knows nothing but her love to you. Here you like me because you see no others: but wait till you get home; when they come out to meet you with the ringing of bells and the merry dance, and the maidens bring you their thanks with tears in their eyes, myrtle garlands in their hands, and loving hearts in their bosoms, oh, then you will cease to think of me! Reserve yourself, sir, for those for whom your heart’s blood has flowed—for the daughters of your country; not for the shepherd-girl of foreign Switzerland. And then, do you suppose my father would let me go? Why, his heart would break if I were to cross the mountains, and not to come back again. Could I be easy in your crowded streets, when I knew that the old man was pining all alone at home? or could you part for ever from your illustrious king, whom you have sworn to serve, and your great nation, for whose welfare you have braved death, to dwell here, in a country where you would never feel at home? Would my love, infinite as it is, always suffice to fill up your solitary existence here? No, sir,” concluded she, while tears started into her eyes; “no: this flattering dream I have abandoned; for I may now confess that I have dreamt it too. I had built upon it the fondest wishes of my heart; but all—all have sunk into an unfathomable abyss, to perish for ever! For ever! My friend, my dear friend, that thought is terrible!”
“To-morrow,” replied I, moved to the bottom of my soul by this address, “I will speak to your father.”
Now that I had the confession of her love, no power on earth could have parted me from this angel. We formed a hundred plans, and relinquished them all. We sat till late on the bench, happier than many a monarch on his throne. As we went home, she repeated my name to the mountains, that, as she said, they might not forget it. I called her name, which the rocks beyond the clover-pastures re-echoed four, five, and even six times; at first distinctly, Mimili, then mili and ili, till at last li, li, li, alone faintly resounded in the distance.
“You have no mountains,” said she, with a sorrowful smile: “when you call my name in your country, the wind that sweeps your plains will blow it away; nothing will repeat my name to you, and you will forget me: while the confidants of my secret, the friends of my youth, my mountains, which you have seen, which know you, which have witnessed the happy hours we have spent together, will sympathize in my sorrows, and answer me, when, in the anguish of my solitude, I ask them your name.” Once more, in silver tones, she called my name to the rocks that towered to the skies; she listened for the sound, which they returned as melodiously as they had received it. It was as though a being from another sphere was speaking to us from above; so widely and so sweetly rung the accents pronounced by Mimili to her native mountains.
On reaching the house, we sat for above an hour. I had complained by the way of thirst; she went herself, and fetched ice-cold water from the spring, squeezed lemon-juice into it, cut slices of pine-apple into the glass, sweetened it with sugar, added a little wine, and thus prepared an exquisite beverage, which we drank together.
When I rose in the morning, Mimili was already gone; whether to her mountains, her cows, her fish, her doves, or her flowers, I cannot tell. I was glad of it, for I was in a very serious mood, and she would only have disturbed me with her playful pranks. I was arranging in my mind the harangue which I should address to the old man to solicit the hand of his daughter. It was impossible he could refuse it, for I attacked him in his weakest points. I anticipated his objections, and answered them all so triumphantly, that he could resist no longer, and at length went and fetched his enchanting Mimili, and resigned her to my arms. I stood with my face towards the window, and was rehearsing, in an under-tone, the speech by which this effect was to be produced, when a loud laugh behind me all at once snapped the thread of my oration. It was Mimili, who had slipped softly into the room without shoes, and overheard great part of my harangue, though not understood its purport.
The morning air had heightened the bloom of her colour; her blue eyes glistened like two morning-stars, and a nosegay of the sweetest wild flowers adorned her bosom. She presented me a handful of the finest strawberries, which she had just picked, and asked what I had been preaching about so pathetically? I clasped the enchanting creature in my arms, and silently implored the blessing of Heaven on my purpose, concerning which I said not a syllable to her; for, confident as I had felt of success but a moment before, now in her presence, I began to conceive it possible that fate might not have destined such a prize for me, and that her father, on hearing my overtures, might reply to them with an overwhelming “No.”
The old man listened to what I had to say, half-smilingly and half-seriously. He then took me cordially by the hand. “I feel exceedingly obliged to you, sir,” said he, “for the honour you do the girl and me. That you are fond of her is no news to me. I could perceive it the very first night. I know, too, that Mimili has no dislike to you. With your person, sir, I have no fault to find; and from what you have said respecting your circumstances, I infer that you can support a wife, even though she brought you nothing, which, thank God! is not the case here. At the same time, sir, your love for the girl is two days old; I have loved her these sixteen years. You must be aware that it would be painful to me to part from my only darling, to see her cross the mountains to your country, and to stay here alone with my herds till God shall please to take me. He has blessed my Alps, so that, were even Mimili to give me a son-in-law without a shilling, there would still be sufficient here to maintain both. I have always clung with peculiar fondness to the idea that Mimili would abide with me in my declining years, and close my eyes: you overthrow my plan; for the wife ought to follow the husband, and I cannot expect you to remain here, for you belong to your country and your king. Still I am ready to sacrifice the dearest wishes of my heart; when I am satisfied that God hath chosen you for my girl, I will not stand in the way of your happiness. In your country there are excellent people, whom I love and respect, and who will no doubt be kind to Mimili. I will visit you there; you shall come hither, and bring my grandchildren along with you; and thus our parting will not be so painful as it would otherwise prove. And when I am no more, and you are grown older, and your strength declines, so that you can no longer be useful to your country, then you and Mimili may settle here with your family, and calmly await your last hour, because I should not like my Alps to be transferred to strangers; and it is much better, I should think, to die in one of our peaceful dales than in a great city. This, sir, is what I have already been thinking; only I am not sure that you are the man whom God has destined for my girl. Mimili has never seen any one but you. Perhaps it is on this account that she loves you. Go, therefore, in peace. There are in our canton and in those adjoining to it many young men of respectable families, to one or the other of whom I could have no objection as a suitor for the maiden. I will consult my old neighbour on the matter; Mimili shall have opportunities of seeing and becoming acquainted with them; and if at the expiration of a year her affection for you remains unchanged, and you return to demand her, I will with pleasure give my blessing to your union. But now, sir, your hand and your word of honour, that you will neither acquaint Mimili with the subject of this conversation, nor seek to obtain any promise from her, that she may not consider herself engaged to you, but remain free, as a Swiss maiden ought, who has not plighted her troth to any man. Meanwhile I shall throw no obstacles in your way, but leave every thing to God, whose dispensations are always for the best.”
I wish I had had a mirror in my hand, that I might have seen the face I made at this declaration. I am certain it must have been an immensely long one.
In prescribing a year of probation, was the father in real earnest, or was it a mere stratagem to get me quietly to the other side of the mountains, and then to chaffer away Mimili’s hand to some Swiss bumpkin, whom he had already in petto, and who could throw into the scale as many Alps and cows as the old fellow possessed?
That opposition would be of no avail, I was thoroughly convinced by his firmness. My own feelings moreover told me, that in this case importunity was not to be resorted to; that a father was by no means to blame for not giving a daughter, like Mimili, in marriage to the first stroller that presented himself—to one with whom he had been acquainted scarcely twice twenty-four hours, and of whom he knew nothing but that his proposed son-in-law had an excellent appetite and a good income. The old man had dealings with commercial houses at Berne, and these corresponded with others in my country: it was therefore possible that he wished to make farther inquiries concerning me; and knowing, as I did, that the result would not be to my disadvantage, I could not blame him for this precaution.
“It is hard,” replied I, frankly and honestly, after a short struggle with myself; “it is hard to quit Mimili till I have received her plighted troth; but such is your pleasure. A good son ought always to obey a good father. Let a hundred suitors solicit the maiden’s hand,—if Mimili loves me as dearly—no, that she never can—if she loves me but half as dearly as I love her, I need not be afraid of the result. Here are my hand and my word, that I will not seek to obtain any formal promise from her behind your your back; but you must assure me, on your part, that you will not give her to another till I have seen her again. If God grants me life, I will be with you again in a year; then Mimili may decide in your presence and your good neighbour’s, as befits a free Swiss girl. Will you promise this?”
The old man silently nodded assent, and gave me his hand.
“Now,” continued I, “it is impossible for me to conceal from her how matters stand between us: a man ought not to have any secrets with the female to whom he purposes to consign his happiness, his children, and himself. You must therefore allow me to inform her of your intentions, and how you mean to act in regard to her during the ensuing year, and to request her not to dispose of herself till my return, at the expiration of the period which you have fixed. This is no engagement. Do you agree to this?”
After some consideration, he replied: “Be it so then! and I protest to you, that I know of none whom I should like so well for a son-in-law as you; though I must own that I cannot exactly reconcile myself to the idea of your taking my only child away from me and my native valleys.”
The few days that I afterwards spent in those to me ever-memorable valleys, were days of the purest bliss. No seraphs can live more joyously, more innocently, more happily, than I and Mimili. The old man—I must do him the justice to say—manifested the same unbounded confidence as before. He let us stroll out alone together when and where we pleased, and do in every respect just as we thought proper.
Mimili laughed heartily, and clapped her little hands, when I told her about the probationary year, and the troops of Swiss lads who would flock to her from all the neighbouring cantons.
“That will be quite a treat for me,” replied she. “I shall need a little change; for solitude, I think, will be oppressive to me when you are gone. I must be civil to all, as hospitality requires, and this is a point that father particularly insists on; but, in the character that you mean, not one of them shall come near me. Be not gloomy and melancholy before the time, my dear friend; in the hour of parting we will weep together, but till then let us be merry. This year is, after all, but a year: the sixteen that I have lived have seemed, even without you, like so many days: when I have you in my heart the time will appear still shorter; for now I have a deal—a great deal, to think about and to arrange. All that vexes me is, that in the mean time I shall grow a whole year older; and when you come back I may perhaps not be so handsome as you now think me. Look you, sir; if that were the case, I could cry my eyes out: for to suppose you could forget me in a year, ’tis impossible—is it not, my first, my dear, my only friend, impossible? You declared that you would love me faithfully; and when you said so, you laid your hand upon your heart. I am sure you cannot deceive me. No, no; he who has risked his life for all that is most sacred to men—for truth and justice—he cannot stoop to a lie—cannot prove false to an innocent maiden—no, he cannot. It would certainly break my heart, and I should pine myself away till God called me to my poor mother, who loved truly and was truly loved in return, and who now sleeps in the peaceful grave. Don’t serve me so; that would bring you no blessing!”
“No,” added she, after a pause, smiling through her tears, “no, I will not doubt. I have been a silly girl. I shall sorrow after you, like my aulis after their mothers, when they are kept in the pens, while the mothers are gone to pasture. But you will return like them—you will certainly return; and that you will return in the same sentiments you now profess—O sir! if you wish me to be quite easy, assure me of that with an oath. Place the three middle fingers of your right hand on my left breast, beneath which the heart of your maiden beats and will ever beat for you alone, and swear love and constancy to me, and I will put my trust in you, as in my God.” Upon that pure altar of innocence, I swore love and constancy till death, and a long fervent embrace sealed the solemn oath. From that moment Mimili became in reality my bride.
At length the dreaded morning arrived. When I took leave of the father, “God be with you!” said he, pressing my hand with deep emotion, “and return at the appointed time as my son, unless meanwhile my girl change her mind; of which I should, of course, inform you. Let us hear from you frequently, and keep a pure heart in your bosom; for such alone is pleasing to the Almighty. May he conduct you safely to your own country, and bless you, and your king, and your nation, for ever and ever!”
Mimili accompanied me almost as far as Lauterbrunn. She had, during the last days, striven with all her might to appear calm and cheerful; but now her fortitude was at an end. I perceived at breakfast that her eyes were red with weeping; and when we were taking a parting glass, she turned pale. Before she could raise her glass to her lips, she was obliged to set it down again, and burst into tears. Now she hung in silence on my arm; the pearly drops glistened on her silken lashes, as she listened to the best consolations I had to offer. We sent forward the man who carried my things, with directions to wait for me at Lauterbrunn, and seated ourselves on a mossy mass of rock in the shade of a venerable beech. She promised to have her portrait painted, and to send it to me. She begged me not to make the parting scene long, otherwise she was afraid she should be too much affected to be able to return. “My limbs will scarcely support me,” said she, in broken accents, “and my heart is ready to burst. I cannot weep now; but when you are gone God will give me tears, so that I shall not be quite alone.” I was myself so overpowered with the pain of parting and the grief of my beloved Mimili, that I could not find words to give vent to the feelings of my oppressed heart.
Mimili drew from the sweet recess of her chaste bosom a simple blue flower. “Take this,” said she, “and let it remind you of me. We call it man’s-truth.[1] I picked it this morning at the foot of the seat where there is so much clover. And now farewell, my only love till death. God above be witness that I never will forget you! I love you more than my own life. Ah! now I can weep again. I am happy—inexpressibly happy. My eye overlooks the short space of a year, and my heart anticipates the exquisite delight of our reunion. Here the faithful maiden will await her own true lover. Now farewell, farewell!”
She sunk exhausted in my arms; she clasped me in her embrace. A long—long kiss succeeded: it was the last. I descended into the valley, and Mimili retraced her steps up the hills covered with wood, which concealed her from my view, towards her native mountains. On an open spot I beheld her once more waving her white handkerchief, kissing her hand, and extending her arms towards the valley, in allusion to our meeting again.
Thus far the story of my happy friend, in which I have no farther share than the pleasure of relating it, and vexation at not having to relate it of myself. Mimili has sent him her portrait; and since I have seen it, I forgive him for the neglect of all his old acquaintance since his return from Switzerland, and for being able to think and talk of nothing but his Mimili.
The letters with which she gratifies him every week are always very long; some passages, which he has read me as a mark of especial favour, confirm what he had previously told me of her childlike simplicity, her excellent understanding, her delicate sensibility, and her literary and scientific attainments, to which, between ourselves, I was rather loath to give credit. Thus what he said, for example, concerning her botanical knowledge, and her acquaintance with the ancient classics, seemed to me to be gratuitous embellishment; but I have seen with my own eyes, in her letters, specimens of flowers, which she transmitted to my friend, that her doubts relative to their names might be solved by our botanists. I have also seen in them highly appropriate quotations from Homer and Virgil, and particularly from Ovid, with reference to the pain occasioned by their separation; so that I can no longer question the veracity of his statement.
The probationary year is nearly over. Many suitors have presented themselves from far and near. Mimili’s descriptions of these wooers are unique in their kind; a vein of the keenest satire, mingled with the greatest good-nature, runs through every line. Their overtures, as might be foreseen, were all rejected; and there was now no obstacle to the accomplishment of the mutual wishes of the lovers. I had received a formal invitation to the nuptials, when the fiend broke loose from the Isle of Elba, and duty once more called my friend to the field.
Whoever feels interested in the fate of Mimili, pray for her; and whoever meanwhile visits the valley of Lauterbrunn—it is impossible to miss the lonely and scarcely beaten path which leads up on the left to her flowery Alp—and sees the lovely maiden before I do, salute her cordially from me.
Thus far I had written in May 1815.
My friend, as mentioned above, had again joined the banners of his king. Before his departure he wrote to Mimili. For the greater security, he arranged that all letters should pass through my hands. Those which I received from Mimili I had opportunities of sending to him, every week, by the couriers dispatched to his corps; and by the same channel his reached me, to be forwarded to Mimili. The route which this correspondence had to travel was indeed very circuitous; but the direct communication between the canton of Berne and the Netherlands, where my friend William was quartered, was cut off; and thus I had the gratification of receiving many a line myself from the lovely girl. This pleasure, however, was not of long duration. Nearly at the same time letters ceased to arrive from either.
William’s silence was soon accounted for in the way I had feared. The covenant of love, which chance had concluded on the mountains of Switzerland, was destined to be dissolved in the plains of Waterloo. The whole Prussian army, with our gallant old marshal at their head, had marched to meet the foe, as though death had no terrors for them. Thousands upon thousands had fallen, and among them William. Two of his friends saw him sink from his horse, his head and breast streaming with blood. The animal, also mortally wounded, reared, and in falling covered his master.
The regiment, being commanded to charge, had rushed impetuously on the guards of the Corsican. It had already broken their ranks, and our brave fellows were cutting them down without mercy. They had no time to think of what was behind them. Prodigious masses of cavalry and horse-artillery followed to support the regiment, and such of the fallen as had not been killed outright were now trodden and trampled to death.
For days and weeks I delayed the communication of this melancholy intelligence to the unfortunate Mimili; and yet it was a duty that must be performed some time or other. At length I sat down, with a heavy heart, to write to her old neighbour, with a view that he might break the matter to her by degrees, when a letter from him was put into my hands.
Mimili was ill. Anxiety for the safety of William, from whom she had not heard so long, and grief together, had broken her heart. It was very doubtful, so the old man wrote, whether my answer would find her among the living; but yet he entreated me to communicate such information as I possessed, be it ever so unfavourable; it would serve to smooth her passage to the grave, and, of course, be a real benefit conferred on her.
That faculty of the soul which we call presentiment was demonstrated in this case with astonishing clearness. Mimili knew for certain, according to the old man’s letter, that William was dead. “From the moment that hostilities commenced,” he proceeded, “she ordered all the German and French newspapers that are to be procured at Berne. The best maps of France, Germany, and the Netherlands, were hung in her chamber. She followed the movements of the armies with increasing anxiety, for she perceived that they were daily approaching nearer to each other. Whenever the weather permitted, she ascended her Alp as high as she could for the snow, and turning towards the quarter where her lover then was, she poured forth the prayers of her agonized heart to that God who dwelleth high above the mountains. Here I once saw her unobserved: she loudly pronounced the name of her William, but no friendly echo returned the silver tones of her voice. ‘He hears me not!’ said she sorrowfully; and suppressing the tears that started into her eyes, returned to her father’s lonely habitation; saluting, by the way, those spots which had witnessed the happy hours she had spent with her beloved.
“My wife, deeply grieved to see the sorrowing maiden thus pining away, found fault with William for sacrificing the angelic creature. ‘He had already done his duty,’ she once began, ‘and now he might have staid at home, and let others take their turn. In a few weeks the year will be at an end; every thing is prepared and arranged; the maiden is waiting for him with throbbing heart, and instead of hastening into the arms of love, he marches away against the French banditti: no, Mimili—to be quite plain with you, I don’t approve his conduct.’
“‘Do you suppose, Mrs. Trini,’ replied she, eyeing my wife with evident displeasure, that William could have acted otherwise than he did? When the whole nation again rose with one accord; when the high and the mighty girt on their swords, to chastise the rebel crew with whom God himself is wroth; when the colours again waved, upon which my William swore to devote his blood and his life to his illustrious king; when the ends of their fluttering ribands pointed the way to where the brooks should be turned to pitch and the earth to brimstone; when old Blucher, under whom William had before fought and bled, again briskly mounted his charger, and all the maidens and matrons loudly wept the departure of those they love;—do you imagine that William could have staid behind? and if he had, do you suppose I should have loved and respected him as I now do? “The wife should follow the husband,” says the Scripture. My home is no longer here. With those to whom William will take me, I will share joy and grief, honour and shame, prosperity and adversity. Good Mrs. Trini, yonder sit many a faithful wife, and many a virtuous maiden, with anxious hearts and wet eyes, fixed on that point to which mine are directed. I will pray to God, that when the angel of death spreads his wings over the field of battle, my William may not perish. No, he will not perish. The Almighty will hear my prayer, for I have never offended him.’
“After this reproof, my wife durst never utter another syllable in disparagement of William.
“When, however, accounts arrived of the three bloody days near Waterloo, and no letters reached her from William, the anchor of her faith was broken. Inexpressible anguish drove her to the topmost crags of the rocks, and into the most gloomy abysses: she would not confess that she had lost her confidence in God; and yet her pallid face, her look of settled melancholy, and her predilection for the profoundest solitude, announced that her fortitude was gone. The entreaties of her father, and the consolations which my wife and I offered, were of no avail.
“‘Let me alone,’ said she, with cutting coldness. ‘I shall not be long in your way. That which has life perishes; that which has not, endures for ever. Such is the pleasure of Him whom short-sighted mortals name the Father of Love. Yon cold glaciers have beheld for thousands of years the omnipotence of the Eternal, and will subsist for thousands of years to come in their awful magnificence; but the faithful heart of my noble William beats no more. Tell me not, I beseech you, of the rewards of the righteous. God hath seen my ways, and remembered all my steps. There was nothing impure within me, and yet the anger of the Unsearchable presses me down to the dust, as though I were the most heinous of offenders. I weep not; for I am strong, and will bid defiance to the tempest that is bursting over me. I will be greater than my misery—William too was great. He fell for his king and country, and his name will live in the annals of his nation for ever and ever.—My breath is feeble, and my days are few. What have I here to tarry for? I am hastening to that bourn whence no traveller returns.’
“In this state of mind she bore up for about a week, when she was seized with a violent fever, and we are now in hourly expectation of her dissolution.
“She has become tranquil and resigned. This morning she beckoned me to come to her bedside. ‘Though,’ said she, ‘I have arraigned the dispensations of the Almighty, he hath not forsaken me: he hath inclined his ear, and listened to my prayers. My eyes grow dim—my days are numbered—the last will speedily arrive—the God of mercy will support me in my final hour. I feel perfectly easy; the night of death has for me no terrors. The Alps will soon glow, and the sun, the moon, and the stars, shine far—far beneath me; and I shall rejoin my dear mother and my William, and on his bosom enjoy the transports of love to all eternity. Amen! amen!’ added she faintly, folding her hands, and dissolving in tears.”
“Amen! amen!” I repeated, not with dry eyes, after the lovely sufferer, and dispatched my letter, with the melancholy intelligence of the death of my gallant friend to Mimili’s worthy neighbour. In about a month I received one, the direction of which was in his hand-writing. I had not the heart to break the seal. I knew perfectly well the purport of its contents—Mimili’s last hours, the anguish of her agonized father, and the affliction of their old friend and his wife.
Angry with fate for summoning away such a being as Mimili in the flower of life, and dooming so amiable a creature as my friend William, in the prime of manhood, to the most deplorable death, I at length opened the letter, and read as follows:—
“MY DEAR SIR,
“You will take it for granted that I am by this time among the angels in heaven; but I am still in my lovely Switzerland, and happier than any of the angels, for William lives in my arms.”
I know not how it happened, but my eyes were brimful when I took up the letter and broke the seal; the writing seemed to swim before me, so that I could not believe my senses when I beheld these lines, and at the end of the long epistle the name of Mimili plainly subscribed.
Trembling with joy, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and ran hastily over the letter;—it was actually so—Mimili and William were both alive and well.
William’s story was very brief. He knew not what had befallen him immediately after his wound, excepting that he had lain bleeding profusely, and quite insensible, under his horse. It was the middle of the night before he came to himself. His first question to a wounded comrade who lay next to him was, whether the enemy were beaten? and when this was answered by a cheering “Yes,” he inquired which way they had fled? “Towards Paris,” answered an unfortunate fellow-sufferer, whose legs had been shot off. It was not till then that he became sensible, with gratitude to the Almighty, that he had still both his legs: his right hand was lamed by the fall; he had a sabre wound in his head, a ball in his breast, and Mimili in his heart.
As soon as he was able to rise, he turned off to the left, with the intention of making the best of his way to Switzerland, that he might be nursed by Mimili. He proceeded twelve miles that night, and in the morning sunk down exhausted near a small town. A miller passed with his team. William mustered his last remains of strength and self-possession to offer the man all the money he had about him, if he would convey him to Unterseen, in the canton of Berne, intending to be forwarded on horseback from that place to Mimili’s Alp. The miller, after some demur and calculation, assented, and William’s senses again forsook him.
“From this time,” continues Mimili, in her letter, “William knew nothing, but that he was carried a long, infinitely long way, in a waggon, the bottom of which was covered with straw; that he was pitied by strange faces; and that his wounds were dressed by unfeeling surgeons. Whether his insensibility was owing to fever, or to excessive loss of blood, or to the particular effect of the wound in the head, he cannot tell: in short, he has no distinct idea of what happened to him; he only knows thus much, that when he came a little to himself, he found that he was not in the arms of his Mimili, but in a bed at Freiburg, in Breisgau, belonging to a humane man, in whose care the miller had left him, because he could not be conveyed farther without the greatest danger. The Freiburger and his wife and family treated the stranger like the compassionate Samaritan. William, after a long struggle, recovered, and proceeded to Thun; whence he crossed the lake, and hastened to the abode of his faithful Mimili.
“The same day that our good neighbour last wrote to you,” continued she, “I lay in tranquil expectation of my release from this world. It grew dusk—the gloom of the grave encompassed me—I had taken leave of my father, and closed my eyes—the chill of death pervaded my whole frame—my soul longed to wing its flight to happier regions, and in a sort of trance I beheld the dawn of everlasting glory, when I heard his voice. He called me softly by my name. I imagined that I had already quitted a world which had no charms for me, and that an angel had brought my William to meet and welcome me at the gates of celestial bliss.
“But again he pronounced my name; his voice was of earthly tone, and I felt the soft kisses of his warm lips on my cold hand. My eyes opened—I awoke from my swoon—William was kneeling by my bed, and big tears trickled down his pale cheeks. Ah, sir! no language can describe what I felt at this sight. ‘She lives!’ he exclaimed, clasping me in his arms; and I raised myself up, but could not speak for astonishment and joy. All I could do was to strain him to my heart, the suspended pulsations of which began to be renewed, and tears, the most delicious I ever shed, trickled from my eyes. But the excess of my felicity was too great—my feelings were too overpowering—joy threw me into—I know not what else to call it, than a heavenly trance. With his image in my mind, I slumbered, as it were, in a state between life and death; and on awaking from it, my senses returned—the crisis of my disorder was past—God had cured me by means of William.
“William, when he arrived, was yet ill and weak; but I shall soon make him well again. He has obtained leave of absence till his complete recovery. Peace is concluded, and I shall not suffer him to leave our mountains till I accompany him.
“He would write to you himself, only he cannot yet hold a pen in his right hand. The ball, which entered between two ribs and lodged in the chest, was extracted at Freiburg; the wound in the head was the more dangerous of the two, but it is healing from day to day, and the scar will not disfigure him. His very paleness becomes him well; he is grown mild and gentle; and as a husband, I shall not like him the worse for that, for he was formerly sometimes rather too wild and unmanageable.
“He desires me to send you a kiss for him; but I shall reserve that till I can give it to you in person.
“You must absolutely come to the wedding, which is fixed for next Ascension-day. William tells me that you are an excellent companion and his oldest friend; be sure then to come, or you will exceedingly disappoint William and
“Mimili.”
On Ascension-day my friend accordingly received, at the altar, the hand of his Mimili; but the gratification which I had promised myself of attending the nuptials was prevented by my official duties. At this moment (October 1816), the young couple still reside on Mimili’s native Alp; and the father—but this between ourselves—has requested me to provide, through the medium of one of my female friends, who understands such matters better than I do, an assortment of the most elegant baby-linen that can possibly be procured.
H. Clauren.
- ↑ Eryngeum Alpinum; consequently a different flower from the Forget-me-not.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
| Original: |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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| Translation: |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse |
