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Title: The Children of the World

Author: Paul Heyse

Release date: September 10, 2010 [eBook #33697]

Language: English

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Portrait of Paul Heyse.

THE CHILDREN OF
THE WORLD

BY

PAUL HEYSE

"The children of this world are in their generation wiser than
the
children of light."

NEW YORK

WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY
1890

Copyright, 1889, By

WORTHINGTON CO.

Barr-Dinwiddie
Printing and Book-Binding Co.,
Jersey City, N. J.

THE CHILDREN OF THE
WORLD.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

A few years ago, in the Dorotheen-strasse, in the midst of the Latin
Quarter of Berlin, whose quiet, student-like appearance threatens to become
effaced by the growing elegance of the capital, a small, narrow,
unpretending two-story house, stood humbly, as if intimidated, between its
broad-shouldered neighbors, though every year it received a washing of a
delicate pink hue, and recently had even had a new lightning-rod affixed to
its ancient gable roof. The owner, an honest master shoemaker, had in the
course of time accumulated money enough to have comfortably established
himself in a new and far more elegant dwelling, but he had experienced
beneath this sharply sloping roof, all the blessings of his life and though a
man by no means given to sentimental weaknesses, he would have thought
it base ingratitude to turn his back, without good reason, upon the old
witnesses and protectors of his happiness. He had, at one time or another,
laid his head in almost every corner, from the little attic chamber, where, as
a poor dunce of an apprentice, he had, many a night, been unable to close
his eyes on account of the pattering raindrops, to the best room on the first
story, where stood his nuptial couch, when, after a long and faithful
apprenticeship, he brought home, as head journeyman, the daughter of his
dead master. But he was far too economical to permit himself to occupy
these aristocratic quarters longer than six months, preferring to live in the
second story, unassuming as it was--the little house having a front of but
three windows--and there, two children had grown up about him. These
first-floor apartments were rented to a childless old couple, to whom the
owner would not have given notice to quit on any account; for in the white-
haired old man he honored a once famous tenor, whom in his youth, he had
heard and admired; while the little withered old woman, his wife, had, in
her time, been a no less celebrated actress. They had already been
pensioned twelve years, and, without song or noise of any kind, spent their
quiet days in their tiny rooms, adorned with faded laurel-wreaths and
pictures of their famous colleagues. These celebrities, according to the ideas

of the proprietor, gave to his little house a certain artistic reputation, and if
there were customers in the shop at noon when the old couple returned from
their walk, he never failed to direct attention to them and with boastful
assurance to revive the fame of the two forgotten and very shrivelled great
personages.

On the ground floor was the shop, over which a black sign bore the
inscription in gilt letters: "Boot & Shoe Making Done by Gottfried
Feyertag." The shoemaker had ordered the large brown boot and red slipper,
which had originally been painted on the right and left side, to be effaced,
because it annoyed him to see them, when they no longer represented the
fashion. He kept up with the times in his trade, and could not possibly alter
his sign at every change of style. The shop, he generally left to the
management of his wife he himself spending most of the day in the
workroom, where he kept a sharp eye on his four or five journeymen. A
narrow entry led past the shop into a small, well-kept courtyard, in whose
centre stood a tall acacia-tree, three quarters of which had died for want of
air and sunlight, so that only its topmost branches were still adorned with a
few pale green, consumptive-looking leaves, which every autumn turned
yellow some weeks before any other foliage. Here, in one corner, beside the
pump, an arbor had been erected by the head journeyman, for the daughter
of the house, when a school-girl; it consisted of a few small poles roughly
nailed together, and now overgrown with bean-vines, which bloomed most
dutifully every summer, but in the best years never produced more than a
handful of stunted pods. A little bed along the so-called sunny side of the
house contained all sorts of plants that seek the shade, and thrive luxuriantly
around cisterns and cellars; and in midsummer, when the sun actually sent a
few rays into the courtyard at noonday, the little spot really looked quite
gay, especially if the fair-haired Reginchen, now a young girl of seventeen,
were seated there reading--if it chanced to be a Sunday--some tale of
robbers from a book obtained at a circulating library.

A grey, neglected back building, only united to the front house by the
bare adjoining walls, had also two stories, with three windows looking out
upon this courtyard; and a steep, ruinous staircase, which creaked and
groaned at every step, led past the ground floor, where the workshop and
journeymen's sleeping-rooms were situated, to the rooms above. On the

night when our story begins, this place was suffocatingly hot. It was one of
those evenings late in summer, when not a breath of air was stirring no dew
was falling, and when only the dust, which had risen during the day, floated
down in light invisible clouds, oppressing with mountainous weight every
breathing creature. A slender young man, in a straw hat and grey summer
clothes, softly opened the door of the house, walked along the narrow entry
on tip-toe, and then crossed the stones with which the courtyard was paved.
He could not help seizing the pump-handle and cooling his burning face
and hands with the water, which to be sure was none of the freshest. But the
noise did not disturb any one; at least nothing stirred below or above. He
stood still a few moments and allowed the air to dry the moisture, gazing
meantime at the windows of the upper story, which reflected the bright
moonlight. Only one was open, and a large white cat lay on the sill,
apparently asleep. The windows in the first story were all open, and a faint
light stole out and illumined part of the trunk of the acacia with a pale red
glow.

There was nothing remarkable in all this. Moreover, the thoughts of the
lonely watcher beside the pump seemed to be far away from the narrow,
oppressive courtyard, in some fairy garden, for, with a happy smile he sat
down on a little stool in the bean arbor, and pulled to pieces a withered leaf,
upon which he had first pressed his lips. From the open windows of the
workshop in front of him he heard the loud snoring of one of the
journeymen, who had found the room in the rear too close, and another
seemed to be talking in his sleep. A smell of fresh leather, cobbler's thread,
and varnish, penetrated to his retreat, and these odors, in connection with
those coarse natural sounds, would have disgusted any one else with this
Midsummer Night's Dream. But the youth in the straw hat could not seem
to make up his mind to exchange the hard seat under the scanty foliage for
his usual bed. He had removed his hat and leaned back against the wall,
whose damp surface was pleasant to his burning head. He gazed through the
roof of poles at the small patch of sky visible between the walls, and began
to count the stars. The topmost branches of the acacia gleamed in the
moonlight, as if coated with silver, and the opposite wall, as far as it was
touched by the pale light, glittered as if covered with thin ice or hoarfrost.
"Ah!" said the lonely man in the arbor, "life is still worth the trouble! True,
its brightest gift, fair as yonder stars, is as unattainable as they--but what

does that matter? Does not what we are permitted to admire, what we can
not forget, belong to us as much, nay more, than if we had it in a chest and
had lost the key?" The striking of a clock in a neighboring steeple roused
him from this half-conscious, dreamy soliloquy. "One!" he said to himself.
"It is time to think of going to sleep. If Balder should have kept awake to
watch for me, though I expressly forbade it--"

He rose hastily and entered the house. When he had groped his way
cautiously up the rickety stairs and reached the landing on the first story, he
perceived to his astonishment that the door which led into the rooms stood
half open. A small dark ante-chamber led into a larger apartment, lighted by
a sleepy little lamp. On the sofa behind the table lay a female figure, still
completely dressed, absorbed in a book. The light fell upon a sharply cut,
sullen face, past its first youth, with very dark hair and heavy brows, to
which an expression of power and defiance lent a certain charm. The
reader's thick locks had become unbound, and she wore a plain summer
dress of calico, which left her shoulders and arms bare. Not the slightest
change of countenance betrayed that she had heard the sound of the
loiterer's footsteps, and when he paused a moment in the entry and looked
through the door, she did not even raise her eyes from her book, or push
back the hair which had fallen over her forehead.

"Are you still up, Fräulein Christiane?" he said at last, advancing to the
threshold of the ante-room.

"As you see, Herr Doctor," she replied in a deep voice, without being in
the least disturbed. "The heat--and perhaps also this book--will not permit
me to sleep. I was so absorbed that I did not even hear you come in.
Besides, it is quite time to go to sleep. Good night."

"May I be permitted to ask, Fräulein, what book it is that will not let you
sleep?" he said, still in the dark entry.

"Why not?" was the reply, after some little hesitation. "Besides, you have
a special right to do so, for it is your book. The proprietor of the house,
Meister Feyertag, borrowed it of you several weeks ago, and yesterday told
me so much about it, that I begged it of him for a day. Now I can not leave
it."

He laughed, and stepped within the room. "So the wicked rat-catcher, to
whose pipe all the men and women now dance, even though they often
declare his tunes horrible, has seized upon you also. You have certainly just
read the chapter on women, whose most striking portions our worthy host
daily quotes to his wife; and though it makes you angry, you can not drive it
out of your mind. The old sinner knows how to begin: he hasn't read Göthe
for nothing.

"'Doch wem gar nichts dran gelegen
Scheinet ob er reizt und rührt,
Der beleidigt, der verführt!"

"You are mistaken," she replied, now sitting erect, so that her face was
shaded by the green screen on the lamp. "True, I have read the chapter, but
it made no special impression upon me, either favorable or otherwise It is a
caricature, very like, and yet utterly false. He seems to have known only the
portion of our sex called 'females': 'tell me with whom you associate,' etc.
Well, we are used to that. But where I have become inspired with a great
respect for him, is from the chapter entitled 'The Sorrows of the World.' I
could, at almost every sentence, make a note or quote an example from
what I have myself experienced or witnessed in others. And I also know
why, notwithstanding this, we like to read it; because he relates it without a
murmur, so calmly and in such a matter-of-course manner, that we see it
would be foolish to complain of it, or to hope for anything better for our
poor miserable selves, than is bestowed upon a whole world. You must lend
me his other books."

"My dear Fräulein," he replied, "we will discuss the question further
some other time. You must not suppose that I am one of the professors of
philosophy who wish to silence this singular man. It is a pity that he is not
still alive to be asked the various and numerous questions, from which he
carefully retired to his sybarite seclusion in the Swan, at Frankfort-on-the-
Main. But be that as it may, it is too warm to-night to philosophize. Throw
Schopenhauer aside, Fräulein, and play something for me,--the Moonlight
Sonata, or any sweet, pensive harmony. I should like to cleanse my ears
from the ballet-music to which I have been compelled to listen."

"You! listen to ballet-music?"

"Yes; it sounds ridiculous, but nevertheless it is true. How did it come
about? You know, at least by sight, our tyrant, the so-called medical
counsellor, my university friend and physician in ordinary. He comes up to
our hen-roost every day. Well, I have overworked myself a little this
summer, finishing a prize essay,--a haste that was most unnecessary, since
with my heresies I am safe from academical honors. However, I gained the
second premium,--a heavy head, with such rebellious nerves that my state
almost borders on a disordered brain, or one of the mild forms of lunacy. A
journey, or a few weeks on the Rhigi, would be the best cure. But our
physician in ordinary, for excellent reasons, prescribed no such luxurious
remedy. It would be much cheaper, he thought, to let the manufactory of
thought rest for a while. He proposed to me to play cards, make a collection
of beetles, train a poodle, or fall in love. Unfortunately I had neither
inclination nor talent for any of these very simple and undoubtedly
efficacious remedies. So, early this morning, he brought me a ticket to the
opera-house: he always has acquaintances before and behind the scenes. A
new ballet was to be performed, to hear and see which would repay even an
old habitué, let alone a whimsical fellow like myself, who had not entered a
theatre for ten years. Well, I could not escape the experiment. He who has a
doctor for a friend must occasionally submit to try new remedies, and a
ballet is better than a silver tube in one's stomach."

He smiled,--a half-satisfied, half-mysterious smile.

"Play me the Moonlight Sonata," he asked again. "Life is beautiful,
Fräulein Christiane, in spite of all the sorrows of the world. What lovely
roses you have in that vase! Permit me--"

He took a small bouquet, which was standing on the table, and pressed it
against his face. The full-blown flowers suddenly fell apart, and the leaves
covered the book.

"Oh! dear," said he, coloring with embarrassment, "I have done a fine
thing now. Will you forgive me, dear Fräulein?"

"Certainly, Herr Doctor, if you will be reasonable now, and go up stairs
to sleep off your intoxication. For you are in a condition--You must know
how it happened."

"I? I did not know--"

"Any better than to ask me to play for you at half-past two o'clock in the
morning! We shall wake the people in the house, and others can see us,--me
from the opposite windows. And besides--"

She had risen, and now repressed the rest of the words that were on her
lips. After pacing several times up and down the heated room, which
contained little furniture except her bed, her piano, and a bookcase, she
pushed back her hair from her brow and shoulders, and folding her bare
arms across her chest, stood quietly at the window. A sigh heaved the breast
which had learned to keep a strict guard over its thoughts and feelings. In
this attitude she waited, with apparent calmness, for him to take his leave.

"I must really seem a very singular person," he said, in a frank, honest
tone. "We have lived in the same house for months, and the only use I have
made of this vicinity, was by my first and only visit, when I begged you not
to play during certain hours, which I had selected for study. Now I enter
your room in the middle of the night, and take the liberties of an old
acquaintance. Forgive me, on account of my disordered brain, dear
Fräulein, and--may you have a good night's rest."

He bent his head slightly, and left the room.

As soon as she heard him go up stairs, she hurried into the little ante-
chamber, closed the outer door, bolted it, and then stood still a short time,
listening, with her trembling body pressed close against the door, and her
hands clenched on the latch. He walked slowly up a few steps, and then
paused again, as if he had suddenly become absorbed in some dreamy
thought. She shuddered, sighed heavily, and tottered back into the sitting-
room. Her dress seemed too tight for her, for she slipped out of it like a
butterfly from its chrysalis, and then in the airiest night costume, sat down
at the open piano. It was an old, much-worn instrument, of very poor tone,

and as she ran her slender fingers lightly over the keys, it sounded in the
entry outside like the distant music of a harp.

The young man had just reached the topmost stair when he heard it.

"There! she is playing the sonata, after all," he said to himself. "A
strange, obstinate person. What can she have suffered from fate? To-
morrow I will take more notice of her. It's a pity she is so ugly, and yet--
what does it matter? There is a charm in her finger-tips. What wonderful
music!"

He stood still a moment listening to the familiar tones, which seemed to
express all the familiar thoughts that had been wandering in a confused
chaos through his mind. Suddenly he heard a voice from within.

"Is that you, Edwin?"

"Of course it is I," he replied.

The next instant he had opened the door and entered the room which was
brightly lighted by the moonbeams.

CHAPTER II.

This room, termed by its occupants' friends "the tun," was a large three-
windowed apartment, with walls painted light grey, a floor scoured snow
white, and over the windows instead of curtains, three narrow green calico
lambrequins of the simplest pattern. A desk stood at the right-hand window,
a small turning-lathe at the left, and in the spaces between the casements
two tall bookcases; there were two beds placed against the wall, several
cane chairs and small chests made of white wood, and finally, a low, smoky
ceiling, which here and there showed large cracks, and threatened to fall.
But the room, spite of its simplicity, had an aristocratic air from the
presence of two copperplate engravings of Raphael's paintings, framed in
plain brown wood, that hung over the beds, and two antique busts on the
bookcases,--one a head of Aristotle, the other the gloomy-eyed, stern-
browed Demosthenes. Even the low stove was adorned with a piece of
sculpture at which no one is ever weary of gazing--the mask of Michael
Angelo's young prisoner, who, with closed lids, lets his beautiful head sink
on his shoulder as if weary of torture and longing for sleep. Here, however,
the moonlight did not reach: it merely fell obliquely across the bed placed
against the wall.

On this bed, with his eyes fixed upon the door, lay a young man, whose
pale features, almost feminine in their delicacy, were framed in a wreath of
thick, fair locks. It was difficult to guess his age from his countenance,
since the boyish expression of mirth that dwelt about his mouth contrasted
strangely with the mature beauties of the finely cut features. He was
wrapped in a light quilt, and a book lay open on the chair beside him. When
Edwin entered, he slowly rose and held out a white delicately formed hand.

"Well," said he, "was it very fine? Has it done you good?"

"Good evening, Balder," replied Edwin, "or rather, good morning! You
see I do everything thoroughly, even rioting at night. But I see I must not

leave you alone again, child. I really believe you have been reading by
moonlight."

A deep flush crimsoned the face of the recumbent youth. "Don't be
angry," said he in a clear, musical voice. "I could not sleep; and, as the lamp
had burned out and the room was so bright,--but now tell me About it. Has
the remedy already produced an effect?"

"To-morrow you shall hear as much as you wish, but not a syllable now,
to punish you for your carelessness in spoiling your eyes and heating your
head. Do you know that your forehead is burning again?" And he passed his
hand tenderly over the soft hair. "I will complain of you to the physician in
ordinary. And you don't seem to have touched your supper; there is the plate
with your bread and butter."

"I wasn't hungry," replied the youth, letting his head fall gently back on
the pillow. "Besides, I thought if you came home late, and, after the unusual
excitement, might perhaps feel inclined to eat something."

Edwin brought the plate to the bed. "If you don't want me to be seriously
angry, you artful fellow," said he, "you will have the goodness to repair the
omission at once. But to make it easier for you, I'll take half myself.
Heavens! what is to be done with such a disobedient child? So divide fairly,
or I'll complain of you to-morrow to Jungfrau Reginchen, who will soon
bring you to reason."

Again a vivid blush crimsoned the young man's face, but Edwin
pretended not to notice it. He had sat down on the bed, and was beginning
to eat, from time to time pushing a piece into his brother's mouth, who
submitted with a half smile. "The bread is good," said Edwin; "the butter
might be better. But that is Reginchen's weak point. Now a drink as fresh as
our cellar affords."

He poured out a class of water, and swallowed it at a single gulp.
"Balder," said he, "I am returning to truth and nature, after having incurred
the danger of being enervated by luxury. Just think, I had some ice-cream at
the theatre. It could not be helped; others eat it, and a philosopher must
become familiar with everything. Besides, it wasn't worth the five groschen,

for I learned nothing new, and only regretted that you could not have it.
Once, and no more, good night."

While undressing, he said to himself, "This shameless moon! As soon as
we have any extra money, we must get curtains, so that we can be able to
close our eyes on such nights. However, the illumination is very moderate,
compared to that of an opera-house. It took me so by surprise as I entered
the box, that I would gladly have retreated and seen the whole spectacle
from the corridor outside. Believe me, child, the doorkeepers have the real
and best enjoyment. To walk up and down in the cooler passages over soft
carpets, with the faint buzzing and sighing of the orchestra in one's ears,
interrupted at times by a louder passage with the drums and trumpets,
which, smothered by the walls, sounds like a melodious thunder-storm, and
often, when some belated great lady rustles in, to obtain a glimpse through
the door of the Paradise of painted houris in tights, and the wonderful
sunrises and sunsets,--it is really an enviable situation, compared with that
of the poor mortals in the purgatory within, who, in return for their money,
are cooped up in plush, and must atone for the sins of the Messrs. Taglioni,
while feeling as if all their fine senses were being hammered upon at once.
A time will come when people will read of these barbarities with a shudder,
and envy us because we have nerves to endure them."

"And yet you remained to the end."

"I? Why yes; in the first place I had a very comfortable seat; the box to
which my ticket admitted me is like a little parlor, and happened to be
almost empty. And then--but I will close the window. The air is beginning
to grow cool,--don't you feel it? Besides, your friend Friezica has crept
away."

Balder made no reply; but though his eyes were apparently closed,
steadily watched Edwin, who, in a fit of absence of mind had thrown
himself upon the bed only half undressed, and turned his face toward the
wall. A half hour elapsed without any movement from either. Suddenly
Edwin turned, and his eyes met his brother's quiet, anxious gaze.

"I see it won't do, child," said he. "For the first time in our lives, we are
playing a farce with each other; at least I am, in trying to keep something

from you. It is very foolish. What is the use of a man having a brother,
especially one to whom he might be called married, except to share
everything with him, not only the bread and butter, and whatever else he
eats, but also what is gnawing at him. I will confess what has happened,
though it is really nothing remarkable; a great many people have already
experienced it; but when we feel it for the first time in our own persons, all
our 'philosophy, Horatio,' will not permit us to dream what a singularly
delightful, uncomfortable, troublesome, melancholy,--in a word, insane
condition it is."

He had sprung from his bed and was now crouching on the foot of
Balder's, half sitting, half leaning back, so that he was in shadow, and
looked past his brother at the opposite wall.

"Prepare yourself to hear something very unexpected," he said, still in a
tone which showed that he was making an effort to speak at all. "Or do you
already know all I wish to tell you, young clairvoyant? So much the better.
Then my confession will weary you, and at least one of us will be able to
sleep. In short, my dear fellow, it is very ridiculous to say, but I believe it is
only too true: I am in the condition which our physician in ordinary desired,
in order to cast out the devil by Beelzebub; that is, I am in love, and as
hopelessly, absurdly, and senselessly, as any young moth that ever flew into
a candle. Pray, child," he continued, starting to his feet again and beginning
to pace up and down the room, "first hear how it came about, that you may
realize the full extent of my madness. You know that I am twenty-nine years
old, and hitherto have been spared this childish disease. It is not necessary
for everybody to catch the scarlet fever. As for the natural and healthy
attractions of the 'fair sex,' I was old enough when our dear mother died, to
feel that a woman like her would hardly appear on earth a second time. For
the daily necessities of living and loving--which every human heart needs to
retain its requisite warmth--I was abundantly supplied in our brotherly
affection, to say nothing of the miserable, unamiable, and yet love-needing
human race. And then, ought a man to have for his profession the science of
pure reason, and, like any other thoughtless mortal, make a fool of himself
over the first woman's face he sees, without any cause except that the
lightning has struck him. Heaven knows why? It seems incredible, but I fear
I have accomplished the impossible."

He sat down on the bed again, but this time so that his face was turned
toward Balder. "I will allow you to study me thoroughly, without any
mercy," he said, smiling. "This is the way a man looks, who suddenly
becomes the sport of the elements,--whose reflection, wisdom, pride, and
whatever else the trash may be called, are of no avail. I always shuddered
when I read the story of the magnetic mountain. When I was a boy, I
thought, defiantly, if I had only been on the ship, I would have set so many
sails, sent so many men to work the oars, and steered in such a way, that the
spell would not have reached me. And so I thought this evening, daring the
whole of the first hour. But--

'Tales of magic e'er so strange,
Woman's wiles to truth can change.'

The helm is broken, the oars refuse their service, and the very portion of my
nature that was steel and iron, most resistlessly obeys the attraction of the
magnet, and really assists in making keel and deck spring asunder."

He leaned back again, and passed his hand over his brow. The hand
trembled, and a cold perspiration stood on his forehead.

"There is only one thing I don't understand," said Balder, moving aside
to make room for his brother; "why must all this be hopeless?"

"Just listen, my boy, and you will understand all, even the
incomprehensible part, over which I am still puzzling my brains. For I am
no artist, and can only give you a poor, shadowy outline of a certain face. I
entered the box, which was perfectly empty, and I hoped it would remain
so. Clad in my fourteen-thaler summer-suit and without gloves, I did not
seem to myself exactly fit for society, and the person who opened the box
looked at me as if he wanted to say, 'You ought to be up in the gallery, my
friend, instead of in this holy of holies, to which I usually admit only people
belonging to the great or demi monde.' I also did not like to sit down, simple
as the matter might seem to be, on a chair that was better dressed than I.
However, the mischief was done; I determined to assume a very elegant
deportment, such as I had noticed at private colleges in young diplomatists,
and hitherto had always considered mere buffoonery. So I leaned back in

my chair like an Englishman, and glanced now at the stage, now at the
parquet. As I have already said, there was such a buzzing and fluttering
down below, the poor creatures in white gauze glittering with gold and huge
wreaths of flowers tossed their arms and legs about so wildly, and the
violins quavered so madly, that I already began to think: 'if this goes on
long, you will go too.' Suddenly the door of the box was thrown wide open;
while I had squeezed through a narrow chink, a young lady rustled in, a
diminutive servant in livery and high shirt-collar, which almost sawed off
the youngster's huge red ears, removed a blue silk cloak, the doorkeeper
casting a contemptuous glance at me, rushed forward, drew up a chair, and
officiously put a play-bill on the balustrade. The lady said a few words to
the boy in an undertone, then chose the corner seat nearest the stage, raised
a tiny opera-glass, and, without taking the slightest notice of me, instantly
became absorbed in her enjoyment of art.

"I ought now to describe her to you; but description has its difficulties.
Do you remember the pastille picture from the Dresden gallery, painted by a
Frenchman,--I have forgotten his name,--stay, I think it was Liotard; we saw
a photograph of it in the medical counsellor's book of beauty?--la belle
Chocoladière was written underneath. Well, the profile before me was
something like that, and yet very very different, far more delicate, pure, and
childlike, without any of the pretentious, cold-hearted expression of the
shop-girl, whose numerous admirers and constant practice in breaking
hearts had gradually transformed her face into a mere alabaster mask. But
the shape of the nose, the long lashes, the proud little mouth,--enough, your
imagination will supply the rest.

"Well, the first quarter of an hour passed very tolerably. From the first
moment I saw no one except my neighbor, who showed me only a quarter
of her face, charming as the tiny sickle of the moon; but to make amends
for that, I studied her dark brown hair, which without any special ornament,
was drawn in smooth bands over her white forehead, and simply fastened at
the back with two coral pins of Italian form. A few short curls fell on the
white neck, and seemed to me to have a very enviable position, though they
remained in the shade. As to her dress, I am unable to say whether it was in
the latest fashion, and according to French taste, for I have not the
necessary technical knowledge; but a certain instinct told me that nothing

could be more elegant, more aristocratic in its simplicity; there was not the
smallest article of jewelry about her person, she did not even wear ear-
rings; her high-necked dress was fastened at the throat with a little velvet
bow, without a brooch. The hands which held the opera-glass--tiny little
hands--were cased in light grey gloves, so I could not see whether she wore
rings.

"I had noticed that there was a universal movement when she entered the
box. Hundreds of lorgnettes were instantly directed toward her, and even
the première danseuse, who was just making her highest leap, momentarily
lost her exclusive dominion over her admirers. But my beauty seemed to be
very indifferent to this homage. She did not turn her eyes from the stage, at
which she gazed with an earnestness, a devotion, that was both touching
and ludicrous. When the first act was over, and a storm of applause burst
forth, it was charming to see how she hastily laid aside the opera-glass to
clap her hands too, more like a child when it wants another biscuit and says
'please, please,' than an aristocratic patroness of the fine arts, who
occasionally condescends to join in the applause of the populace.

"She had dropped her handkerchief, a snowy, lace-trimmed bit of
cobweb, which could easily have been put away in a nutshell. I hastily
raised and handed it to her, muttering a few not particularly brilliant words.
She looked at me without the slightest change of expression, and graciously
bowed her thanks like a princess. Not a word was vouchsafed me. Then she
again raised her lorgnette, and, during the entire intermission, apparently
devoted herself to an eager study of the various toilettes; at least her glass
remained a long time turned toward the opposite box, which was full of
ladies.

"I would have given much to have heard her voice, in order to discover
whether she was a foreigner; but no matter how I racked my brain, I could
think of nothing to say. Besides, she looked as if at the first liberty I might
take, she would rise with an annihilating glance, and leave me alone.

"I was just working hard to concoct some polite remark about ballets in
general and this one in particular, when the intermission ended and she was
again entirely absorbed in the spectacle below.

"A thought flashed through my mind, which, as you will acknowledge,
did me great credit, but unfortunately met with no success. I left the box, ate
the ice-cream already mentioned, and while wiping my beard, strolled up
and down the corridor several times as if weary of the performance, and
carelessly asked the doorkeeper if he knew the lady who was sitting in the
stranger's box. But he replied that this was the first time he had ever seen
her; the opera-house had been reopened to-night with the new ballet. So,
with my purpose unaccomplished, I retired, and went back to my post.

As she glided past me, I felt an electric shock to the very tips of my toes.

"Meantime my seat had been occupied; a very much over-dressed
foreign couple, American or English nabobs blazing with jewels, had
planted themselves in the best seats beside the beauty. At first I was inclined

to assert my rights, but I really liked to stand in the dark corner and seeing
and hearing nothing of the elegant tastelessness around, gaze only at the
charming shape of the head, the fair neck with its floating curls, slender
shoulders, and a small portion of the sweet face. I heard the gentleman
address her in broken French. She replied without embarrassment, in the
best Parisian accent. Now I knew what I wanted to learn. She was a natural
enemy, in every sense of the word!

"If I tell you, brother, that during the next two hours I stood like a statue,
thinking of nothing except how one can live to be twenty-nine years old,
before understanding the meaning of the old legend of the serpent in
Paradise,--you will fancy me half mad. You wrong me, my dear fellow, I
was wholly mad--a frightful example of the perishableness of all manly
virtues. I beg Father Wieland's pardon a hundred times, for having reviled
him as a pitiful coxcomb, because he allows his Greek sages, with all their
strength of mind and stoical dignity, to come to disgrace for the smile of a
Lais or Musarion. Here there was not even a smile, no seductive arts were
used, and yet a poor private tutor of philosophy lays down his arms and
surrenders at discretion, because a saucy little nose, some black eyelashes,
and ditto curls, did not take the slightest notice of him.

"But you ought to go to sleep, child; I'll cut my story short. Besides, it
must be tiresome enough to a third person. Five minutes before the curtain
fell for the last time she rose; some one had knocked softly at the door of
the box. As she glided past me, I felt an electric shock to the very tips of my
toes. This was a great piece of good luck, or I should hardly have been able
to shake off my stupor quickly enough to follow her. Outside stood the
gnome with the high shirt-collar and tow-colored head, gazing at her
respectfully with wide open eyes. The little blue cloak was on his arm. She
hastily threw on the light wrap, almost without his assistance, though he
stood on tip-toe, drew the hood over her head, and hurried toward the stairs,
the lad and my insignificant self following her. Every one she passed started
and looked after her in astonishment.

"At the entrance below stood an elegant carriage. The dwarf opened the
door, made an unsuccessful attempt to lift his mistress in, then swung

himself up behind, and away dashed the equipage before I had sense
enough to jump into a droschky and follow it.

"'Perhaps it is better so,' I thought, when I was once more left alone. Of
what use would it be to follow her? And now I endeavored to become a
philosopher again in the most audacious sense of the word, namely, a
private tutor of logic and metaphysics, an individual most graciously
endowed by the government with permission to starve, sub specie acterni,--
from whom if he becomes infatuated with princesses, the veina legendi
ought to be withdrawn, since it is a proof that he has not understood even
the first elements of worldly wisdom.

"There! you have now the whole story. I hoped to have been able to
spare you the recital, trusting that the vision would vanish at last, if I could
cool my excited blood by rambling about a few hours in the night air. But
unfortunately I did not succeed. The Lindens were swarming with lovers,
the music still sounded in my ears, shooting stars darted across the sky, and,
above all, the sentimental witching light of the moon, altering the aspect of
everything which it touched,--yes, my last hope is sleep, which has often
heretofore cooled the fever of my nerves. Look, the moon is just sinking
behind yonder roof; our night-lamp has gone out; let us try whether we can
at last obtain some rest."

He rose slowly from his brother's bed, like a person who finds it difficult
to move his limbs, passed his hand caressingly over the cheek of the silent
youth, and said: "I can't help it, child; I really ought to have kept it to
myself, for I know you always take my troubles to heart far more than I do.
It is this confounded habit of sharing everything with you! Well, it is no
great misfortune after all. We shall be perfectly sensible--entirely cured of
our folly--to-morrow, and if anything should still be out of order, for what
purpose has Father Kant written the admirable treatise on 'the power the
mind possesses to rule the sickly emotions of the heart by the mere exercise
of will'?"

He stooped, pressed his lips lightly upon the pale forehead of the youth,
and then threw himself upon his bed. A few notes of the piano still echoed
on the air, but these too now died away, and in fifteen minutes Balder
perceived by Edwin's calm, regular breathing, that he had really fallen

asleep. He himself still lay with his eyes wide open, gazing quietly at the
mask of the prisoner on the stove, absorbed in thoughts, which, for the
present, may remain his secret.

CHAPTER III.

We have now to relate the little that is to be told of the two brothers'
former life.

About thirty years before, their father, during a holiday excursion, had
made their mother's acquaintance; he was then a young law-student from
Silesia, and she the beautiful daughter of the owner of a small estate in
Holstein, who had other views for his favorite child than to give her to the
first embryo Prussian lawyer, who had enjoyed a few days' hospitality at his
house. And yet no objections were made. All, who knew the young girl,
declared that it had always been impossible to oppose her quietly expressed
wishes; she had possessed so much power over all minds, both by her great
beauty and the gentle nobleness of her nature, which in everything she did
and said always seemed to hit the right mark, with that almost prophetic
insight into the confused affairs of the world, which is said to have been
peculiar to German seeresses. What particular attractions she found in the
unassuming stranger, that she wanted him and no one else for her husband,
was not easy to discover. Yet to her last hour she had no occasion to repent,
that, with firm resolution, beneath which perhaps passionate emotions were
concealed, she had aided in removing all the obstacles that stood in the way
of a speedy marriage. As she herself brought little dowry, except her wealth
of golden hair, which when unbound must have reached nearly to her knees,
and as the young lawyer had still a long time of probation before him ere he
could establish a home of his own, they would have had little happiness if
both or either had considered themselves too good for a subordinate
position. The post of bookkeeper in one of the largest institutions in Berlin
had just become vacant. When the young jurist applied for it, he was forced
to hear from all quarters that he was doing far from wisely in resigning his
profession and giving up all chance of rising to higher offices and dignities,
merely for the sake of an early and certain maintenance. He declared that he
knew what he was doing, and, as he had the best testimonials, drove his
competitors from the field, and, after a betrothal of a few months, installed

his beautiful young wife in the comfortable lodgings assigned to the
accountant.

Ambition is only one phase of the universal human longing for
happiness. He who has his life's happiness embodied in a beloved form at
his side, can easily forget the formless dreams of his aspiring youth,
especially if, as was the case here, the joy which appears so trifling to the
eyes of the proud world nevertheless excites the envy of those close at
hand, and the narrow limits of the household horizon do not bind down the
soul. This, however, was chiefly owing to the fair-haired wife. She had what
is called a tinge of romance, a dissatisfaction with the dry, bare reality of
things around her, a longing to gild the grey light of every-day existence
with the treasures of her own heart and a lively imagination, and amid the
oppressive uniformity of her household cares, retained a play of fancy, that
with all her toil and weariness kept her young and gay. She herself said
people ought to follow the example of the birds, who, while building their
nests, did not sweat as if working for daily wages, but as they flew to and
fro sang, eat a berry, or perhaps soared so high into the air, that one might
suppose they would never return to their lowly bush. As this arose from a
necessity of her nature, and she never boasted of it, though she never denied
it, her poetic taste built a brighter world above this dreary, prosaic one, and
was a source of constant rejuvenation to her more practical husband. He
never emerged from the state of transfiguration that surrounds the
honeymoon, and even after he had been married many years, felt when
sitting in his office over his account-books, as much impatience to rejoin his
beloved wife, as he had ever experienced as an enthusiastic young lawyer,
in the earliest days of his love.

In his circumstances there was no outward improvement; his sons grew
up, and no promotion or increase of salary could be thought of. But
nevertheless their happiness increased, and their stock of youth, love, and
romance seemed to grow greater as the children grew. The mother, who
bore the beautiful name of Nanna, would not hear of calling her first-born
Fritz or Carl, but gave him the name of Edwin. But the boy himself made
no preparations to accommodate himself to the lyrically adorned idyl of his
parents. His outward appearance was insignificant and remained so; a tall
lad with awkward limbs, which were all the more unmanageable because

their master in the upper story was thinking of very different matters than
how he ought to move his arms and legs; besides, the boy's mind was fixed
upon other things than the fairy tales his mother told him, or any of the
elegancies with which she surrounded her child. A thoughtful, analytic mind
developed in him at an early age; his mother, for the first time in her life
was seriously angry with her dear husband, declaring that the father's
horrible calculating of figures had gone to the child's head and entered his
blood. She tormented herself a long time in trying to efface this instinctive
taste, but was at last forced to relinquish her efforts when the boy went to
school and brought home the most brilliant testimonials of his progress; yet
a secret vexation still gnawed at her heart, all the more unbanishable as for
nine years he remained the only child. At last she gave birth to a second, a
boy, who promised to make ample amends for the disappointment caused
by the apparently sober, prosaic nature of her oldest son. This child was in
every respect the exact image of his mother; beautiful as the day, with rich
golden curls; he liked nothing better than to be lulled to sleep with fairy
tales, cultivate flowers, and learn little stories by heart. The mother seemed
to grow young again in her radiant delight in the possession of this innocent
creature, to whom the name of Balder, the God of Spring, appeared to her
exactly suited. Any one who had seen her at that time, would scarcely have
believed her to be the mother of her older son, the long-legged schoolboy
with the grave, prematurely old face; so young and smiling, so untried by
life, did she look, that her fair head seemed bathed in perpetual sunlight.
But it was only a short spring-time of joy. Balder had not yet commenced to
distinguish between poetry and reality, when his mother was suddenly
attacked by a violent nervous fever, and after a few days' illness, during
which she recognized neither husband nor children, she left them forever.

It was a blow which brought her husband to a state of despair which
bordered upon madness. But upon the older boy the event had a strange
effect. There was, at first, an outburst of wild, passionate grief, such as,
from his steady, quiet temperament, no one would have expected. Now it
was evident how passionately he had loved his mother, with a fervor for
which he had never found words. Up to the time of the funeral it was
impossible to induce him to eat; he pushed away his favorite dishes with
loathing, and only a little milk crossed his lips just before he went to bed.
When he returned with his father from the churchyard, and, himself like a

corpse, saw in his father's face every sign of breaking down under the
misery of a happiness so cruelly destroyed, while little Balder gazed in
perplexity at him with his dead mother's eyes, a great transformation
seemed to take place in the older brother's soul. His convulsed face grew
suddenly calm, he pushed from his forehead his thin straight hair, and,
going up to his father, said: "We must now see how we can get along
without mother. You shall never be dissatisfied with me again." Then he sat
down on the floor beside the child, and began to play with him as his
mother used to do; a thing to which, hitherto, with all his love for the little
one, he had never condescended. Balder stretched out his hands to him, and
laughingly prattled on in his merry way. The father seemed to take no notice
of anything that was passing around him. Weeks and months elapsed before
he even outwardly returned to his old habits.

But even then there was not much gained. The portion of him which had
been a calculating-machine faultlessly continued its work, but the human
affections were totally destroyed. Had not Edwin, with a prudence
wonderful in one so young, managed the affairs of the little household when
the old maid servant could not get along alone, everything would have been
in confusion. When, during the year after his mother's death, the child had a
fall which injured his knee so severely that he remained delicate ever after,
the last hope which Edwin had of seeing the father take a firm hold of life
vanished. He now showed that he had only existed in the reflected lustre
left behind by his beautiful wife in the bright-eyed boy. When those eyes
grew dim, he could no longer bear the light of day. Without any special
illness, he took to his bed and never rose from it again.

The orphaned children were received by one of their father's relatives, a
well-to-do official in Breslau, who had a number of children of his own,
and could therefore only give his foster sons a moderate share of care and
support. They were sent to board in a teacher's family, and fared no worse
than hundreds of other parentless boys. Balder felt the disaster least. He had
a charm that everywhere won hearts, and his delicate helplessness did the
rest. People did not find it so easy to get along with Edwin. A taciturnity
and cool reserve, together with the early superiority of his judgment, made
him uncomfortable, and, as it always gave him the appearance of not
desiring love, people did not see why they should force it upon him.

Besides, among all to whom he owed gratitude, there was not a single
person to whom he desired to be bound by any closer ties. Thus his little
brother remained the sole object of his affectionate anxiety, and it was
touching to see how closely, during his play hours, he kept him by his side,
spending his scanty stock of pocket-money solely for his pleasure, and
shortening his hours of sleep that he might devote his entire afternoon to the
sickly child.

Years elapsed. When Edwin went to the university, for despite his
poverty and the burning desire for independence, he could not make up his
mind to begin any practical business, Balder was about eight years old. He
had been unable to go to school on account of his feeble health, as his knee
required constant care, and he could not have borne to sit on the school-
room benches. But notwithstanding this, he was far in advance of most boys
of his age, for he had had Edwin for a teacher, who, by a far more rapid
method than that of the schools, had always pointed out the essential part of
every lesson, and encouraged him above all to develope his own powers.
He succeeded in doing so most wonderfully, without brushing from the
boy's soul the bloom of the enthusiasm inherited from their mother. His
nature was utterly unlike his brother's; instead of the keen dialectics with
which Edwin broke a path into the world of ideas, as a colonist uproots the
primeval forest with his axe, Balder's spirit rose aloft as if on wings, and
soaring above all intervening tree-tops, he found himself unwearied on the
very spot his brother had pointed out in the distance. It was the same in
everything connected with school wisdom, as in the mysteries life gave him
to solve in regard to men and circumstances. The sure, instantaneous
perception, the prophetic power we have described in his mother, seemed
born anew in him, and gave the beautiful face, framed in his thick fair hair,
and showing few traces of pain, a peculiar and irresistibly winning
expression. Besides, he was so kind-hearted, so self-sacrificing, traits
doubly rare in chronic invalids, in whom anxiety about themselves becomes
at last the sole interest, and almost a sort of sacred duty. He was never heard
to complain, and it really did not seem to be a victory of resignation or
heroism which he obtained over himself, but rather a natural faculty of his
soul to look upon his sufferings and deprivations as a possession from
which the greatest gain must be derived, the only innocent speculation, and
one for which he had cultivated a masterly aptitude.

At the time we have made the brothers' acquaintance, they had lived
together in the shoemaker's back building, the so-called "tun," about five
years. Edwin had first gone to Berlin alone, in order to devote himself
exclusively to the study of philosophy and physical science, for which he
had little opportunity in Breslau. He had been unable to resolve to enter into
any money-making business, and his study of law was a mere pretence. So
when he found himself acting in direct opposition to his benefactor's
wishes, he thought it dishonorable to continue to eat the bread of one with
whose opinions he could not coincide. Balder meantime remained in his old
home, but as soon as Edwin could support both, was to follow him to
Berlin.

This was not accomplished as speedily as the latter had at first hoped.
Months elapsed before he could fit himself for a tutor, as the private lessons
he had undertaken robbed him of both time and patience. Then followed
anxieties about his first lectures, which, with great difficulty, he obtained an
opportunity to deliver, and which brought in nothing. During all this time,
his only intercourse with his brother was by means of frequent letters, until
at last he could bear the separation no longer, and one Whitsuntide went to
Breslau, to ask the beloved youth if he felt strong enough to share his
poverty. Balder flushed to the roots of his hair with joyful agitation at this
question, which fulfilled the most secret wish of his heart. He had only been
withheld from making the proposal long before, by the fear of becoming a
burden to his brother. Now he confessed that he had quietly made
arrangements not to be entirely dependent on Edwin, though he would have
submitted to be supported by him more willingly than by any one else. He
had found an opportunity to learn turning, from a neighbor, and in the space
of a year the young apprentice had made so much progress, that any master
workman would gladly have engaged him for a journeyman. With
shamefaced consciousness, he showed Edwin a number of pretty household
utensils which he had made for his foster-mother and the family of the
teacher with whom he boarded. "I see," said Edwin, smiling, "that I
probably pursue the least lucrative of all professions, and shall be doing a
very good thing in forming a partnership with my skillful brother. But wait,
my lad, I won't fail to add my contribution to the capital with which we
begin. The next fee I receive--I am coaching the weak-minded son of a

count for his examination--we will devote to the purchase of the best
turning-lathe that is to be found in all Berlin."

CHAPTER IV.

Day had long since dawned over the great city, and the little house in the
Dorotheen-strasse prided itself upon remaining no whit behind its more
aristocratic neighbors in this respect. The occupants of the "tun" were
usually no late sleepers, and Balder in particular never failed to hear the
general alarm-clock of the house, the old pump-handle, which sang a well-
meant but monotonous morning song, when at six o'clock in summer and
seven in winter, Reginchen set it in motion to get her father his glass of
water for breakfast. At the same time the windows in the workshop were
opened, and the grumbling of the head journeyman, who took advantage of
the half hour before the master appeared, to make the apprentices feel his
importance, became audible. But as soon as the master of the house, in his
loose jacket and slippers, crossed the courtyard, everything below was
perfectly still. Indeed, though the brothers had been unable to procure a
watch, they had no occasion to be at a loss to know the time, even during
the day. Exactly one hour after the first music of the pump, Reginchen
appeared in the "tun" with the well-beaten clothes and the breakfast.
Punctually at nine o'clock a window was opened in the second story, a
yellow old face in a night-cap, the once famous actress, stretched out a
wrinkled little nose to find out which way the wind was blowing, as her
husband, the tenor, though he no longer had occasion to spare his high C,
could not give up the habit of staying in the house when there was an East
wind. Precisely one hour after, the little man himself appeared at another
window which opened upon the courtyard, not lighted by the sun, to shave
with great deliberation and apply before the little mirror the necessary
cosmetics, which an old celebrity of the stage considers an indispensable,
nay, an incontestable proof of the dignity of his calling. When eleven
o'clock struck, the piano in the room below, occupied by Fräulein
Christiane, with whom we formed a passing acquaintance in the first
chapter, was opened, and a practised hand struck a few notes by way of
prelude to a singing-lesson, which, from consideration for Edwin had been

deferred to this time, when he usually went to his lecture. Various pupils
came to take lessons; of late, twice a week a merry soubrette, belonging to
one of the theatres in the suburbs, appeared, who desired to practise her
little parts in new operettas, and drove her grave teacher to despair by a
number of blunders, musical and otherwise. As a loud conversation could
be heard through the open windows, almost word for word, Balder often
became an ear-witness to the most singular scenes, which afforded him a
glimpse of an utterly unknown world. Punctually at twelve o'clock the
dinner-bell rang, and was usually hailed by the pupil with a merrily
whistled street song, as the grateful feeling of release could be expressed in
no better way.

The household clock performed its duty to-day as well as ever, but the
occupants of the upper story in the back building seemed deaf to its sounds.
The pump's morning song died away unheard. No "come in" answered the
low knock an hour later, and, after a short delay and a shake, of the head,
the slender household sprite, hanging the clothes on the banister of the
stairs, glided down again with the breakfast. Miezica, the white cat, which
at the same time appeared at the window to be fed by Balder, remained on
the broad sill that ran from gutter to gutter, staring into the room, where no
living creature was yet stirring. Not until the yellow top of the acacia-tree
was gilded by the rising sun--it must have been ten minutes past ten for the
old tenor was just beginning to powder himself--did Balder open his eyes,
astonished at the bright light that filled the room. He looked toward Edwin;
the latter gave no sign that the sunlight was too dazzling for him to continue
his dreams.

Softly the youth rose and limped to the turning-lathe in the corner, where
he noiselessly arranged a variety of tools, bits of wood, and little bottles. He
did not, however, begin to work, but taking a book, became for a time
absorbed in its contents. Suddenly the thoughts which had kept him awake
so long during the night, seemed to return. He laid the book aside, opened a
window, and leaned out into the already heated air.

Ere long a low knock at the door roused him from his reverie. He glided
on tip-toe past the sleeper, and slipped through the half-opened door into the
dusky entry.

Reginchen stood without; her round face, whose eyes and mouth were
ever ready to bubble over with mirth, was turned toward him with a sort of
curious anxiety.

"Good morning, Reginchen," he whispered. "I can't let you in, he is still
asleep. He did not go to rest until long after midnight; I am glad the sun
does not wake him. You have already been to the door once--I overslept
myself too, contrary to my custom--we talked so long last night. I am sorry
we have made you so much trouble, Reginchen. Give me the waiter, I will
carry the breakfast in."

"It is no trouble," replied the young girl, who when talking to the
brothers always tried to correct her Berlin dialect as much as possible, but
without precisely solving the mystery of the dative and accusative. "But you
will be completely starved. Sha'n't I get you some coffee? Cold milk on an
empty stomach--"

"Thank you, Reginchen. I am used to it. You are always so kind. Why
have you dressed so early to-day, Reginchen?"

The young girl blushed as she smoothed her little black silk apron and
the folds of a light muslin that had been freshly washed and ironed.

"This is my birthday, Herr Walter," (she could not accustom herself to
the name of "Balder.") "My mother gave me the apron, and the old
gentleman on the second floor, the garnet breastpin. I am going to visit my
aunt at Schöneberg after dinner, and so I wanted to ask if I might bring your
dinner up very early to-day. My brother will come for me punctually at one
o'clock."

"Your birthday, Reginchen! And I have forgotten it! Are you angry with
me? My brother's sickness has given me so much to think of lately. You
know, Reginchen, I wish you all possible good fortune and happiness,
though my congratulations are late; but you are used to seeing me limp."

"How can you talk so. Herr Walter?" she replied, quietly allowing the
firm little hand he had so cordially grasped to rest in his. "It makes no
difference whether a stupid thing like me, without education or culture, is

seventeen or eighteen. Father says women remain great children all their
lives; so whether they become older or not can be of little consequence."

"He is only joking, Reginchen. What would your father do without you,
to say nothing of the rest of us in the house? So you are really eighteen
years old to-day? I wish I knew of something that would give you pleasure;
I should like to make you a birthday present."

"I don't want any present," she replied, hastily turning away and putting
her foot on the upper stair. "I have already had so many gifts from you at
Christmas and such times, and my mother always scolds and says I am too
large to receive presents from strange gentlemen. Hark! she is calling me; I
must go, Herr Walter."

She darted down the steep staircase, like an arrow, and Balder, who
remained at the top, heard her singing a song in a clear, childish voice, as
she skipped across the pavement of the courtyard in her little slippers. As he
took the waiter from the low attic stairs where she had placed it, and limped
softly back into the room, he involuntarily sighed.

Going up to his sleeping brother he gazed at him with affectionate
anxiety. Edwin seemed to be slumbering quietly. His high, beautifully
arched brow was unwrinkled, a smile played around his lips, and his
delicate nostrils quivered slightly, as they always did when he made a witty
speech. His shirt was open at the throat, and a small gold locket attached to
a silk cord and containing a tress of his mother's golden hair, was plainly
visible. Balder wore one like it.

He was about to retire to the window corner again, when a hasty step
was heard on the stairs, and ere Balder could reach the door to stop the new
comer, an eager knock announced a visitor who knew himself to be
welcome at any hour.

"Come in!" said Edwin, as he slowly rose from his pillow, still half
asleep. "That must be Marquard. Good heavens, it is broad daylight!"

"To be sure!" laughed the new arrival. "It requires the presence of a
despicable empiric like myself, to make the Herr Philosopher aware that the

sun is several hours high in the heavens. Well, how are you, patient? Has
the prescription wrought its work? I am almost inclined to believe that the
dose was too strong."

Nodding kindly to Balder, he hastily approached the bed and touched
Edwin's brow and temples before feeling his pulse. The keen, light gray
eyes gazed through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles at a heavy gold watch,
and the youthfully round and regular, though somewhat pale face, which on
entering the door had worn an expression of the gayest unconcern, now
assumed a quiet, watchful air, while the elegant figure, which was of about
the medium height, leaned lightly on a chair beside the bed.

"My dear Herr Medicinalrath," said Edwin, "your master work has been
performed on me. Mother Nature, who may well fear you since you
irreverently pry into her most sacred secrets and scan all her little
weaknesses as through a microscope, seems, at your command, to have
once more taken pity upon me, and granted me sleep. All else will follow as
a matter of course; at least I already feel a truly wolfish appetite. If you'll
allow me. Doctor, I'll only put on the most necessary articles of clothing,
and go to breakfast at once, to relieve Balder, who I see has again waited for
me."

"Probatum est," laughed the doctor, pocketing his watch. "I was
perfectly well aware, that for brains like yours, there is no better narcotic
than the mixture of folly, noise, and tights, we men of the world swallow to
excite us. I find your symptoms to-day far more encouraging than
yesterday, and, within a few days, I think I shall repeat the dose. Hunger is a
good symptom. But I don't see the breakfast."

"It is standing on the table yonder," said Balder, quietly.

The doctor stepped to the little table, which, covered with a green cloth,
stood in the middle of the room, and gazed, with an indescribable look of
pity and horror, at the white pitcher, which stood between two stoneware
cups, while a tin plate beside it contained two small rolls.

"Pardon me," said he, "my science does not extend so far as to enable me
to determine, by its mere appearance, the name of the strong broth which

awaits you here as your first meal."

"It is pure, unadulterated milk, in which we dip the flower of wheat,"
said Edwin, who, having in the meantime hastily clothed himself, now
approached the table and filled both cups. "You are doubtless aware, my
dear fellow, that milk contains all the elements of nourishment which--"

"Which a child in swaddling clothes needs till it cuts its teeth! Sacred
Reason, what is the world coming to, when your ablest votaries, the
philosophers, confess themselves addicted to the most preposterous habits
and customs. Are you not startled, my lad, by the frightful contradiction
involved by your endeavor, amidst our exhaustive, enervating civilization,
which constitutes such a drain upon the blood and marrow, to sustain
yourself on the nourishment of stupid pastoral tribes? In Berlin, too, where
as you know, all the cows are infected with the pallor of the Hegel
philosophy, and where the watery fluid they give is still further diluted at
every pump. No, my dear fellow, either I give you up as incurable, or you
must decide at once upon a radical change of habit, wash your face with this
innocent fluid--an admirable preventive of premature wrinkles--and moisten
your inner man at this time with a glass of port wine, to be followed by the
consumption of half a pound of roast meat. I'll wager that in a short time
there will be a change in your organism which will make itself perceptibly
felt if you visit the Berlin ballet too frequently. What are you laughing at? I
am perfectly serious."

"That is just why I laughed," said Edwin, as, standing by the table, he
quietly broke his roll into the thin blue milk. "You forget, my dear fellow,
that I can only make use of prescriptions which are put up at the pharmacy
'for lucky beggars.' Or do you happen to have it in your pocket?"

"What?"

"My professorship, or Balder's diploma as turner to the court. With your
practice in such circles, you can not fail, if you are in earnest, to help us to a
brilliant career. But until then I deeply regret that I can give you no prospect
of a change of diet."

Marquard looked around the room, and shook his head angrily, as he
said: "But it is suicidal folly, absurd nonsense, to live as you do! Balder,
too, will never fare any better, so long as you squat here like two old
women, and fast till you are livid for lack of blood. Professorship?
Nonsense! With your views, you'll never get one to the end of your days in
our Christian German government. If you had only learned some
commonplace thing, so that you might be made useful somewhere.
However, you know something of arithmetic, don't you?"

"The first four formulæ, and the rule of three."

"No joking. You are a thorough mathematician. I will get you a position
in a life insurance company, where they need some one for their estimates
of probabilities. Five hundred thalers at first. You need say but one word."

"Rather three, my faithful Eckhart: Thank you, kindly. I can not endure
the atmosphere of an office. But seriously, my dear preserver of mankind,
don't give yourself any trouble about me. I am incorrigible. Every German
must have a whim. Mine is to belong exclusively to myself, shake as many
nuts from the tree of life as I like, and waste as much time as I can spare in
cracking them and getting at the kernels. To make a career is an occupation
that robs one of a great deal of time, and it is the same with the effort to
become a millionaire in a respectable way. Both, therefore, I must renounce,
and since I have for either as little talent as inclination, and can get along
for a time in this way, why should I fly into a passion because the Berlin
cows have deteriorated as much in the fabrication of milk as Prussian
political philosophy has deteriorated since the days of Father Kant? Except
on occasions when, by an Epicurean like yourself, unnatural desires are
created in us, we want for nothing in our 'tun,' and, moreover, have
something put aside for a rainy day; have we not, Balder?"

The doctor was about to make some reply, but controlled himself, and
seized his hat. "Adieu!" he growled, and went toward the door, but paused
on the threshold.

"You will allow me," he said harshly, "as I still have charge of you, to
send you some medicine from my own pharmacy. I received a gift of some
excellent Bordeaux from a wine-dealer, on whom I performed a very

surprising cure, I will send you some on trial, and if you don't drink half a
bottle every noon--Balder may content himself with a glass--I--"

"Will show me no farther friendship? Better not say that. It would be a
pity: for your sake, because without our society you would sink completely
into empiricism and gluttony; and for ours, because we should be
compelled to deny ourselves the luxury of consulting a physician. No, old
fellow, I thank you very kindly for your philanthropic design, but it is wiser
for us to continue to cut our coats according to our cloth."

"And these people wish to be elevated above ordinary prejudices!"
exclaimed the doctor fiercely, putting on his hat. "If you really were so
elevated, you would not be too proud to accept a few pitiful drops of wine
from an old college friend! Go, you are perfect fools with your idealism!"

"And you are on the way to become as famous a doctor as old Heim. At
least you already have the needful roughness!" laughed Edwin.

The doctor heard him no longer; he had slammed the door and was
noisily descending the stairs. Balder looked at his brother.

"You ought not to have refused," said he. "He means kindly, and he is
undoubtedly right: our diet is not fit for you."

"So you, too, are beginning to scold," said Edwin, drinking the
remainder of his milk as if it were the most exquisite nectar. "But the trump
of doom would not disturb the serenity of my soul to-day. I am in exactly
the phlegmatic, abstract frame of mind, to which the most difficult
problems seem like child's play. It is a pity I have nothing harder to
elucidate than how it comes to pass that a crazy man can say such clever
things in his dreams, and yet on awaking be just as mad as before."

"What do you mean?"

"I have been most dutifully dreaming of the acquaintance I made
yesterday; you remember, child, la belle Chocoladière. I discovered, God
knows how, that she was the daughter of a Polish countess and a French
valet de chambre; a thoroughly ignorant, vain, and not over-virtuous

creature. As she made merry over my defective French, I quietly began to
explain how grateful she ought to be that a sensible man conversed with her
at all. Then I talked long and very impressively about the dignity of man in
general and philosophers in particular; something after the style of
Wieland's sages, and she, after at first looking as if she were grieving over
her weaknesses and sins, suddenly began to laugh loudly, danced around the
room--in the style of the rope-dancers we saw yesterday--hummed French
songs of by no means the most decorous nature, and altogether conducted
herself in such a manner that I grew more and more angry, and at last told
her to her face that I should consider myself the most contemptible fool and
weakling on earth, if I allowed her little nose and black eyelashes to turn
my head an instant longer. She now became very haughty, I still colder and
more bitter, she more bacchanalian, and I was just in the act of jumping out
of a low window into a beautiful and spacious garden, when she coaxingly
passed her hands over my face, and tried to smooth the angry frown from
my brow; then I awoke, and quickly perceived that notwithstanding all the
wisdom I had possessed in my dream, I had not become one whit the wiser
than I was when I went to bed.

"But don't take the matter so much to heart, child," he continued, as
Balder remained silent. "I can assure you that a hopeless passion is no such
terrible misfortune. I am perfectly positive that I shall never see her again,
but how long it will be before I think of something else, I can't say. Yet it is
one of the most delightful experiences--this gentle consuming fire, this
sacred defencelessness, this introspection, joined to the consciousness of
external impressions; it is the true, immanent, and transcendent
contradiction, which is the veritable secret of all life, and of which man,
with his accustomed eminently respectable but imperfect knowledge of our
being, is seldom so keenly conscious. Some day, child, you too will
experience it, and then for the first time you will fully understand what I
mean. The head does not appear to work at all; the mill of ideas is stopped;
it has no more grist to grind. Very different nerve-centres appear to have
assumed control, and when I have overcome the first sense of strangeness,
it will be a very interesting psychological task--"

Here the door was thrown open, and a new visitor interrupted our
philosopher's attempt to make a virtue of necessity, and at least to render

useful to the cause of science, the sorrows of his heart.

CHAPTER V.

The new comer was a tall and very broad-shouldered young man, who
carried a travelling-satchel and a shawl thrown over his shoulder;
unceremoniously tossing a faded brown felt hat on Balder's bed, he nodded,
and smiling called out a "good morning" to the brothers. The first
impression made by the ash-colored face, furrowed by several scars, and the
somewhat crooked mouth, was not particularly favorable. An expression of
bitterness or malice dwelt about the strongly cut lips, and the teeth, which,
in speaking, were fully revealed, increased the fierce, unamiable look. But
when the countenance was in repose, the melancholy expression of the eyes
predominated over the more ignoble features, and the brow beneath the
short bristling hair seemed to have been developed by grave mental labor.
His movements were restless and impetuous, and his whole attire was that
of a man who thought little of his personal appearance, though his stately
figure was well worthy to command attention, had but a little care been
bestowed upon it.

"Why, Mohr! Heinrich Mohr! What wind has blown you to us again?"
cried Edwin, advancing to meet him and cordially shaking hands.

"The same thoughtless whirlwind, I suppose, that tosses all the
sweepings of humanity into confusion," replied the other. "It is only those
individuals, who possess a certain specific weight, that do not change their
places without special cause. You, for instance, I find in the same old house
where I left you three years ago. And, if I must be honest, the only sensible
reason I can give for venturing out of my dull little birthplace back to this
huge, clever, mad Berlin, was the desire to see you again. After all, you
have the most friendly faces, and that you really seem to feel a sort of
pleasure in being troubled with me again, proves that you are still the same
as of old."

"And you, too, seem to have altered little; less, perhaps, than would have
been advisable," said Edwin, laughing.

Mohr's only answer was a shrug of the shoulders. He threw down his
satchel and went to the turning-lathe, beside which Balder was leaning.

"Still as conscientious as ever; trying to kill himself," he muttered,
taking up some of the little articles which were waiting for the last touches.
"But I can't blame you, Balder. You at least accomplish something every
day, and only hurt your chest by bending and stooping. Other people would
be fairly beside themselves with impatience, if they had to sit doubled up all
day long turning their stock in trade. Besides, it seems to me you have made
considerable progress. You are an enviable fellow, Balder."

The youth looked at him with a smile.

"Would that you could only convince Edwin of it!" he said; "he is always
trying to persuade me to give up my trade. He won't believe that to sit
perfectly idle, and see everybody else work would kill me much sooner."

"Idle! As if you ever could be idle!" cried Edwin indignantly. "As if it
were not the most insane obstinacy to refuse to accept from his own and
only brother, that which even he has means sufficient to procure--a pitiful
mouthful of bread! But we will let it pass, though it is the only real
annoyance of my life, and this hard heart might so easily spare it me,--
Basta! I will not be vexed to-day. So begin your confession, my friend! To-
day, at least, you are secure from any moralizing on my part."

Mohr having seated himself in a chair beside the open window, had
begun to twist a cigarette, the materials for which he took from a tin box.

"There is absolutely nothing new to tell," he replied with great apparent
indifference. "The old apothegm that no one can add one inch to his stature,
has been once more ratified, that's all. I left Berlin, as you will remember,
because I thought that the noise and bustle alone prevented me from
becoming a great man. 'Talent developes in a quiet life.' Well, I've lived
quietly enough with my old mother, but nothing has developed. So, thinks I
to myself, as no talent developes let us try character--'character is formed in

the current of the world'--and so back I have come again, and have already
selected a character to which I intend to adapt myself. A match, Edwin!"

He puffed huge clouds of very strong Turkish tobacco out of the window.

"So nothing came of the editing of the newspaper, from which you
expected so much?"

"It was a miserable sheet, children, a commonplace, provincial,
gossiping little paper, in which appeared, twice a week, bad novels, stolen
from various quarters, or 'original contributions' by the bürgermeister's
daughter or chief customhouse officer's son, and lastly charades and
rebuses. However, all the citizens swore by it, and not a syllable was lost.
The right kind of fellow might have made something of it, or at least in time
have smuggled in something better, and, in so doing, might himself have
found room to grow. But there is the point. After first turning up my nose at
this narrowmindedness, I at last discovered that I really could not do much
better myself. You know I always believed that if I could once form a
correct appreciation of my own powers, a thing not to be accomplished in
the intellectual ant-hill of Berlin, the world would be astonished. Well, I
have really arrived at this just appreciation, and for a long time have been
unable to endure myself! God be thanked, that my good taste yet remains to
save me from that."

"Still the same old Mohr, whose favorite pastime it is to blacken his
character instead of washing himself white."

"Let me go on, and don't suppose that I am making myself out bad in
order that you may praise me the more. Besides, I don't wish to make
myself out 'bad'; I am really quite a passable fellow, neither stupid nor
tedious, with fair acquirements, and powers of judgment by no means
ordinary, nota bene, for what others do. If I were a rascal, I might by means
of them, accomplish something, open a booth for criticism, for instance, and
sell myself as dearly as possible. But the misfortune is that I have, or at
least had, the ambition to accomplish something myself, and what is worse,
desired to possess all sorts of talents. I have a most decided capacity for
becoming a mediocre poet or musician, and in political articles, which
appear to mean something and really say nothing, I have yet to find my

superior. You will say there are many such wights. Certainly. But not many
who have in addition such an honest, devout envy of the real men who can
accomplish something genuine, such a loathing of all botching, such disgust
when they have caught themselves at it. It was this that drove me away
from you. I could not endure to see you all, each in his own field of labor,
busy tilling and planting and at last reaping,--real grain, whether much or
little--and stand by with my cockle-weed. I felt like spitting in my own face
from chagrin at my mediocrity in everything that is worthy to be called
work, achievement, getting on in the world, while in talking I was a very
hero. Now, however, I have discovered that that is my destiny. A sorry
creature, created by Nature through some malicious whim, and condemned
always to stick halfway at everything. But I will spoil her jest; I will at least
do something completely and well, and in one point, at all events, I will
reach virtuosoship."

"I don't understand why this idea did not occur to you long ago," replied
Edwin. "You were born for a critic, and as such can have as much influence
on the world and society, as if you were a poet."

"I should be a fool!" exclaimed the other, tossing his cigarette into the
courtyard, as he started up and clasped his hands behind his head. "Attempt
to improve the world, tell it plain truths in black and white, which of course
every one will apply to his worthy neighbor, try to educate artists who fancy
that thinking paralyses the imagination, or tell truths to authors, who upon
perusing them fail more signally to comprehend themselves than when they
penned their thoughts,--no, my dear fellow, vestigia terrent. A certain
Lessing tried all that a hundred years ago, and broke his teeth on the hard
wood. All these philanthropic sacrifices make the world no happier, and
only render the individual wretched. The only pure and noble calling left for
such a superfluous mortal as myself to choose, is pure envy. In that I have
hitherto made considerable progress, and, as I said before, I expect to attain
in it a tolerable degree of eminence."

"Upon my word," laughed Edwin, "this is a novel way of attaining
happiness."

"Don't laugh, wiseacre," sighed Mohr, impressively. "You see, my child,
everybody in this miserable world, which all about us is so unfinished and

incomplete, is endeavoring to the best of his ability, at least to perfect his
own perishable self. The really gifted individuals have a surplus, from
which they impart a portion to others, and thereby help them to patch up
their poverty, and perhaps even scantily to complete themselves. I, for my
part, can only obtain repose when I fervently envy every thing that is great,
entire, exuberant. Through this envy I shall become, in a certain sense,
allied to it; for if I appreciated, tasted, felt, and deserved to possess no
portion, how could I envy it? Only those things that are somewhat
homogenous attract each other. And when I have sat during an entire
morning, thoroughly permeated with the sense of my own insignificance,
sincerely envying a Shakespeare, a Goethe, or a Mozart, have I not fulfilled
the purpose of my life better than if I had spent the same time in composing
a poor tragedy, some wretched love-songs, or a mediocre sonata?"

He went to the window and gazed at the top of the acacia-tree.

"You are right," said Balder's clear voice. "Only you ought not to give
the name of envy to what is really love, reverence, and the most beautiful
and unselfish enthusiasm."

"Balder has hit the nail on the head, as usual," said Edwin.

Mohr turned. The brothers noticed that he was winking rapidly, as if
desiring to make way with a suspicious moisture.

"It would be beautiful, if it were true," said he. "But this is only the
bright side of my virtuosoship; it has its shadows too, and they grow
broader than I like. I can see nothing that is complete and in harmony with
itself, without envy; no self-satisfied stupidity, no broad-mouthed
falsehood, no snobbish faces. And as if these worthies had really no right to
be happy, the demon of envy induces me to say something cutting, merely
to show them their own pitifulness. Thus in a short time I had all my worthy
fellow-citizens about my ears, and wherever I went was decried, avoided,
and warned off like a mad dog. It makes all the blood in my body boil,
when I see how everywhere the scamps get on in the world, and how the
honest fellows, who don't use their elbows, remain behind. You, for
instance, if I had my way, should be driving in a handsome coach with
servants at your command, as beseems the aristocracy of the human race.

Instead of that, that insignificant fellow, Marquard, whom I met below, has
his equipage, and graciously nods as he drives by, after reconnoitering me
from top to toe through his gold spectacles. Death and perdition, who can
see such things and not go wild--"

"Don't abuse our medical counsellor," said Edwin. "In spite of all you
have said he is a good fellow, and his carriage would suit my trade and
Balder's as little as my slow-stepping scientific methods would suit his
empirical gallop. Besides--"

At this moment they heard from the windows below, the first bars of the
overture to Glück's "Orpheus."

Mohr approached the window again, and listened attentively.

"Who is playing?" he asked after a time, in an undertone.

"One of the inmates of the house, a young lady of whom we know little
more than that she gives music-lessons. Last night--I have not yet told you
of it, Balder--I found her absorbed in Schopenhauer's Parerga. She spoke
enthusiastically about the chapter on 'the sorrows of the world.'

"Her music bears witness that in those sorrows she had had experience,"
said Mohr. "Women only play as she does when their hearts have been once
broken and then pieced together again. It is with them as it is with old
violins, which must be shattered several times before they have the right
resonance. But hush, it is growing still more beautiful."

He sat down on the window-sill, and, gazing without, became
completely absorbed in listening. Balder worked noiselessly at his little
boxes, while Edwin had taken a book though his gaze became fixed upon
one page. It was so quiet in the room, that during the pauses in the music,
they could hear the stealthy footsteps of the cat, which had just previously
leaped into the chamber, and eaten the remnants of the breakfast.

CHAPTER VI.

About the same time that these things were occurring in the back
building, the master of the house was in the shop talking with a customer,
who had just brought to be mended a pair of embroidered slippers, carefully
wrapped in an old newspaper.

It was somewhat unusual for the shoemaker to be absent from the
workroom at this time of day. But it was also, as the reader will remember,
an unusual occasion, Reginchin's birthday, and her mother, who generally
attended to the management of everything in the shop, was obliged to give
up the charge to her husband, in order to go into the kitchen and mix the
dough herself, for the usual birthday cake. She would not relinquish this
task, though there was a confectioner's shop at the very next corner. For
ever since Reginchin was four years old, she had been very fond of a certain
kind of home-made plumb-cake, and, though she could rarely do anything
exactly to her mother's mind, and was continually subject to her criticism,
the young girl was, as she very well knew, the apple of her mother's eye,
and, for her the good woman would have gone through fire. So, hot as the
day was, Madame Feyertag stood without a murmur beside the servant at
the fire, allowing herself to be troubled but little by the principal anxiety
which usually rendered her unwilling to have her husband in the shop: the
jealous fear that some female customers might come in, and that the
shoemaker might find other feet, whose measure he would be obliged to
take, prettier than those adorned with the legitimate slippers of his wife.

To be sure the worthy man, though he might have been a sly fellow in
his bachelor days, had given very little cause for such a suspicion during
twenty-three years of extremely peaceful married life. But within a few
months a change had taken place which attracted the attention of his clever
wife; a change not much apparent in his actions and conduct, since he
quietly continued his regular mode of life and did not even oppose the
before-mentioned slippers, but noticeable in his language. She was already

accustomed to hear him talk much of progress, and inveigh against all
tyranny, especially domestic slavery, giving utterance to very forcible
expressions, and this harmless amusement she willingly countenanced,
since all affairs of state and family pursued, as before, their even course.
But during the last three months his revolutionary table-talk had changed its
tone, and had been steadily pointed against "women," of whom he repeated
the most malicious things, usually in strange, outlandish words. Perhaps he
had merely picked up these contemptuous epithets at the liberal trades-
union, to which he owed all his progressive ideas; and if so, it was
something to be thankful for. But except on certain festive occasions,
women were excluded from these meetings, and at the entertainments a
very decorous tone always prevailed, to say nothing of the obligatory toast
to the fair sex. So, when all at once in speaking of "women," he used the
word "females," and talked of the "sex" with a shade of contempt, for which
Madame Feyertag's person and conduct did not give the slightest cause,
nothing was more probable than that the shoemaker had obtained his new
knowledge of feminine nature in other circles, and, perhaps led astray by
some acquaintances formed in the shop, had approached nearer to the light-
minded portion of the sex than could be at all desirable for the peace of the
household. Since that time, Madame Feyertag had kept a sharp eye on the
secret sinner, no longer permitting his presence in the shop, and had
emphatically forbidden the utterance of his offensive remarks, at least in
Reginchen's presence. For this restraint the worthy man indemnified
himself by talking all the more freely to others, and on this very morning,
when, contrary to his usual custom, we find him in the shop, he was in the
act of giving vent to the pent-up emotions of his heart. Compelled to keep
silence, his companion with some little surprise, patiently submitted to the
torrent of his eloquence. He was a little old-fashioned gentleman, with a
timid but lively manner, whose delicate regular features bore an expression
of such winning kindness that the most casual observer could not fail to
notice it; his was one of those faces, which, in consequence of the delicacy
of the skin, become prematurely withered, and yet never grow old. A small
grey moustache endeavored in vain to give a martial air to the innocent
childish face, and the forehead, which, through baldness, seemed to reach to
the crown of his head, failed just as signally to cast upon its owner the air of
a deep thinker. Yet when any important subject was under discussion, the

mild eyes could sparkle with a strange fire, and the whole face become
transfigured with interest and excitement.

This little man wore a neatly brushed but rather threadbare coat, cut in a
fashion that had prevailed ten years before, and a large white cravat,
fastened with a pin containing a woman's picture. He had placed upon the
counter an old-fashioned grey hat, with a piece of crape twisted around it,
and, with both hands resting on his cane, he sat opposite the shoemaker,
who had just examined the slippers, and said that they could be mended so
as to look very well, only that a part of the embroidery would be lost.

"Spare as much of it as you can," pleaded the little gentleman. "They
were my dead wife's last birthday gift; she worked them herself. I have
worn them constantly for five years; but I step so lightly that I don't wear
out many shoes. I suppose I am your worst customer," he added, with an
apologetic smile.

"That is of no consequence, Herr König," replied the shoemaker; "it is
always an honor as well as a pleasure to work for you and your family, not
only on account of the high instep which you all have, but because you are
an artist and have an eye for shape. As for the durableness of the shoes, that
is not your fault, but the fault of the leather. But wait till your daughter goes
to balls. Good work is of no avail then, Herr König; dancing shoes which
are not as delicate and as easily broken as poppy-leaves, do the shoemaker
no credit."

The little gentleman shook his head thoughtfully.

"My daughter, I fear, will give you little opportunity to earn money in
that article," said he, "She has no desire for any of the seemly amusements
which I would willingly grant her; her mind is filled with her work and her
father; she can't be induced to attend to anything else."

"Well, well," said the shoemaker, drawing from his jacket a little silver
snuff-box, which he offered the artist, "those things will come as a matter of
course. Young ladies always have some peculiarities, you know; they do not
forget the mother; but women are women, Herr König, and there is no
virtue in youth. True, you yourself still wear crape around your hat; in your

case constancy may be in the blood. But wait a while. The will, Herr König,
is master; the perception weak; of how weak it is, we have sometimes little
idea."

"You are mistaken," replied the other, fixing his eyes which wore a quiet,
thoughtful expression upon the floor. "She has become perfectly cheerful
again, and I also, though every day I still miss my dead wife. God does not
like to see discontented faces, He has made the world too beautiful for that.
The crape--yes, I have kept it on my hat. Why should I take it off, and
when? It would seem very strange to me, to say to myself on a certain day:
From this time things shall no longer be as they were yesterday; I will now
remove this token of remembrance. Should I thereby blot out the memory
too? But even if her mother were still alive, I do not think the child would
be any different. She has a very peculiar character."

"Be kind enough to permit me to differ from you," said the shoemaker
with great positiveness, despite the courteous language he studiously
adopted. "Women--true women--have generally no character of their own,
but one that belongs in common to all the sex. For the sole object for which
they are in the world, is, to use Salvenia's words, only to continue the
species, or, as we term it, for propagation. A woman who desires anything
else, has something wrong about her; I say this without intending to cast
any reflections upon your daughter."

The artist opened his little eyes to their widest extent. "My dear
Feyertag, why do you say such strange things?" he said, naïvely. "Is not a
woman as much a creature of the dear God as we ourselves? formed in his
image, and endowed with soul and mind?"

The shoemaker laughed, as if fully conscious of his own superiority.

"Don't take it amiss, Herr König," he said, "but that is an exploded
opinion. Have you never heard of the great philosopher, Schopenhauer? He
will make you understand it thoroughly; he will prove as plainly as that
twice two make four, of what account is the so-called emancipation of
women."

"I don't have much time to read," replied the little artist. "But the little
you have told me does not render me anxious to become familiar with an
author who has thought so slightingly of the noblest and most lovable
portion of humanity. I prefer to say with my beloved Schiller, 'Honor to
women'!"

"'They spin and weave,'" replied, the shoemaker. "Yes, and they can do it
very skillfully, and it is an extremely useful occupation. But in other things,
in the employments of men--this low-statured, narrow-shouldered, broad-
hipped, and short-legged sex, as Herr Schopenhauer expresses it,--no, Herr
König, men must not allow them to become too strong. Propagation,
nothing more. But propaganda, you see, for the liberal and progressive, is
our affair. For instance, there is my wife; the best woman in the world! But
if I did not now and then show her that I am master, where should I be? I
admit that during the last few years, out of pure indolence, I have allowed
her to do and say more than was well. But Schopenhauer has brought me to
myself. Now, when she mistakes her social position, and wants to
emancipate herself too much, I say: 'Hush, Guste. You, too, were once an
explosive effect of Nature; but now the noise has died away, and the effect
remains.' Then she scolds about my worthless way of talking, as she calls it,
but no longer ventures to say anything, because she has not the least
suspicion what I really mean by it, and that it is in Schopenhauer. Ha! ha!
ha!"

He chuckled with delight, and rubbed his broad hands.

"How did you chance upon this mischievous book?" asked the artist.

"Very naturally. In my back building lives a very learned gentleman, a
philosopher by profession, and soon to become professor of philosophy.
One day, when he was not at home, the bookbinder's boy came and left in
my shop a whole package of freshly bound books, which I was to keep for
the Herr Doctor. It was after dinner, when I usually take a little nap. So, half
asleep, I aimlessly took the uppermost book in my hand, and began to read
at the place where it opened. Zounds, how my eyes flew open! 'Upon
females' was the heading of the chapter. I could not stop till I had read the
last lines. I tell you, Herr König, old King Solomon, much as he knew about

women, and propagation, and the conception of species, might have gone to
school to him."

"Is Schopenhauer the author's name? And do you call him a philosopher,
because he revives the old commonplaces about the other sex?"

The little artist's eyes flashed as he uttered these words, and he seized his
hat as if he were in a hurry to leave the shop.

"He is a philosopher, for the Herr Doctor himself says so; but not merely
because of what he has written about women; the Herr Doctor showed me
another thick book. He said it treated of will and perception; however, it
was too heavy for me. If you would like to read it, he will cheerfully lend it
to you."

"Thank you, I have not the slightest desire to make the acquaintance of a
gentleman who holds and desires to spread such opinions."

"The Herr Doctor? There you are very much mistaken, Herr König. He
won't listen to a word about the essay on women, and says there is just as
much falsehood as truth in it. He is a bachelor, Herr König, and what does a
bachelor know about the conception of species? Besides, he never
associates with women, but devotes himself entirely to his invalid brother.
They might as well be in a monastery, Herr König; my wife often says that
if we were to advertise in the newspapers and offer a reward of a hundred
thalers, we could not find such another couple of well-behaved young men
in all Berlin."

"Indeed? And learned too, you say?"

"Only the older one, the Herr Doctor. He has not much money, because
he is at the university, and you are probably aware the minister of public
worship and instruction wants to starve out the whole university, and then
fill all the vacant places with pastors; there is but one opinion about it in the
trades union. But our Herr Doctor gives private lessons, and his brother
sells some of the little articles he turns; they live on the proceeds always
paying punctually the rent, and the household bills for cooking and

washing. Two young men, Herr König, to whom immorality is something
utterly unknown."

The artist had laid down his hat again, and seemed to be struggling with
some resolution.

"My dear Herr Feyertag," he said at last, "Do you know, I think I should
like after all to make the acquaintance of your Herr Doctor. If what you say
is true, he is the very man for whom I have been looking a long time. My
daughter complains that she cannot continue her studies alone. What she
knows she learned from her mother. But since the latter died, I have found
her services indispensable at home, and I thought her so clever that she
could get on by herself if I only bought her books. But it seems that she
cannot dispense with regular instruction, and now she is too old and too
sensible to content herself with the first instructor that offers, and recently,
when she met a certain young lady, a teacher who has given lessons in very
aristocratic families, she conversed with her so cleverly that the young
woman declared she could teach her nothing. So if your Herr Doctor is
really such a phoenix, and a true man besides--"

"If by 'phoenix' you mean insurance against fire, one can never be
certain of that in young people, but I'll stake my life on his goodness;
everything else you must find out for yourself in case you are really serious
about giving your daughter--but that is none of my business. My Regine can
read and write, and that is enough to enable her to get along with everything
that does not concern propagation. However, everybody has a right to his
own opinion. If that is yours, Herr König, you will probably find the Herr
Doctor at home now. It is vacation, and most of his private pupils are
traveling."

"I suppose," said the artist timidly, as he put on his hat and followed the
shoemaker into the entry, "the price for the lessons will not be exorbitant."

"You need have no anxiety on that score," replied the shoemaker,
shuttings the door of the shop. "If he were paid as he deserves, he wouldn't
need to climb my old back stairs, but could buy the handsomest house on
Unter der Linden. Turn to the left here, and then cross the courtyard, Herr
König, if you please."

CHAPTER VII.
Meantime the brothers had again been left alone.

As soon as the music below ceased, Mohr took his hat. "To envy this
happiness is one of my favorite occupations," he growled, twisting his
under lip awry. "I pity you for being able to listen to such a thing quietly,
without becoming filled with fiendish joy or rage, I tried to express this
mood in a somewhat rattling, but I think not wholly meritless composition,
which I call my sinfonia ironica. When I have a lodging and a tin pan, I'll
play it to you, and then read you my new comedy: 'I am I, and rely on
myself.'"

"A great many pleasures at once, Heinz," said Edwin.

"You need not fear the length of this concert spirituel. Only two bars of
the symphony and an act and a half of the comedy are finished. A man who
is but half a man, never brings any work to completion."

"Fortunately, as you know, the half is more than the whole,"

"You shall give me a lecture on that subject very shortly, Philosopher.
Adieu."

He went out to search for lodgings in the neighborhood. His mother, a
widow in easy circumstances, seemed to have provided him with sufficient
means to live for some time without work. At the pianist's door he paused,
and read on the little porcelain plate: "Christiane Falk, music teacher."
Within everything was still. He would gladly have found some pretext to
ring and to make her acquaintance; however, none occurred to him, so he
deferred it until a more favorable opportunity.

Balder had returned to his work again. He seemed in great haste to
complete a dainty little box of olive-wood, which contained all sorts of
implements for sewing.

In the meantime Edwin was dressing.

This was usually accomplished in the following manner: first he hung a
small mirror, scarcely the width of his hand, on a nail in one of the book
shelves, just under Kant's critique of pure reason and Fichte's religion of
science, and then while passing a comb minus numerous teeth through his
hair and beard, gazed less into the little glass than across at Balder. To-day,
however, he did something more; he shortened the hair on his temples and
chin with a pair of scissors, and moreover looked somewhat carefully to see
whether it was cut evenly on both sides. "I find," said he, "that familiarity
with the ballet has demoralized me. I am already beginning to be vain, and
have discovered all sorts of defects in my honest face, with which I have
hitherto been perfectly satisfied. We should have divided our good mother's
beauty between us more equally. But perhaps after all, it is better that the
inheritance has remained intact, rather than squandered upon two. Come,
give your artistic opinion, my boy, has not the plantation been very much
improved by mowing?"

"I should have spared the beard," said Balder. "It was very becoming to
you."

"You don't understand, child. It has been much too long for some time,
even for a philosopher, and although, as in the times of Julius Cæsar, no one
must wander about on working days 'without some sign of his occupation,'
it is now vacation with me and I want to go out to-day as an ordinary
mortal, not as an object to startle women and children. Come, make up your
mind to accompany me. We will take a droschky, stop at the confectioner's,
where you must be treated to ice-cream to-day as I treated myself yesterday,
and afterwards--"

"To-day, Edwin? To-day--excuse me--I don't feel exactly well--it will be
better to choose some other time--"

He bent his glowing face over his work.

Just at this moment some one knocked, and the round, good-natured face
of the owner of the house appeared in the doorway, for the little artist had
insisted upon his going first. In the half jocose, half respectful manner,

which he always adopted toward the brothers, he introduced Herr König to
them as a cultivated artist, and the father of a daughter already highly
educated, but who desired to pursue her education still further. Immediately
upon entering, the little gentleman had become absorbed in looking at the
copperplate engravings and busts, and, seemingly, had forgotten the cause
of his visit. But when the shoemaker paused, and Edwin glanced smilingly
at Balder, he recollected himself and modestly told his errand.

"My dear sir," replied Edwin, "I really feel very much honored, but I do
not yet know whether I am the man you seek, for I am not a particularly
good teacher, since I have not a particle of ambition to become a
pedagogue. For a thorough teacher is indifferent to the calibre of his pupil's
mind; the more idle, stupid, and destitute of talent the scholar, the more
eager should the teacher be to make something out of him. I, on the
contrary, still have too much to do for myself, to be able to help others who
have not at least the ability to help themselves. I can indeed show the way,
but the scholar must perform the work. And as for young ladies, with all
due respect for your daughter, Herr König, how are these poor creatures,
even if the roads are smoothed before them and the goal pointed out, to
journey forward on their own feet, when from their earliest childhood,
every natural, firm, and steady step has been prohibited as unwomanly!
They trip and dance and glide and hover and soar, with variegated wings
over the green meadows of youth, but when they at last reach the highway
of sober life, they lean on a husband's arm, and expect to be supported and
carried forward by him. Excuse this uncourteous language, I have
experienced these things, and I do not see why I should not speak openly.
However, as I am now at leisure, if you will venture to try me upon the
recommendation of our landlord and foster father, I will make an attempt to
ascertain whether you are not deceived in me."

He took his straw hat, and said in an undertone to Balder: "Don't wait
meals for me again to-day, my boy, I may wander out somewhere into the
green fields, after I have made the acquaintance of this king's daughter,[1]
who is so eager for education."

He passed his hand gently over the youth's hair by way of parting, and
accompanied the two men down stairs.

When he was alone in the hot street with the little artist, the latter said:
"You have not far to go, Herr Doctor, I live on the Schiffbauerdamm, and
we can walk in the shade all the way. But, that you may understand my
daughter's peculiar course of education, allow me to tell you something of
my domestic affairs. Your landlord has made you acquainted with my name.
You have probably never heard it mentioned before. My pictures are not
remarkable performances, and for several years past I have turned my
attention more to wood engraving. A trade, Herr Doctor, takes root in a
firmer soil than art, though it may not always be a soil so golden, and it
becomes a father of a family, even if the family consists of but two persons-
-however, I have never wholly relinquished painting, adhering always to my
own very modest style, which in art circles, has even earned me a
nickname. Just as there is a cat-Raphael, and a velvet-and-hell Breughel, so
I am called, owing to my predilection for introducing old fences into my
landscapes, the zaun-könig.[2] Predilection?" he smiled as he continued,
"that is not exactly the right word either. God knows I would rather paint
beautiful woodlands, like Ruysdell, or clear, bright atmospheres like Claude
Lorraine, if my talent were but sufficient. But I always succeed best in
small, insignificant objects. So a bit of ground with stones, weeds, and
brambles, a clod of earth on which mother nature has developed her
productive powers as freely as if it were a world in itself, in short what we
call a 'foreground,' has always given me so much to do--especially as I am
somewhat near-sighted--that I have never arrived at real landscapes. Well,
everybody must cut his garment according to his cloth. And when we reflect
aright, do not God's power and glory make themselves manifest in just as
wonderful a guise behind a low hedge or a garden fence, as in the romance
of the primeval forest, or the surpassing grandeur of the Swiss Alps? So
what I do, I do because I cannot help it; in short I work for my own
edification, and try to represent a small portion, a little corner or bit of
creation, with so much care and love, that in looking upon my work people
may see that, even this despised spot, God's breath has touched."

Edwin had given but partial attention to these remarks, which would
usually have interested him far more deeply. His thoughts were wandering
in vague, distant realms. But in order to say something, he remarked: "And
do you find purchasers for your pictures?"

The little gentleman smiled, in a half-embarrassed, half-conscious
manner.

"Well," said he, "I can't complain. I always dispose of at least every
fourth or fifth picture; for, is it not strange! now-a-days everybody must
have his specialty; a work may be ever so worthless, but it will possess
some value, because its producer has had the courage not to flinch or retreat
from the path he has appointed for himself even if the critics assail him with
their deadly weapons. Yes, yes, it is indeed surprizing to me, myself, but
patrons of the fine arts have come hither from Holland and from England,
who wanted a real zaun-könig and nothing better. So it is, that in the great
economy of our creator, every creature finds its appointed place, the mite as
well as the elephant.

"But I was going to tell you something about my domestic affairs,"
continued the little man. "You see, Herr Doctor, I have now been a widower
five years and seven months, but I cannot yet speak of my dear wife without
feeling, a perhaps unmanly or unchristian, but nevertheless unconquerable
grief. Therefore I will speak no further of her, except that during the fifteen
years I lived with her, there was not an hour which I could wish effaced
from my memory. She was a Jewess, and I am a good evangelical Christian,
but even that did not cause a single moment of bitterness, for the God in
whom we both believed, was one and the same. As for our daughter, the
mother agreed that she should be educated as a Christian, and though she
herself did not wish to be baptised, she never tried to perplex the child. She
was buried in the Jewish churchyard, but that has never troubled me. The
spot to which this noble creature was carried for her eternal rest, is holy, no
matter whether it was consecrated by Christian minister or Jewish Rabbi.
Since she died, I can see that I have not been so pious as when she was
alive. The memory of her blends with all my thoughts of heaven; I can no
longer, as before, be alone in the presence of my God. Ah well. He will not
impute that to me as a sin."

The artist paused a moment. His voice seemed to fail him, but after a
moment he continued:

"She has left me a daughter, who in many respects is very like her; in
others not at all. She has far more independence, and often we do not

understand each other, and that never happened with her mother. The child
is nineteen years old, and--I will not praise her--but no one could have a
better heart, to say nothing of such a talent for drawing and painting, that I
only wonder how she came by it. In many things, flower-pieces for
instance, I am a bungler to her. I ought, long ago, to have discountenanced
her close application to it, that she might have had more time for other
things, I mean for intellectual culture. But it gave her pleasure to think that
she could earn something while yet so young, and besides I was vain of her
progress. Now, however, the punishment has come. For some time she has
been melancholy, because she fancied that she was ignorant, or as she
expressed it, that she had no clear ideas. Now to me she seems clever and
learned enough, and our old friend, the widow of Professor Valentin, cannot
understand what fault she can find in herself, except perhaps, her somewhat
singular opinions on religious subjects. But I see that it is secretly
destroying her peace of mind, and, as I cannot help her myself, I have had
recourse to you, Herr Doctor, and, just because you are no pedantic
schoolmaster, I think you will soon discover what is the matter with the
dear child."

Meantime they had walked down Friedrichstrasse to the Spree, and now
turned the corner to the right. "My house is only a few hundred paces
farther," said the artist. "It would be very difficult for me to make up my
mind to live in any other part of the city. People are always speaking so
contemptuously of our good Spree, and, to be sure, it is by no means the
proudest of our German rivers, nor the poorest just here, in the midst of
Berlin. But, to an artist's eye--apart from the impression it makes in the
open country, and especially in a romantic spot like the Spreewald--can
there be anything more charming than this view of the canal, bridges, places
of lading, water steps, and the honest old Spree boats, lying so sleepily in
the noonday sun, like great fat crocodiles on the banks of the Nile? Look;
the sailors have already eaten their dinners; only here and there a thin blue
column of smoke, circles upward from some cabin chimney; the husband is
lying on deck, under a piece of sail near his cargo of coal, and his wife sits
beside him holding the baby in her lap, and brushing away the water-flies.
Notice how the brown wood is relieved against the pale surface of the
water, and behind it all, the bright sunlight effect. See, too, the white
Pomeranian, standing on the cabin stairs barking at the little grey cat in the

other boat? Here, in the midst of our elegant capital, you have a fragment of
Holland, as complete as you could desire."

"You have been in Holland?"

"No; I have never gone so far. But when one has seen their pictures and
the excellent photographs that we have now--but stop a moment if you
please, I must show you something else."

They had just passed some high houses and reached a place, where a
narrow, ditch-like canal, bridged where the street crossed it, emptied into
the Spree. On one side stood the blank wall of a three-story factory.
Opposite was a low hut, very narrow in front, but extending along the canal
to a considerable depth. It seemed to have formerly opened upon the quay,
by a door beside its single window, but the door was now walled up, and the
window covered on the inner side by a dark cloth. This decaying little house
was connected by means of an iron railing with its massive neighbor.

The artist leaned over the railing and gazed up the canal, whose dirty
brown water flowed so sluggishly, that it seemed stagnant and gave forth a
mouldering exhalation.

"Of what does this remind you?" he asked, turning to Edwin.

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

"Why, the canal, and yonder little bridge that connects the two banks, the
post to which the clothes-line is fastened, and the atmospheric effect and
coloring of the stones, which we artists call tone."

"It bears a distant, but by no means flattering resemblance, to Venice and
the Bridge of Sighs."

"Right!" cried the little man, who in his earnestness, failed to hear the
tinge of sarcasm in Edwin's remark. "True, I have not been in Venice
myself. But friends of mine, who have visited Italy, have likewise been
compelled to confess that this view was completely Venetian, at least as the
city is represented in Canaletto's pictures, which, however, are doubtless

somewhat cooler in tone, than the reality. However, we are in Berlin, and it
is only a harmless jest when I talk of my lagune."

"Your lagune?"

"Certainly. I live here."

"In this--"

"Yes, in this hut: you need not swallow the word. To be sure it is not a
doge's palace, this place where I have lived these twenty years, but I would
not exchange it for all the splendor of the old sposo del mare, as the
Venetians called their ruler. Besides, it is pleasanter within than its exterior
would lead one to expect. The door which is now walled up, was formerly
the entrance to a sailor's tavern, a wretched, dirty wine-shop, and behind it
were a few miserable rooms, and a hole of a kitchen. Then came the stable
and the wood-dealer's shed, whose timber-yard, as you see, adjoins our little
house. I had just been married, and with all my treasures of hope and
happiness, was but a poor devil, when the host of this inn was arrested by
the police for concealing stolen goods and for other bad practices. The
lumber merchant would not have another dram-seller on his premises, and
the place was not exactly suitable for any one else. So I got it at a very low
price, had the door walled up to admit the light into my studio from above,
and though it has cost both toil and money to efface the traces of the dirty
inn--you shall judge for yourself if we have not at last succeeded."

Taking the lead, he conducted Edwin through a large gate across the
spacious timber-yard. A narrow lane led between the huge piles of odorous
pine and beech wood, directly to the "hut," whose side view was no more
aristocratic than the front.

"These six windows belong to me," said the artist with modest pride.
Then he opened the low door and invited Edwin to enter.

The interior of the old barrack, apart from a certain gloom and
dampness, really did look more comfortable than one would have thought
possible from its exterior. An entry, painted in some light color, was hung

with etchings in plain wooden frames. A door, opposite, appeared to open
upon the canal.

"Turn to the right, if you please," said the artist, "the apartments on the
left are our sitting-room, my daughter's little room, a kitchen, and a bed-
chamber. Everything on the right belongs to art--according to my modest
style, for I sleep in my studio, and even in my dreams I remain only the
zaun-könig, and never fancy myself a Canaletto because I live beside a
lagune."

As he concluded he opened the door of his studio.

Certainly the low room no longer showed any trace of having previously
sheltered drunken sailors, but to have painted Claude Lorraine atmospheres
there on gloomy days would have been a difficult matter. Two windows
opened upon the canal and the dark chimney of the next house interposed
itself between them and every ray of sunlight. At one of these windows
stood a low table, covered with the various tools of a wood-engraver; at the
other, a desk-like stand, before which sat a young girl, absorbed in her
work. Just in front of her a bouquet of fresh flowers stood in a little vase,
and she was evidently employed in copying into the wreath which she was
painting on a porcelain plate, leaves and flowers from nature. On the walls
hung all sorts of sketches, interspersed with finished pictures which, even at
a distance, could not fail to be recognized as "genuine zaun-königs," while
on an easel not far from the first window, stood a new half-finished
landscape, over which the artist instantly spread a cloth.

"You must not see me too much in négligé," he said blushing. "I usually
begin very awkwardly, and make a great many strokes on my little piece of
canvas, before any clear outlines appear. But here is my daughter, Leah. She
bears her mother's name. What are you going to say, my child? You will be
pleased with me, for I have brought you something that you have long been
wishing for."

At her father's first words the young girl had arisen, but, on perceiving
the stranger she bowed modestly without moving from her place.

"I was not conscious, dear father, of having particularly desired
anything," she now said, gazing in surprise at the merry, mysterious face of
the little man, who seemed to be revelling in her perplexity.

"'Not a teacher, child?' this very learned Herr Doctor will not get to the
end of his Latin as quickly as the good young lady. But he wishes to
ascertain how far advanced you are, before saying whether he will give you
lessons. Come, come, you need not be frightened. The examination won't
kill you, even if you should be obliged to rack your brains a little now and
then. Am I not right, Herr Doctor?"

The young girl, whose complexion was usually pale, crimsoned, and
remained silent, as if uncertain whether to take the matter in jest or earnest.
Edwin had time to observe her closely. She was taller than her father, with a
firm, slender figure, and seemed to resemble him in nothing except the
remarkably small size of her hands and feet. In the beautiful, but perhaps
rather high forehead, or in the large, dark eyes which recalled her mother's
race, there was no expression of cheerfulness; but with the exception of the
eyes there was nothing Jewish in the face; the nose was perfectly straight,
and the mouth possessed a certain sensual fullness, which softened the
sternness of the other features. She had woven her thick black hair in braids,
which she wore in a singular fashion, crossed under her chin, so that the
pale oval face seemed set in a dark frame. A simple brown dress, worn,
despite the prevailing fashion, without crinoline, completed the unusually
grave appearance of the youthful figure.

At the first glance Edwin perceived that he had reason to congratulate
himself on the prospect of having such a scholar.

"Your father was but jesting," he said smiling. "Of course there is no
necessity for a thorough examination. On the contrary, if you can assure me,
Fräulein, that you think yourself very ignorant, you shall be spared any
further questions."

"Well, I will confess that!" laughed her father. "But you won't find fault
with the little knowledge she has acquired from school-books."

"Not at all," replied Edwin, as he approached the young girl and looked
at her work. "You see, Fräulein, I once had to teach a young lady, who,
during the very first lesson, overwhelmed me with such a quantity of
learning, had so much to say about cuneated letters, Egyptian mythology,
besides relating various narratives about art and literature, that, beside her, I
seemed to myself like a child just beginning its A, B, C. To be sure her wise
little head was like a lumber-room, where articles for the most varied and
opposite uses are stowed side by side without order or connection. But in
her innocence she had no suspicion of the existence of anything like
clearness and coherence, or cause and effect, in subjects and ideas. So I paid
her and her mother the compliment of saying that I found it impossible to
improve the young lady's education, and withdrew as speedily as possible."

The father and daughter were silent. Edwin, as if thinking of entirely
different matters, walked about the room examining the sketches and
studies.

"Well, my child?" the little artist spoke inquiringly; he was growing
restless, for he did not exactly understand the state of affairs.

"You will not complain of me for a similar cause," the young girl now
said, her voice trembling with suppressed excitement, while her eyes
sparkled with a strange light. "My case is exactly the reverse of that young
lady's. So long as my mother taught me, all study was a pleasure. She did
not make it easy; I was compelled to study out everything by myself, and I
never dared to repeat anything by rote, for she chided me when she
discovered it. Perhaps I did not learn much, or a great variety; but
everything made a strong impression upon me, and I have not forgotten a
word. But she died when I was yet very young, and afterwards when I tried
to get on by myself with the aid of books everything seemed uninteresting,
and I no longer took any pleasure in study. And besides all this I must
hasten to confess, Herr Doctor, that, after all, you may not expect too much,
that I have an actual aversion to history and geography, and no ability to
remember them. On the contrary--but you are smiling. I expected as much;
you did not suppose it was so bad."

"And for what have you a taste, Fräulein? What is it you desire to learn?
Do not take offence at my smile. It only meant, that, at your age, I was not

very unlike you."

She made no reply but cast a timid glance at her father. The little man
seemed to understand it. He went to the other window, and busied himself
with his bits of wood.

"I should like," she now said in an undertone, fixing her dark eyes on the
flowers in the vase, "I should like to have a clear idea of many things which
are now dark to my mind. Often when I am sitting quietly at work, thoughts
come that frighten me. Then they vanish again, because I cannot detain and
think them out. It is like being at night in a strange neighborhood during a
thunder-storm; for an instant a flash of lightning reveals streets and alleys,
and then, suddenly, all is dark again. Or perhaps I read a passage in a book,
over which I am constantly compelled to reflect, longing to ask the author
what he meant, but no answer comes. I feel," she added in a still lower tone,
"that in many things I am unlike my dear father and a friend of ours, the
Fran Professorin Valentin, who is half a theologian, while I--well it is not
for lack of good will if I am not like her. But what I do not understand has
no existence for me, at least to contemplate it makes me unhappy rather
than happy, and yet when they say that the final secrets of the world, and
the divine thoughts, cannot be comprehended by the human mind, I am
obliged to concede the point. Only I can have no rest until I learn whether
we can know anything, and if so how much, or if one, who unfortunately is
unable to believe what she cannot understand, must renounce all truth."

She stopped suddenly, as her father made a movement as if to rejoin
them, and with a hasty beseeching glance at Edwin, seemed to entreat him
not to violate the secret of the confessional.

He smiled again and turned toward the innocent little man, who
approached. "My dear Herr König," said he, "your daughter has passed the
preliminary examination with great credit. I only hope that the pupil may be
as well satisfied with her teacher, as he expects to be with her. So if it suits
your convenience, we will begin to-morrow, and I will come to you every
other day at any hour in the afternoon which you yourselves may select."

The father looked at his daughter. "I thank you sincerely, dear Herr
Doctor," said he. "See how the child's eyes are sparkling with pleasure.

Now in regard to your other conditions--"

"I shall make but one, my dear sir: that no one shall be present during the
lessons. When I give private instruction, I always insist upon this point.
Either a public class-room, or entire privacy."

"Unless you prefer some other place, Leah, you might receive the Herr
Doctor in your sitting-room on the other side of the entry, where your
writing-table stands; but I think we had better show our friend the whole
house, that he may himself choose the best auditory."

When Edwin took his leave a half hour later, he had seen every nook and
corner in the little house; the niche in the sitting-room where the bust of
Leah's mother stood, the green sofa before it, the ivy at the window, the
steps leading to the lagune, where a pleasant-looking old maid-servant was
busy with her washing; glancing toward her young mistress, she gazed
curiously at the guest, who seemed to be illustrating Jean Paul's pun about
the Lehrmeister, who might become a Mehrleister, Edwin himself would
never have dreamed of such a thing. He was very gay, and talked brilliantly
as if among old acquaintances. Later, when he had taken his leave, and
found himself in the street, he again paused a moment by the railing which
ran alongside of the canal; he no longer thought it incomprehensible that the
occupants of this insignificant "hut" would not have exchanged it for a
palace.

CHAPTER VIII.

But he had not strolled far from the quay, when these newly made
friends vanished from his memory as suddenly as we blow out a candle, and
in their place appeared in most vivid hues, the vision of the Unknown he
had seen at the opera-house. The change was so sudden, that he fairly
started and stood still a moment to calm the beating of his heart. If he had
met her, bodily, on the lonely street, he could not have been more
astonished.

"A bad prospect for amendment," he said to himself, with a half
compassionate, half satisfied smile. He removed his hat and leaned over the
railing. Beneath him, the river flowed noiselessly on. A dead, half-plucked
bird floated past him, near a half-eaten apple. "Poor thing," said Edwin,
"you have endured to the end, and if not to be is better than to be, you might
be congratulated that never more will bright-hued dainties tempt you, or
hunger gnaw at your vitals when you have naught else with which to satisfy
its claims. Yet the sun is so beautiful, and apples sweet to the taste, and I
doubt not that your worst nest was more comfortable than the filthy
nothingness that bears you away."

He listened. Few persons and no carriages passed this spot, but in the
distance he heard the hum and roar of the streets, through which rolled the
principal stream of traffic. It was pleasant to lose his own identity in the
vague sense of a manifold life, and yet at the same time to bask in solitude.
But, after a time, his enjoyment began to pall. He turned back into the shade
and walked slowly along the river toward the neighborhood, where by
passing through a few short side streets, the zoölogical gardens may be
reached. Here, too, it was lonely at this noonday hour, and his old habit of
strolling here and there while thinking out a problem, had taught him all the
paths in which there was the least danger of meeting any one. But to-day he
had no desire to philosophize. On reaching his favorite spot, the peninsula--
not far from the marble statue of the king and the Louise island, where a

few weeks before he had developed his best thoughts for the prize essay, he
threw himself upon the grass in the dense shade of the huge beeches and
closed his eyes, that undisturbed he might devote himself to his hopeless
love dream.

Despite his twenty-nine years, his feelings were precisely similar to
those which fall to the lot of every one when attacked by his first schoolboy
love: the sensation of yielding to violence, of quite forgetting self, and of
being borne away on a flood-tide of passion, is so strong and so delightful,
that it swallows up all other emotions and impulses, and the thought of
possession, or even the desire for a responsive feeling, can scarcely arise,--
or, if at all, not in the first stages, and in such a virgin soul as that of our
philosopher. The very unexpectedness, aimlessness, and unreasonableness
of this event, was to him, o'erwearied with arduous toil over abstruse
thoughts, like bathing in a shoreless sea, where, floating, he suffered the
waves to buoy him above the fathomless depths.

A hoarse hand-organ close by, which suddenly began to play the "Prince
of Arcadia," roused him rudely from the reverie in which time and place
were both forgotten. He sprang to his feet, and sought some escape from the
intrusive, soulless sounds. In a modest restaurant, where only a few plain
citizens were drinking coffee, he hurriedly ate his dinner, and then as the
seats were beginning to fill with afternoon guests, he hastily departed,
whither he did not himself know; he was only vaguely conscious of a
repugnance to appearing in broad daylight, in so helpless a condition,
before the brother to whom the preceding night he had frankly confessed
his state of mind.

So glancing about him, he walked diagonally through the shrubbery,
without any definite purpose, until he entered a broader avenue, when he
suddenly stood still, and with a cry of joyful astonishment gazed at some
distant object. It was at nothing more remarkable than a red and white
striped summer waistcoat, which, as the sun was shining full upon it, was
plainly visible. But it contained a little figure that he readily recognized; a
boy about fourteen years old, who wore a high collar, a stiff cravat, a
leather-colored livery jacket, and knee-breeches of the same material. The
youngster was sitting on a bench in a droll old-fashioned attitude; he had

placed his shining oil-skin hat beside him, and was engaged in smoothing
his light hair with a little brush, glancing from time to time into a small
hand-glass.

Edwin would have recognized this boy among a crowd of miniature
lackeys, but he had not time to look at him long. Just as he took a few paces
forward, fully determined to question him concerning his mistress, a slender
figure in a light summer dress and broad Florentine straw hat rose from the
next bench, which was concealed by a drooping branch, glanced over her
shoulder at the boy, and then holding in one hand the book she had been
reading, and carrying a parasol lightly over her shoulder, she walked rapidly
toward the main avenue which runs from the Brandebourg gate directly
through the Zoölogical Garden.

Her motions were so rapid that the little fellow in the large gaiters found
it difficult to overtake her, and even Edwin was compelled to take long
strides. As he passed the bench where she had been sitting, he saw a ribbon
lying on the ground, which, in her hasty departure, she seemed to have lost.
He picked it up; it was a white satin book-mark, the ends trimmed with gold
fringe, and somewhat clumsily embroidered in blue and black beads with
the well-known symbols of faith, hope, and charity. This discovery detained
him a moment. Meantime its owner had already reached an elegant
carriage, which had been waiting for her outside, the little page had opened
the door, the lady entered without his assistance, the horses started, and the
light equipage rolled toward the city at a rapid pace.

But today Edwin had not only better fortune than on the day previous,
but also the presence of mind necessary to seize his opportunity. An empty
droschky was moving lazily down the road; he threw himself into it and
promised the driver a double fare, if he would overtake the carriage and not
lose sight of it.

They drove through the gate, down Unter den Linden, turned to the right
into Friedrichstrasse, and then to the left into the Jägerstrasse, where the
equipage stopped before a pretty new house. The little servant climbed
down from the box like a monkey, opened the door, and followed the lady,
who had sprung lightly out, into the house, the carriage driving off at once.

Edwin dismissed his droschky at the corner of the street, and now with a
throbbing heart walked past the house several times on the opposite side of
the street, gazing at the open windows to see whether the charming face
would not appear at one of them. But there was nothing to be seen, except
in one of the rooms on the second story a flower-stand containing
magnificent palms and other broad-leaved plants, and at the window near
by a large bird-cage with glittering gilded wires. Here, then, was where she
lived. He had in his pocket the best possible excuse for introducing himself,
and yet for a long time he could not summon up courage to enter the house
and mount the stairs.

When he at last nerved himself to this, he lingered a few moments at the
door, trying to recall his somewhat rusty French, in case she really should
not understand German. Then he felt ashamed of his boyish timidity and
pulled the bell so vigorously, that it pealed loudly through the silent house.

The door was instantly opened, the striped waistcoat appeared, and its
owner stared at the noisy visitor, with a disapproving expression in his
round, watery blue eyes.

"Be kind enough, my little fellow," said Edwin, "to inform your mistress
that some one desires to speak to her, and to return something she has lost."

"Whom have I the honor--?" asked the well-trained dwarf.

"The name is of no consequence. Do as I have told you."

The boy disappeared, but returned in a short time, during which Edwin
heard no French spoken, and said: "The young lady begs you to walk in
here a moment."

As he spoke he opened the door of a small ante-room, furnished only
with a few elegant cane chairs and a dainty marble table, on which lay a
book and fan.

"What is your name, my boy?" Edwin asked the little fellow, as he seated
himself with much apparent self-possession.

"My real name is Hans Jacob, but my mistress calls me Jean."

"Isn't this your first place, little Jean Jacques? You seem to be a
precocious genius."

"My first service was with a baron; then I learned to ride, and I had the
reins to hold when he got out of the cabriolet, for he drove, himself. Here
there is only a hired coachman."

"And how long have you lived with this young lady?"

"Just a fortnight. It's a very easy place, I have every Sunday to myself;
there is a chambermaid too."

"Can you speak French, Jean Jacques?"

The boy blushed. Edwin seemed to have wounded his pride.

"The young lady speaks German," he replied. "But there is her bell. I
must go."

Edwin mechanically took up the book that lay upon the little table.
"Balzac!" said he. "'Père Goriot.' After all, she is probably a wandering Pole
or Russian; they speak all languages, and drink in Balzac, with their
mother's milk."

He rose and glanced into the adjoining room. The little salon, into which
the light struggled, through heavy crimson curtains, was rendered still
darker by the wide spreading leaves of the palms. Before the mirror a parrot
was swinging in a ring, without uttering a sound. The walls were dark, the
ceiling wainscoted with brown wood, and on the black marble mantlepiece
stood a heavy verde antique clock. The brightness and spaciousness of the
next apartment, into which he could obtain but a partial glimpse through the
open door, seemed greatly enhanced in comparison with this. Tent-like
hangings with gilded rods, a portion of a dainty buffet with glittering
silverware, and directly opposite to the door a little table covered with
dishes, but, so far as he could see, furnished with but one plate. Besides

these things, he noticed the constant chirping and fluttering of the birds in
the great cage.

Edwin had had ample opportunity, while teaching the young members of
noble families, to compare the furnishing of the "tun" with the luxurious
arrangements of city houses. Hitherto the contrast had never been painful to
him. To-day, for the first time, he seemed to himself as he chanced to glance
into the mirror, like the shepherd in the fairy tale, who wandered into a
magic castle. Any attempt to improve his costume he gave up as hopeless,
but he was about to draw from his coat pocket the gloves which he usually
carried there, when the opposite door of the little ante-room unclosed, and
the beautiful, bewitching creature entered, followed by the dwarf.

She paused upon the threshold with an air of indignant surprise, then
turning to the boy she seemed to give utterance to some reproof, from
which he defended himself in a whisper. Thus Edwin had time to look at
her, and to recover from his own embarrassment.

Her beauty was really so remarkable, that she might have unsettled the
brains of a far more discerning admirer of womankind than our philosopher.
He had described her tolerably well to his brother the preceding night, but
here in the broad light of day, she seemed to him to have assumed an
entirely different appearance; her complexion was more brilliant, her eyes
wore a more dreamy expression, and she seemed to possess a quiet, careless
indifference, such as we see in children who, loving nothing and hating
nothing, are troubled at nought. Moreover the light dress that enwrapped
her like a cloud was particularly becoming, and her hair, with the familiar
little curls on the neck, seemed darker from the contrast.

She greeted the stranger with a scarcely perceptible bend of the head.
"Herr--?" she began, and looked at him inquiringly.

"Pardon me, Fräulein," he replied in an unconstrained manner, which he
feigned with very tolerable skill, "I have been unable to deny myself the
pleasure of taking advantage of a lucky chance, and of presenting myself in
person as the honest finder of your property. Besides, I hoped I might not be
entirely unknown to you."

"You? To me?"

"I had the pleasure last evening of sitting next you in a box at the opera-
house during the first act of the ballet."

A hasty glance from her wondering eyes scanned his face. "I do not
remember it," she said curtly.

"Well, I must endure the mortification," he replied smiling. He was
really glad that she treated him so coldly. His pride, which had been
intimidated by her beauty, suddenly awoke and aided him to recover his
equanimity.

"You have something to return to me?" she now said in a somewhat
impatient tone. "I have not missed anything, but may I ask you, sir, to tell
me--"

He drew the white satin ribbon from his pocket, and held it out to her. A
sudden change took place in her cold bearing. She approached him, and her
eyes sparkled with childish delight. "Ah! that," she exclaimed, "yes, indeed,
that does belong to me. I must have dropped it scarcely an hour ago, and so
have had no time to miss it. Thanks--a thousand thanks. It is a keepsake."

She took it from his hand, and in so doing vouchsafed him her first
friendly glance, then with a bow which resembled a sign of dismissal, she
moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless in the
same spot.

"You know, Fräulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a
suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to
answer a question?"

"What is it?"

"Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"

"Why do you wish to know that?"

"From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from
it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You know,
Fräulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge those who do
not write books by some piece of handiwork."

She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity
even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.

"This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I should
have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even pretty. But it is a
present from my youngest sister, who put it in my hymn-book the day I was
confirmed."

"Strange!" he said, as if to himself.

"What is strange?"

"That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a hymn-
book to Balzac!"

"Balzac? How to you know--"

"I beg your pardon, Fräulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened
yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"

Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This
stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or
intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while
meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.

"Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French literature;
he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in Paris. His books
recalled old memories."

"And do you like them? 'Père Goriot,' for instance?"

"He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and--the style is so
good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters,

who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them--it is
horrible."

"Thank you, Fräulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your
opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever author
can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should refuse to
associate with them. In books we submit to the most disagreeable society."

She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a
chambermaid entered and said a few words in a low tone.

"I will come directly," answered her young mistress, and then turned to
Edwin. "Excuse me, sir, I am called away. Accept my best thanks again.
Jean, show the gentleman to the door."

The lad instantly stepped forward, but Edwin did not seem to notice him.

"I should like to ask one more question," said he.

"Sir--?"

"I obtained a glimpse of your charming rooms through the open doors.
Everything that the most capricious fancy can desire seems to be supplied,
with the exception of what is to me a necessity of life."

"You mean--?"

"A small library. Even the copy of Balzac, I see you have ordered from a
circulating library. Pardon my frankness, Fräulein, but I do not understand
how such beautiful fingers can touch a book which has already been on so
many tables and passed through so many hands of doubtful cleanliness."

He saw her blush and cast an almost startled glance at the book on the
little marble table.

"I have not been here long," she replied, "and as yet have given no
thought to procuring books."

"Then permit me to put my little stock at your disposal. True, it is not
very rich in French literature, but if you have no aversion to German books-
-"

"I know so little about them," she replied with evident embarrassment,
which lent to her features a still greater charm than their former aristocratic
indifference. "There was not much conversation on literature in my parents'
house. Just think, I have scarcely read anything by Gœthe."

"So much the better, for great pleasures are then in store for you. If you
have no objection, I will take the liberty of bringing you a few volumes to-
morrow." She seemed to reflect upon the proposal. "I cannot possibly
permit you to take so much trouble for a total stranger. I will send to a
bookseller."

"Are you afraid that I shall again intrude upon you in person?" he asked,
pausing at the door. "I promise, Fräulein, that I will only consider myself
your messenger, and deliver the books at the outer door. Or have you no
confidence in my discretion, because I honestly confessed my curiosity?"

She looked at him intently a moment, and then said: "very well, bring me
what you please; I shall be grateful. Adieu!"

With these words, she slightly bent her head and disappeared in the
adjoining room. No choice was left Edwin but to retire also.

When he reached the entrance-hall of the house and the door had closed
behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, as if to collect his thoughts.
Again he saw her standing before him in her beauty and with her haughty
ease of manner, and a great sorrow, he knew not why, overpowered him.
Little as he knew of life in the great world, or the demi monde, he was
convinced that all was not right with this enchanted princess, since she
merely dwelt like a rare bird in a gilded cage, no longer her own mistress.
Then again when he thought of her calm, wondering, childish eyes, and of
the little proud mouth and the full lips, which quivered slightly when she
was considering an answer to one of his questions, it seemed impossible to
attach a thought of guilt or depravity to this mysterious life.

His own passion at the moment was completely forgotten in his unselfish
interest in her fate. And yet he did not know much more about her than he
knew an hour before. Not even her name, for it was not on the door. And
from whom could he inquire about her, even if he had not an instinctive
aversion to all underhanded measures?

Just at that moment fortune again befriended him.

A stout middle-aged woman in a bonnet and shawl, with a little basket
on her arm, slowly descended the stairs; it was with evident surprise that
she saw a stranger lingering in the hall, and, with the air of one responsible
for the order of the house, she asked whom he wished to see. He replied that
he had only brought back an article belonging to the young lady within,
which he had found, and that he was just leaving; then pausing a few steps
before her, as she followed him on foot, he murmured absently: "What a
pity!"

At this the woman stopped also, standing with one arm akimbo. "What is
a pity?" she asked. "What do you know about my lodgers, sir, that you dare
to make use of such a sympathizing expression. I beg, sir, to inform you
that there is no one in my house who stands in need of pity."

"Well," he said frankly, "I meant no harm. But, judging from her
surroundings, the young lady seems to belong to an aristocratic family, and
yet she lives so secludedly; who knows what sad reasons--"

As he spoke he began to descend the steps; the woman, however, stood
still, leaned against the banister, seemingly unable to resist the temptation to
display her superior knowledge of the world.

"Aristocratic?" she said with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Gracious
me! It's all in her clothes, and Heaven knows how long the finery will last. I
suppose you think the silk curtains, and the elegant furniture, and the silver
all belong to her! Only hired, my dear sir! They don't even belong to me, for
I have never rented furnished rooms; one can easily lose one's good name
through people who don't even own their own beds. My name is
Sturzmüller, and I've had this house these ten years; I'm a widow I'd have
you know, and no man can breathe a word against me, and as for the

aristocratic young lady up stairs, if I don't soon find out all about her, I'll
ask her a price that will astonish her. I want no lodgers over whom people
shake their heads and say 'it is a pity'!"

So saying she walked sturdily down stairs past Edwin, and seemed to
have finished all that she had to say.

But now it was his turn to pause.

"So you, too, do not know what to make of this wonderful vision?" he
asked in feigned surprise, while his heart beat violently from excitement.
"Surely she has not concealed her name!"

The woman turned and looked again at her interrogator, as if to judge
from his appearance if he was really as innocent as his questions would
imply, or some cunning spy who wanted to draw her out. But his honest
face, as well as his plain yet respectable attire, appeared to allay her
suspicions.

"Her name!" she muttered. "What do I care for a name? Toinette
Marchand--can't anybody call herself that and yet in reality bear a name
quite unlike it? Besides, it's none of my business what my lodgers call
themselves, provided I know where they come from and what they are. But
this one, why, would you believe it! during all this fortnight I am not a whit
the wiser as to whether she is really a respectable person, or a bit of plated
ware; you understand? The truth is, I rented the rooms in the second story to
Count ----, --but I must not mention his name--who had them furnished in
this way, for a cousin, he said. What he meant by a 'cousin' one can easily
guess, but we can't reform the world, sir, and if I were to play conscience-
keeper to my lodgers, I should have enough to do. So at last everything was
finished, as pretty as a doll's house; it must have cost the count a pile of
money! and, after all, the cousin snapped her fingers at him and gave him
the slip. It was some one belonging to the opera-house, the valet afterwards
told me; a light-minded creature, who ran away one fine day with a
Russian. Well, it was all the same to me. I received my rent regularly every
quarter, could walk over the beautiful carpets in the empty rooms if I chose,
and was not even obliged to connive at a breach of morality. But one fine
morning--I was just watering the palms on the flower-stand--the count came

marching in with a beautiful Frenchwoman, not the cousin, but--who? Ah,
that is the question. He treated her very respectfully, but while she was
looking around he told me, in a whisper, to represent that the furniture
would be rented with the apartments, but to charge no more than twelve
thalers a month. Well, I was ready enough to have my rent increased if she
wanted to pay that amount, and besides that price is very low for five such
rooms, with a kitchen and cellar. The young lady was charmed with them,
took possession at once, and ordered her trunks to be brought from the
railway station, I was to provide a servant to bring her meals from the
restaurant, the maid and the little footman she hired herself. Well, since then
though I've often asked whether I could be of any service, I have never
exchanged twenty words with her. Did you ever hear of such a thing? So
haughty and hardened at her age?"

"And the count?" said Edwin.

"That is the strangest part of all. Since that first day, when he went away
directly, he hasn't set his foot across her threshold. I haven't even caught a
glimpse of the valet, from whom I might have learned something. Heaven
knows what has happened--perhaps they quarreled at the very beginning.
However, it seems to trouble her very little; she certainly lacks nothing,--
horses and carriages, the most elegant dresses, tickets to the theatre,--well,
my good sir, you and I don't pay for it, so it's no concern of ours. But
something's wrong, that's certain. Nothing times nothing is nothing, and I've
never had anything of the kind happen to me. You won't believe me, but she
never permits a living soul in the shape of man to cross her threshold. Not
at any hour of the day or night, I tell you, for though I live on the third
story, I know every cat that goes in and out, and besides her maid is by no
means close-mouthed. Now I put it to you, would one so young, as
handsome as a picture, and with so much money, be so much alone if there
wasn't something to conceal, something for the new 'Pitaval,' you
understand,--no, no, I won't have such proceedings in my house; 'everything
open and above-board,' that's my motto, for what would be the use of a
good character, if some fine day the police should come in upon me! But
you will make no bad use of what I have said; I could not help speaking out,
and my words and acts needn't shun the light. Yes, yes, dear sir, there is
much to be learned from God's word."

While uttering these sentences, broken by numerous pauses, she had
reached the street door; here, taking a friendly farewell of Edwin, she
crossed the street to a shop.

He, too, turned away. He had not the courage to look back at the second
story windows from the other side of the street; the fair occupant might
think it strange that he was still hanging about the house. And yet how
much he would have given, for even a fleeting glance which might dispel
the dense cloud of suspicion and sorrow, which during the loquacious
gossip of the landlady had fallen more and more heavily on his heart.

CHAPTER IX.

Meantime Reginchen's birthday had been celebrated in the Dorotheen-
strasse.

First of all came the dinner in her parents' great sitting-room, at which,
as usual, the journeymen and apprentices were present. Madame Feyertag
insisted that, before coming to the table, each should wash his hands at the
pump, and brush his jacket. To-day this ceremony, which frequently was
somewhat hurried, was performed with a thoroughness that proved the
homage each offered his master's daughter to be no mere formality, but an
offering from the heart. The head journeyman had even availed himself of
his superior social position, so far as to appear with a bouquet, which, with
a few well-chosen words, he presented to the blushing child. Madame
Feyertag pretended not to notice this. She seemed to have some suspicion
that the worthy man might consider it a standing tradition in the family, that
the head journeyman must marry the master's daughter, and though she
herself had experienced the blessings of such a mésalliance, she hoped for a
better match for her only daughter. The shoemaker had no such aspirations.
When he reflected upon the past, he remembered very different attentions,
which even without any festal occasion, he had paid the female members of
his master's family. He was in a very good humor, eat three large pieces of
the famous plum cake, and finally ordered two bottles of wine to be brought
from the cellar, in which he drank Reginchen's health in a speech, that spite
of the strange admixture of fatherly tenderness and incomprehensible
allusions to Schopenhauer, was admired by all the journeymen as a pattern
of oratorical art.

Yet despite all this, the solemn meal did not last more than half an hour,
and it was exactly half-past twelve when the little heroine of the day,
according to her usual custom, carried the brothers' dinner up to the "tun."
The low price which they paid for their board did not admit of their being
served with food more dainty than that with which the people in the

workroom were forced to content themselves, but Madame Feyertag, who
had a kind heart and felt an almost maternal solicitude for Balder on
account of his beauty and delicate health, always remembered to keep some
of the best pieces for her boarders before supplying her own people.

When Reginchen entered the second story room, delighted with the
festivities of the day, and proud of the large piece of birthday cake that fell
to the brothers' lot, she was surprised to find no one but Balder, who was
sitting at his turning-lathe, and who, at her appearance, hastily concealed
something in the pocket of his working blouse. She was afraid that, as had
often happened, she would be obliged to carry the dinner down again to be
kept warm, and her brother, the machinist, was to come for her precisely at
one. But when Balder told her that Edwin would not dine at home to-day,
she brightened up again, laid the table quickly and as daintily as the simple
dishes would permit, and placed in the middle the plate of cake, which she
had adorned with a few flowers from the head journeyman's bouquet. Then
she stood before her work with an expression of mischievous delight, and
called to Balder to sit down and not let the dinner grow cold.

"Dear Reginchen," said the youth, as he limped forward with an
embarrassed air, "I have no beautiful flowers like George. Nothing green
and blooming grows upon my bench, you know. But, I too, should like to
recognize your eighteenth birthday to the best of my ability, and that not by
merely eating your nice cake. Will you accept as a keepsake this little box,
which I have made myself? I am sorry that you will have to fill it for
yourself, for I have not had time to buy thimble, silk, needles, and all the
other things it should contain."

He drew forth the dainty polished article, and handed it to her, opening it
as he did so, that she might see the inside. A flush of joy crimsoned her
round blooming face. But she thought it due to her good breeding, not to
accept the gift at once.

"Oh! Herr Walter," she said, smoothing her fair hair with both hands,--it
was a habit she had when embarrassed,--"Did I not beg you to make me no
more presents? My mother will scold again, for she thinks you work too
much already, and that you ought to take more care of yourself. You must

have toiled for weeks over such a pretty thing as this--and I--it is too good
for me--it is too lovely--is it really mine? If I only knew what I could do--"

"Shall I tell you, Reginchen?" he said, and his pale cheeks flushed also--
"sit down opposite me a little while; it is so dismal to eat alone, and I
should like to feel merry on your birthday, else how could I enjoy the cake
your kind mother has sent? If you leave me alone I dare say I shan't be able
to touch a mouthful of it, out of pure sorrow for my own loneliness on such
a holiday."

He had a voice that was hard to resist, and the young girl was so full of
compassion for his situation and so full of childish delight in her gift, that
she instantly pushed a chair up to the little table and sat down opposite him.

"I really ought not to stay here any longer than is necessary to bring up
the dinner and afterward to carry down the dishes again," she said, with a
roguish affectation of secrecy. "But my mother won't be on the watch to-
day. She doubtless thinks I am making ready for the excursion, but Fritz
won't be here before one. He has only obtained leave to be away for the
afternoon, and has to come all the way from Moabit. Pray do tell me, Herr
Walter, how can you bear to live as you do? But you are letting the soup get
cold."

She eagerly pushed toward him the dish, for which he seemed to have no
special desire, and with the most charmingly officious coquetry she put the
spoon into his hand.

"To live so?" he repeated, smiling, as he ate the soup. "I don't know how
a man could live any better. A dinner before me fit for a prince, while the
sun shines on the green leaves before the open window, and the little
hostess herself condescends to serve me--I should be a monster of
ingratitude if I could desire anything better."

"Oh! nonsense," replied the young girl shaking her head. "You are only
joking, you know very well what I mean. Is it not almost two years since
you have been out of the house? It would kill me to stay in the same place
all the time."

"Because you are a little wagtail, Reginchen. Or must I not call you that
any more, now that you are eighteen years old? But I think you will retain
all your life the same activity that you showed five years ago when we
came here and when you carried my brother's books up-stairs one by one, to
enable you to run up and down more frequently. Now jumping, you see, is
not exactly my forte. But there is one peculiarity about the pleasures a man
enjoys: if he can't pursue them himself, they are kind enough to come to
him, and the happy hours that I have passed up here during the last five
years cannot be counted."

"Because, as mother always says, you are so moderate in your wants,
and so contented with everything."

"Oh! not at all, Reginchen. Your kind mother has a false opinion of me.
On the contrary, I am very much spoiled, I am by no means contented with
everything, and that is the very reason that I have no desire to go out among
the crowd of rude, coarse people, who are nothing to me, to witness their
self-torment in their endeavor to kill time, and to lose the consciousness of
their miserable, paltry, joyless lives; how by means of bustle and fine
dressing they try to appear to be something which they are not, and standing
on a huge pile of thalers which they have scraped together Heaven knows
how, attempt to pass themselves off as great men. And now compare my life
with all that, Reginchen: constantly in the society of such a brother,
possessing a few good friends, just enough not to forget that even the best
of men are not Edwins, so well taken care of in such a pretty, comfortable
house, with no anxieties, and--besides--"

He hesitated and his color heightened. "Will you pass me the plate of
greens, Reginchen?" he asked, to conceal his embarrassment.

She did not seem to notice it.

"That is all very well," she said. "But, Herr Walter, are you not always
sick, and do you not have to bear a great deal of pain? And health, it is said,
is the greatest blessing."

He pushed back his plate and looked at her with such a light in his blue
eyes, that she grew a little embarrassed in her turn, and secretly wondered

whether she had said anything stupid or childish. To-day, for the first time,
she felt ill at ease in this gentle, cheerful presence, confessing to herself,
however, at the same time, that he was really very handsome, as her mother
had always said, and as, before, she would never admit, since all sickness
and repose was distasteful to her bright, active temperament.

"Dear Reginchen," he said, "you are eighteen years old to-day, and it is
allowable for me to tell you, that many, nay most things, which people
repeat among themselves, are the very opposite of the truth. Health, for
instance, which is considered a necessary condition to happiness, affords no
more and no less than any of the other gifts so commonly desired: wealth,
talent, beauty, and so forth. Whether or not these blessings will make a man
happy, depends mainly upon whether he knows how to use them. I was
once acquainted with a man who never had even a finger ache. But he did
not value the gift of health, principally because he had never been sick,
regarding it as he regarded respiration as a matter of course; his health,
moreover, gave him an opportunity to make life a burden to himself and
every one about him, because he had never learned to restrain his rude
strength. It was not until he met with an accident, and was dependent, in his
pain and helplessness, upon others, did he learn anything about human love
and the thousand little joys of life, which he had formerly despised. Yet,
Reginchen, I don't wish to persuade you to exchange with me. It would be
hard for such a wagtail to be compelled to limp about, or to sit still. But
sincerely as I hope that all your life you may keep your perfect health, yet I
am sure that should it be otherwise, you would learn to understand me, and
perceive--"

Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door. A servant entered, and
casting a sly inquisitive glance at the young pair who seemed so absorbed in
each other, dragged a basket into the room: "Dr. Marquard had sent the
medicine he mentioned, and would call in a few days to see whether it had
produced the proper effect."

When he departed with a roguish "Wish you joy!" Balder rose,
exclaiming: "Well, Reginchen, won't you confess now, that I am one of the
luckiest fellows under the sun? If I had two sound legs like Edwin, who
knows where I might be wandering at this moment. But instead of that, here

I am enjoying an enviable hour, celebrating your birthday with a cosy
dinner in the company of the heroine of the occasion, with flowers and
plum cake for dessert, and, just at the right moment, when the conversation
was growing a little serious, some excellent wine arrives, with which we
may drink ourselves merry again. You need not get a corkscrew. Here is an
auger on my bench. Do you know, we two will do a charity in opening one
of these bottles. The wine is really intended for Edwin; he is to drink it to
strengthen him. But this otherwise perfect mortal is somewhat hard to
manage in certain things. He would be quite capable, from pure obstinacy,
of sending back the whole basket,--though it comes from an old friend,--
because our finances will not usually permit us to indulge in this luxury. So
I must make him believe the wine was prescribed for me as well as himself,
and as we share everything, he will finally drink it with me. Come,
Reginchen. You will have to content yourself with a tumbler, we have not
yet reached the dignity of crystal drinking-cups. Your health, and may that
blessing be accompanied by so many others, that you will never be able to
discover how paltry a possession it is in itself alone."

He handed her a glass, and they clinked them merrily together after a
little hesitation on Reginchen's part; she feared the wine would go to her
head. She only sipped a little, but Balder emptied his glass at a single
draught, and then stepping quickly to the open window, and before she
could understand what he was about to do, he threw the empty glass down
into the courtyard where it was shattered in pieces.

"Good heavens," she exclaimed, "what are you doing?"

"Celebrating your birthday, Reginchen," he answered gaily, approaching
her and taking her hand. "May I not prove not only that I am very well, but
that I am also rich enough to throw something away? He who has
something to spare cannot be in want. And now farewell, dear Reginchen; I
hear your brother's voice down stairs. When wearied with pleasure you lie
down to rest to-night, remember that some one less light-footed than you,
rejoices that you came into the world eighteen years ago to-day."

In spite of the warning that she must go, he held her hand so firmly that
her blush grew deeper and deeper. Suddenly, with a quick turn of the wrist
she broke away from him, and hastily collecting the dishes, said: "I will

bring you a bouquet of cornflowers, if they are still in bloom. Good-bye,
Herr Walter, and thank you again for your beautiful present. My mother is
right: you are the best man in the whole world."

With these words she ran out of the door.

He listened till the sound of her quick steps died away below, then a
shadow of sorrowful thought flitted over his face. He went to a drawer that
was constructed in the lower part of his turning-lathe, and unlocking it, took
out a portfolio containing scattered leaves which seemed to be covered with
verses. Turning them over he read a little here and there for a time, then
placing Reginchen's almost untasted glass of wine before him, he sat down,
and occasionally taking a sip from the glass, began to write a poem.

Reginchen and Balder.

About an hour elapsed in this manner. His delicate, almost girlish
features grew brighter; from time to time, with an eager gesture, he tossed
back his thick fair hair, gazed out at the sun-gilded top of the acacia-tree
and up at the patch of blue sky, that peered in upon him over the old roof.
Happiness, repose, and a divine cheerfulness beamed, the longer he wrote,
on brow and cheeks.

They say I am ill. And it well may be;
Yet I feel no sorrow, from pain am free.
The current of life flowing swiftly on
In sunlight I see,
And sit on the shore, where the flowers bloom.

Oh! murmur of waves, soft breeze that blesses,
Air, water, light,--how sweet your caresses!
Do you not beckon to me from the boat,
Child with gold tresses?
Ah! yes, she beckons--and onward will float!

If ye fade from sight,
Oh! star-like eyes,
And bereft of light,
Vain are my sighs,
Joy's radiant glow
E'en 'mid my woe
Will aye remain.

Oh! blessed sun
Of love and purity,
Glad soul, from guile so free,
How bright thy rays!
My flower of life unfolds to thee--
Thou dost not dream--how short its days!

Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by
sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had written
the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a rhyme. This was
no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy himself a poet, (on the
contrary, he declared that the real poet was Edwin, only that he was too
proud to let his light shine); it was only a kind of soliloquy, and by writing
down these improvisations, instead of merely murmuring them to himself,
he simply increased and prolonged his solitary pleasure. He always carried
in his own pocket the key of the drawer where he kept the papers, and even
Edwin, from whom he usually had no secrets, was not permitted to touch
this hidden treasure.

He now took another sheet, and wrote the following lines:--

To this lot assigned,
This joy once possessed,
Say, can one so blessed
On earth be sad?

To cool my heart's fire,
By answering love,
To feel the desire,
Man's brother to prove;

Firm in purity,
By beauty inspired,
Ere of life weary
By death required;

The great mystery
Vaguely believing,
Germs of truth in the
Soul's depths perceiving,

Truth-germs unfolding
In the light given,
Joyfully holding

The rain from heaven,

A spark of divine fire
Into the heart hurled,
Kindles with pure desire
A child of the world.

To this lot assigned,
This joy once possessed,
Say, can one so blessed
On earth be sad?

Yet hours may come when the spirit will fail,
Petty cares, like a swarm of flies, assail;
Midst the current of life, with gasping breath,
Waiting I stand, for the summons of death.

Doubting, I question if earth is to me
So grand, so blissful a reality;
Outweighing all the burdens of my life,
My aimless days of fruitless toil and strife.

Sternly denied the brightest joys of earth,
My homely toil no laurel-wreath is worth;
If, wearied of the slowly passing time,
A child should break the clock, would'st call it crime?

O death!--but hark! now a bright footstep nears,
Bright eyes are sparkling, and a glad voice cheers;
My sinking spirit, roused from inward strife,
No longer asketh--Shall I live this life?

He sat still for some time with a smile on his lips, then his face grew
graver and he sighed, as if to relieve his oppressed heart and to shake off
some thought that troubled him. On the paper that lay upon his knees his
pencil sketched a profile, which was unmistakably Edwin's. The thoughts
that occupied his mind seemed again to crave utterance in words, but just at

that moment he heard some one come up stairs with a familiar, heavy tread.
A slight shade of annoyance flitted across his brow, he hastily thrust the
portfolio back into the drawer, carefully locked it, and then resumed his
work at the turning-lathe, but the visitor who now entered with a
melancholy "Good evening, Balder," beheld a friendly face, in which there
was no sign of the youth's unwillingness to be disturbed in his solitary
intercourse with the muses.

CHAPTER X.

The new comer was a singular-looking person of middle height, clad in
coarse but neat clothes, who looked like a workman just returning from his
labor. The insignificant form was surmounted by a compact head, adorned
with thick shining black hair and beard, which seemed to harmonize with
the body as little as the large hands and feet. Yet the homely pale face was
rendered attractive by its expression of innocent, almost childlike
simplicity, and if the melancholy man, which seldom happened, opened his
thick red lips in a smile, fine white teeth glittered through the coal-black
whiskers, and the eyes under the heavy brows could beam with a glance at
once so soft and so fiery that it might well win a maiden's heart.

Such was the expression with which, when he met Balder and when no
cloud darkened his honest mind, he used to gaze at the youth, for whom he
cherished a really enthusiastic, almost sentimental tenderness. He never
expressed it in words, of which he was usually very sparing, but even to the
most superficial observer it was touching to see what power the youth's
warm, sunny nature exerted over his rough, bushy-haired companion, so
many years his senior. It was a real "secret love," which year by year had
increased in strength and enthusiastic ardor, and which would have found
no test too severe. All the grace and harmonious charms of life that had
been denied to himself, he loved in this beautiful, noble young friend, and
in so doing had almost become a little faithless to the other brother, who
possessed older claims to his friendship.

As Edwin was carrying his portfolio to school for the first time, a slender
timid little fellow, who was going the same way and belonged to the same
class, joined him. He was the seventh son of a surgeon, Franzelius by name,
who lived in the neighborhood; he could with difficulty support his family,
and yet his principal ambition was to send them all to college. By means of
free instruction, gratuitous board and stipends, this was at last
accomplished, and toward it Edwin's parents had done their part, by

supplying Reinhold, the youngest, their son's daily companion, with his
dinner. But even Edwin's patient efforts to thaw his shy schoolmate, were
not entirely successful. The wretched life which was lived in his parent's
home seemed to oppress his heart more and more, when he returned from
the table of kind people in easy circumstances, to a house where it was
necessary to count the outgoing of every penny. At a very early age he
began to reflect upon the difference in the division of worldly goods,
though without bitterness, for he neither conceived nor cherished any
unattainable desires. It was rather his parents' anxious fears that constantly
made him ponder over the mystery; how had these great discrepancies
arisen, how they might perhaps be remedied, until good-natured and
unselfish as he was, he would, even as a boy, fly into the most violent
passion at the bare mention of his fixed idea. When, in studying Roman
history, he came upon the Agrarian laws and the times of the Gracchi, he
composed an essay, in which with boyish impetuosity he defended the most
revolutionary opinions, gaining for himself the nickname of "Franzelius
Gracchus," which clung to him as long as he remained at school.

Then the fate that befell the brothers dissolved the school friendship,
until many years after, Edwin met this half-forgotten comrade in Berlin. In
outward appearance he had changed very much. The thin, shy boy, had
become a sturdy, black-bearded, defiant youth, a person whom all well-bred
and well-dressed people would avoid in the street, especially in winter,
when a coarse red shawl, which he wore twisted around his neck,
contributed not a little to the oddity of his appearance. In mind and
disposition he had remained exactly the same; awkward, silent, and gentle,
but as soon as his fixed idea was touched, would burst into a flood of
stormy eloquence that swept all before it. Edwin had also had occasion, in
student circles, to perceive how the same man, who in a small company
could scarcely finish his sentences properly, and in individual debate was
easily confused and silenced, would fearlessly address a crowd. He had a
vehemently dogmatic mind, together with the nature of a true agitator, and
he liked to utter the few cardinal principles of his belief in full, ringing
tones, but he required for his encouragement, the echo of listening
multitudes. Then the deeper water, in which he felt at ease, supported and
bore him on, while, when out of the channel, he instantly became uncertain,
and from diffidence, especially in the presence of Edwin's intellect and

knowledge, he easily yielded, and ceased firing his heavy rhetorical
artillery.

But it was not only Edwin's superiority that attracted him. He had
become warmly attached to his old friend for a very different reason. That
he should now find the latter--whom as the petted child of parents in
comfortable circumstances, he had always beheld on the farther side of a
wide social gulf--dependent on his own exertions, and living almost as
plainly as he himself lived, secretly afforded him pleasure, much as he
wished him all possible prosperity. It threw down the barriers between them
and placed him on the same footing as his former schoolfellow, but he was
completely melted when Balder, whom he had known and petted as a little
boy, joined his brother, and with his turning-lathe took up likewise the
character of a "workman" in the true sense of the word. According to his
father's desire he himself had studied law and had passed his first
examination very creditably. But as soon as old Franzelius closed his eyes,
Reinhold with his Gracchus-like scorn, became faithless to his career,
apprenticed himself to a printer, and regularly served his time. Now for the
first time his heart burst its bonds. He felt himself, in affliction, the equal of
his brothers "the workmen," and resolved to devote all his energies to the
improvement of their lot.

While at the university he had devoted himself to the study of political
economy and various similar subjects, albeit in his somewhat cursory way;
so now, for the furtherance of his object, he embodied in small pamphlets or
sometimes even in single sheets brief discussions on what he considered the
vital questions of the proletarian. These impetuous essays, written
sometimes in a very dilettante style, he composed and printed himself in his
leisure hours and distributed gratuitously among the working population,
over which by degrees he obtained great influence. He brought the brothers
also these little "fire brands," as he called them, with which he endangered
the fields of the Philistines, and was delighted when Balder, in his gentle
way, examined each one, though often arguing against them, while Edwin
accepted the pamphlets with a good natured jest, but could rarely be drawn
into a discussion.

For Edwin was sincerely attached to the worthy fellow. He could still see
him sitting in the jacket that had been given him, at his beautiful mother's
table, timidly taking the smallest portions from the dishes offered. But
keenly alive to the nature and connection of intellectual questions, he
possessed moreover, a mind as dogmatically intrenched, as the agitator's
was inaccessible, and so willingly avoided useless discussions. Yet he
always felt that something was amiss, if he did not see at the usual time the
honest, somewhat care worn face, that always incited him to a brilliant
display of fireworks in the shape of little witticisms and old school boy
jokes, until the thick lips under the bushy beard parted, the white teeth
glittered, and the lines between the heavy eye-brows grew smooth. Then the
gloomy enthusiast could sit down at the brother's table and share their
frugal supper, with as much childish pleasure as if no social questions were
disturbing his soul.

But to-day an unusually dark shadow rested upon his brow which
contrary to custom even Balder could not succeed in dispelling. He
evidently had some trouble, which, with his usual slowness, he could not
instantly put into words. Blundering around the room and wiping his broad
forehead with a flowered handkerchief, he had at last fallen into a deep
reverie before the table on which the plate of plum cake still stood. Balder
had invited him to eat some, and related what a great occasion, Reginchen's
birthday, had been celebrated by this luxurious revelry. The singular man
had remained perfectly mute, seated himself at the table with a heavy sigh,
and resting his head on his hands stared as persistently at the nice slices of
cake as if they revealed to him the solution of the social problem, as the
arcanum of the world flashed upon Jacob Böhmen from a tin dish. Balder
had given up talking to him; he was accustomed to such moods and
perfectly satisfied to work at his turning lathe and devote himself to his own
thoughts.

Such was the state of affairs in which Edwin found them, when an hour
after he returned home. At first he was vexed not to see Balder alone; he
was very anxious to give vent to the feelings of his oppressed soul. He
greeted his old friend somewhat curtly, then went up to Balder, passed his
hand over his head, and said: "Have I been away long? I want to read over
the dissertation, excuse me, Franzel."

With these words he went to his desk, took out a printed volume, and the
three men in the quiet room remained at silent as the two had been before.

Who knows whether they would have found their tongues as speedily, if
Mohr had not appeared again. He had found lodgings and came to get his
traveling bag. He entered with a very bright face, but drew down his under
lip when he perceived Franzelius. After a few disagreeable quarrels they
had carefully avoided each other, as their natures necessarily could not
harmonise: Mohr, who with cynical frankness, confessed that he always
thought only of himself, and Reinhold, the philanthropist, who never
considered his own advantage and unhesitatingly sacrificed to his ideal
dreams the small degree of comfort he might have procured.

"Why," said Mohr, nodding carelessly to the young printer, "is Bruin
here too? Well, how fares the regeneration of mankind? I should think that
since the foundation of the artificial hatching establishments, we had
advanced considerably nearer to the ideal state when every one will have a
chicken in his Sunday pot."

"I--I have no reply to make to such frivolous questions," muttered the
other in his beard.

"Still the same quarrelsome old chanticleers," laughed Edwin, closing
his book. "Do me the favor, children, not to begin to hiss at once, as fat does
when it meets fire. I'll put up with these wordy battles in winter, when they
may at least result in warming us. But in such beautiful weather as this----"

"Hear, hear the wiseacre!" cried Mohr. "Well, then, to do honor to the
wonder that a philosopher has a clever, practical thought, I'll swear to keep
a truce for this evening. Come, let us smoke a cigar of peace in one of the
public gardens, for I'm worn out with hunting for lodgings. But I've found
what I wanted, a quiet neat little house only ten doors from your 'tun,' kept
by an old maid, who during the first hour told me the story of her three
broken engagements. So the day is mine, and without neglecting any duty
to humanity, I can devote it to you and my thirst. So where shall we go?
After being away three years, I no longer know where to get good liquor."

"He is not yet familiar with the rules of the household," said Edwin,
glancing at Balder. "You must know, Heinz, that we never go out in the
evening, and remain at home still more regularly in the afternoon. The stairs
leading to our hen-roost are too steep for Balder, and as when all three
windows are open, we have no reason to complain of want of air----"

"Merciful Gods!" interrupted Mohr in a tone of horror, which warned by
a glance from Edwin, he instantly tried to convert into one of drollery--
"have you shut yourselves up here like oysters? Well, a sedentary life has its
attractions, and the air in the 'tun' does not seem to be quite so dry as
formerly. At any rate the best plum cake grows here, and I see yonder a
dozen red heads, with whose assistance one can hold out for a while."

"A basket of wine?" asked Edwin "In spite of my positive refusal----"

"Marquard sent it, he would take no denial," said Balder. "And," he
added blushing, "as I felt a little weak toward noon, I opened a bottle."

"Weak, child?" cried Edwin, forgetting everything else, as he hastily
approached him. "Was it your old pain, or some new trouble? And why do I
first hear of it now?"

"It wasn't worth mentioning, Edwin. But Marquard was right, I felt better
at once. The wine seems very pure and good, you ought----"

"So much the better, if it agrees with you. And you're right, I don't see
why we should not drink our old friend's wine. If we had it, and he needed
it, wouldn't it be a matter of course?"

Franzelius looked at him with sparkling eyes. One of his pet theories was
that of possessing all property in common, a theory which he practised until
he had reduced himself to the barest necessaries. Meantime Mohr had again
filled Balder's glass from the already opened bottle. He emptied it at a
single draught, then poured out more wine and offered it to Franzelius.

"Very fair," said he. "Your health, Franzelius Gracchus. Let's drown all
quarrelsome and murderous inclinations for to-day, and commence the
business of making mankind happy, with ourselves."

"Thank you," replied the printer, "I shall never drink wine, so long----"

"What? No wine? Then you're no true friend of the people. They're
always thirsty. But no matter! I'll forgive Marquard his carriage and
patronizing bow, for the sake of his cellar. If he himself has but mediocre
ability as a man and a doctor, his wine is excellent, real St. Julien.

"Where's our other glass?" said Edwin, looking around the room. "We
really have another, Heinrich, and in a carouse of three tipplers----"

The flush on Balder's cheeks deepened, and he stooped as if he were
searching for the missing glass on the floor.

"Of what consequence is the glass?" cried Mohr, who meantime had
attacked the cake and now had his mouth full. "The liquor's the main thing,
whether we drink it from the cask, the bottle, or a broken cup. My friends,
let me tell you that this is the first pleasant hour, that spiteful quean, Fate,
has bestowed upon me for the last three years. I'm glad to be once more
among people who fare worse than they deserve. I know this is true of you
and myself. As for our philanthropist, he at least shows a face that will dull
the sharpest sting of envy. Upon my word, Franzel, you look as if things
were going wrong. Has Delitzsch passed you to-day without lifting his hat?
Did a dozen blood-thirsty millionaires spring from the earth during the last
shower? Or were you called upon at the last workmen's meeting, instead of
making fine speeches, to tear your breast like the pelican and let a fountain
of real St. Julien gush forth, and did you fail to accomplish the trick?"

"I see I'm only in the way here," replied the printer, glancing at Mohr
with an expression of indescribable contempt. "I'll not intrude any longer."

He nodded to Balder and walked hastily toward the door, but Edwin
seized his hand and detained him.

"Stop!" said he. "We shall not let you go so, Mohr is incorrigible. But
there's something the matter with you, Franzel, I see it in your face, and by
our old friendship--"

The angry man compressed his lips still more firmly, and said after a
long pause: "Why should I speak of it? Ruin takes its own course."

"Ruin?"

"Why yes, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, what does it matter? And
we can only rejoice that it should proceed from this cause. It shows in the
clearest manner to what our diseased form of government has come--and
where it will arrive, if--supposing that--"

He paused again. The friends looked at each other inquiringly.

"If I'm one too many here," said Mohr phlegmatically, rising and seizing
the bottle--"I've no objection to drinking this paltry heeltap in your
courtyard."

"I have no secrets," muttered the gloomy visitor. "What has happened
took place in public; the consequences which still fear the light will soon be
noised abroad. A cry of indignation will resound through Germany, when it
is known that even now, in the light of the nineteenth century--"

"But, man," interrupted Edwin, "torture has certainly been discarded in
the nineteenth century, and yet for the last fifteen minutes you have been
applying the thumb-screws of curiosity. Out with it; what has happened, and
what consequences still fear the light?"

"Then, if you must know: I was at the workingmen's educational union
yesterday--" (Mohr coughed, glanced at Edwin, and then comfortably
sipped his wine)--"There was to have been a lecture on the nature and value
of education, but the speaker was taken sick and begged to be excused. We
were just considering what was to be done, when a new-comer rose, a guest
whom no one knew. He had a strange, half humble, half scornful Jesuit
face. 'Would the company permit him to make a short address?' The request
could not be refused, and he instantly began to speak with a boldness that
surpassed everything that could have been expected from his priestly
appearance. 'Education? A dangerous thing, at least as the children of the
world were accustomed to understand it. The devil, who goes about like a
roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour, is a highly cultivated man, not

easily caught by modern enlightenment. His proverb is: Education gives
liberty, and knowledge rules the world. Yes indeed, the world! So the
tempter said to the Lord: "All these things will I give unto thee, if thou wilt
fall down and worship me!"--But "my kingdom is not of this world"--and so
on, the well known litany--True. education desires to know nothing of the
so-called treasures of science, which morth and rust may corrupt. He who is
fitting himself for heaven, provides for the one thing that is necessary, the'--
well, you're doubtless willing to be spared the sermon. When it was over,
the honest fellows sat bewildered and thunderstruck. The old habit, acquired
in childhood, still lingered: no debate in church!--and even the president
seemed to think we ought not to take issue with a guest. But the man had
assailed our society in the most offensive way, and were we to be silent? So
I began to speak. I was just in the mood, and besides it's a subject to which
I've devoted a great deal of thought, I was glad to give the whole society a
full discourse from the text: Disparage only reason and science! Well I need
not waste any words on the subject among ourselves. But never has it been
so clear to me, as in that hour, what a crime those persons commit, who
seek to disgust men with the earth, in order to prepare them for what they
call heaven. You know I am the last to favor the current talk about utility.
These people make the means the end, and if they achieved their object and
arranged the world according to their plan--who that did not consider it the
highest aim of life to get his stomach satisfied and know the multiplication
table by heart, would wish to live in it? But just because there are higher
things--transcendent earthly joys, intellectual pleasures, art, poetry, and all
other lofty delights--well, you know what I think, and can imagine how
indignation against the foes of all earthly happiness loosened my tongue.
The assailer of education and heir of heaven grew red and pale by turns.
When I at last paused, and all clapped their hands and burst into a shout of
assent, he attempted to reply. But the president would not permit him to
utter another word, so he soon slipped quietly away.

"He has enough!" I thought, "but I was not yet satisfied. I meant to go
into the next house and write a pamphlet, in which I intended to prove by
referring to history, what boundless injury the belief in immortality does the
world. And last night I did sit down and write a few sheets, the first outline
of the essay; for I was too excited to grasp the subject properly, and one
must not shake the retort when anything is going to crystallize. But it seems

I'm to have plenty of leisure; for when I went home to dinner to-day, my
landlord, the cabinet maker, said that some policemen had been there, had
inquired very particularly about me, and had noted down the answer. The
man looked as if he wanted to say 'six weeks investigation and then exile.'
He's quite right. I know them; they've long kept an eye on me, I made them
uneasy, but they could find no cause of arrest. Now the priests will take up
the matter, and then good bye! So, as I have no inclination to leave my
place vacant, I shall for the present not seek my usual bed, but try once
more how it seems to sleep in the open air."

"With your consciousness of being a second Gracchus for a soft pillow!"
exclaimed Mohr, pledging him in the glass of wine. "You must live, noble
mortal, until the last millionaire is hung with the entrails of the last priest,
which will probably occur about the same time as the death of the
Wandering Jew."

"Your jeers do not wound me," replied the printer impetuously. "There
are people who consider all the great questions that affect the welfare of
mankind a mere jest, and never think seriously of anything except their own
dear selves."

"And why not, you preacher in the wilderness? Charity begins at home.
Until I have taken care of my own dear self, where am I to find time and
courage to look after my neighbor, or provide for mankind at large? These
things are too weighty, my noble fellow, to be exhausted by the first
eloquent pen, and and that's why I wish you a long life, so you can at least
be able to study the subject at leisure."

Franzelius cast a compassionate glance at him. "So in all ages selfishness
has intrenched itself behind a hypocritical modesty," he grumbled. "If no
one wished for or did better things, before he knew the best, we should still
be in the condition of the lake-dwellers. And must an idea for which
hitherto only our holier instincts speak, I mean which cannot yet be
mathematically proved--and with which the world after all would be--for
when the smallest thought concerns all mankind--Edwin will know what I
mean."

"God understands you, and that's enough; see Sancho Panza at the right
place," jeered Mohr.

"What do you intend to do now, Franzel?" interrupted Edwin, who
during the whole conversation had been sitting on the window sill, stroking
Balder's cat.

"That's a secondary consideration. Tell me instead whether you approve
of what I have done?"

"Will that undo it?"

"As if I would recall it! But you know I value the thought, that we three
at least--even if others have a different opinion--"

He paused and looked at Edwin almost timidly.

"What I think," replied the latter, "is no secret to you. But I am firmly
persuaded of many truths, and yet should hesitate a long time before
demonstrating them to a crowd of strangers. However, why should we
discuss the matter? You will do what you cannot leave undone, and as you
have very enthusiastic ideas about the equality of men, even in their powers
of thought--"

"He who does not work for all, works for none, or at least only for
himself."

"Pardon me, my dear fellow. That's a false conclusion. You yourself will
not deny that the division of labor is a useful arrangement. Well then, one
begins from below, another from above. If I convince ten of the best minds,
give them even a little light in regard to the hardest problems, does not my
work in time aid others also? Mens' gifts are as different as their ambitions."

Franzelius was about to make some reply, but restrained himself with
evident effort, and only said:

"And you, Balder? Are you too of the opinion, that only a mad ambition
urges me to let the little light that is in me shine before the multitude?"

"You misunderstood Edwin," replied the youth, limping up to him and
gently unclasping his hand from the door latch. "We all know that you
forget yourself in the cause. But he thinks it would be better for the cause, if
you were more patient. All fruits do not ripen at the same time. Come, don't
let us part so."

"But you, you--could you have kept silence under such provocation?"

"Hush!" Mohr suddenly exclaimed. "Don't you hear her?"--Then as if
speaking to himself, he added in a scarcely audible tone: "it's enough to
tame wild beasts and socialistic democrats. Eternal Gods! how that woman
plays."

The four men in the upper room actually kept so quiet that not a note of
the improvisation below was lost. Franzelius had thrown himself into the
chair beside the bed, on which Balder sat with his lame leg crossed over the
other. Edwin was still seated on the window sill, and Mohr leaned over his
glass, with his head resting on his hands, and fairly groaned with delight.

When the music ceased, he rose. "My friends," said he, "I think it is our
duty to offer this lady some attention. I will go down and invite her to drink
a glass of wine with us to her health."

"Are you mad, Mohr?" laughed Edwin. "She's a respectable person, and
will think you have already more glasses of wine in your head than is good
for your senses."

Mohr looked at him with an air of comical dignity, and twisted his
crooked under lip still more awry. "She's an artist," said he, "no common-
place, pedant of a woman. Here are four friends of art--I generously include
you, Franzel, as you at least kept quiet while she was playing, though you
were probably thinking of your social discords. I'll wager it will be an honor
and pleasure to her--give me a decent hat--or no, I'll go bare-headed, like an
inmate of the house. It will be less formal."

"You've impudence enough for it. Well then, ask her to bring a glass for
the festal banquet."

"She shall drink out of mine," replied Mohr, who was already at the door.
"I'll run the risk of her guessing my thoughts."

They heard him go down stairs and ring the bell.

"He's really going to do it," cried Balder, hastily rising from his seat.
"What will she think of us?"

Franzelius rose too. "I'll go," said he. "I have not sufficient self-control
to endure Mohr's jokes and witticisms in the presence of a lady. Will he be
here often now? In that case, I prefer to take my leave until--until you too
are tired of a man, who never takes anything seriously."

"You wrong him," replied Edwin. "Fire and water are two equally stern
elements, although one accomplishes by heat what the other does by cold:--
destroys and vivifies like every power."

"Hm! If you don't freeze meantime--Farewell."

"And where are you going to spend the night?" asked Balder.

"There are plenty of benches in the Thiergarten."

"I wouldn't let you go, Franzel," whispered Balder, as he reached the
threshold. "You have already camped here many a night. But--Edwin sleeps
so badly now. The least thing disturbs his nerves."

"Thank you, Balder. Don't be anxious about me. Good night!"

They heard him go down stairs, and directly after Mohr came slowly up.
He entered the room with a face deeply flushed, but apparently calm.

"Our philanthropist has gone," said he. "I believe I drove him away. I'm
sorry; he thinks I don't like him and he's very much mistaken. On the
contrary, I do him the honor to envy him."

"For what?"

"Because he's possessed, not only with his mania about persecution,
which makes a man just as happy as if he believes himself an unappreciated
genius, but because he has a demon that drives him about, speaks from his
lips, hides within him, and keeps him warm--while I, a mere husk without
kernel or substance--foh!"

"And our artist?" asked Edwin after a pause. "Did she not wish to enjoy
either the honor or the pleasure?"

"It's late," replied Mohr, looking at his watch, "too late to open a second
bottle, I'll seek my virgin couch."

"He evades us," laughed Edwin, turning to Balder. "She has disappointed
his expectations. Ah! Heinz, I could have told you that before; this muse is
not a beauty. Her fingers promise more than her features give."

"Talk about what you understand. Philosopher," replied Mohr, seizing his
hat. "Let her be what she likes and look as she chooses: she's a whole
hearted woman."

"Did you receive satisfactory proofs of that in three minutes?"

"Probably. At least it's a fresh proof that I can accomplish nothing whole,
and even in a stupid prank don't go beyond the most pitiful half-way
measures. It's actually crushing. I wish you a good nights' rest----"

When he had gone and the brothers were at last alone, Edwin confessed
his day's adventures. Balder too might have had many things to tell, but not
a word in relation to the birthday festival crossed his lips. And yet he was
secretly reproaching himself for having a secret from his brother.

This night they fell asleep earlier, though Balder did not close his eyes
until the shutting of a well known little window in the front buildings told
him that Reginchen had returned from her excursion in safety.

Several of the verses he had written in the afternoon again passed
through his mind, and softly repeating them he lulled himself to sleep with
his own melodies.

CHAPTER XI.

When Marquard paid his usual visit to the "tun" the following morning,
he found everything in the household exactly the same as usual. In spite of
the late hour at which Reginchen returned from the country, she had been at
the pump at six o'clock, and an hour after carried the brothers their blue
milk and cleared up the room, but without talking much; for kindly as
Edwin treated her, she felt a great awe of him and became terribly
embarrassed at his most innocent jest.

The brothers also, according to old habit, had begun their day very
silently. When the doctor entered, Balder was sitting at his turning lathe,
making a set of ivory chess-men. Marquard talked to him for some time
with apparent unconcern, asked about one thing and another and felt his
pulse, but gave no prescription, except that he must drink the wine
regularly.

But on the stairs, when Edwin was accompanying him down, he
suddenly turned and said in a low tone: "You must not let the lad go on so.
This stooping and keeping shut up in the house won't do, he will weaken his
chest over that confounded turning lathe. If I were in your place, I should
assert my authority."

"In my place," sighed Edwin, shrugging his shoulders. "My dear fellow,
if you were in my place, that is, not a physician, but a philosopher, you
would know that there is no authority which can transform a man's nature.
Have I not tried every stratagem to get him out? When I attacked him on his
weakest, or rather his strongest side, his brotherly love, and represented
how dull it was for me to go out without him, you ought to have seen the
efforts he made to be a gay companion, in order to cheer my walks and
rides. But I know him too well. I saw how he suffered from the noise and
bustle of the streets, and even when we once drove to Tegel, he was only
comfortable while we were alone. When we arrived, we found a crowd of

school girls playing graces, various mothers and aunts knitting, several
pairs of lovers, in short the usual Berlin pleasure seekers. As soon as
possible he urged me to return. You must know that it annoys him when
people stare at him, and he is exposed to this more frequently than any one
else; he attracts attention everywhere by his beauty and his lameness, and
moreover because he has an expression in his eyes unlike any other mortal."

"I wish he were less peculiar; we should keep him longer."

Edwin stopped, seized Marquard's arm and whispered: "you fear--"

"Nothing--and everything. His texture is so delicate, a fly might tear it.
But possibly it is more tenacious than we think," he added, as he felt
Edwin's hand tremble on his arm.

"The wine you sent did him good," he said. "I thank you; it was a kind,
philanthropic thought. I can not wish him different from what he is now. He
would no longer be the same, if he had the nerves and muscles of a groom.
And would he be happier? You don't know how happy he is, what a
boundless capacity he has for transfiguring all the poverty around us by the
wealth of his own soul, transmuting common dust into gold. If I gave him
no cause for anxiety, he would have scarcely anything to desire."

"I have a word to say to you about yourself too, Philosopher. I alluded to
it a short time ago in your room, but Balder was present, who is just like a
girl; there are certain things which cannot be mentioned before him. Listen
man, this disorder of your nerves is entirely your own fault; it's a sin and
shame for you to permit that sponge, the brain, to exhaust the best strength
of the rest of your organization. How can there be any balance of power? I
tell you your whole trouble is to be cured in one way."

"You may be right, Fritz," replied Edwin quietly, as they crossed the
courtyard. "But you see it's the same with this medicine, as with the one you
just prescribed for Balder. We have not the natures to take it, and if we
should force ourselves to do so, the disease would attack a more vital spot."

"Nature, nature!" burst forth the doctor, looking almost fiercely at his
friend through his gold spectacles. "I'll answer for it, my son, that your

excellent nature, which you have tormented so long with your cursed
abstract idealism, that it no longer ventures to grumble--would instantly
recuperate and grow merry again, if you would only for once dismount
from the high horse of speculation and rely upon your own good common
sense. Deuce take it! A healthy fellow like you living on locusts and wild
honey, like the hermits in the Theban deserts, and if a woman passes by
your cave, exclaiming: Apage, Satanas! I had trouble with you even at the
university. But now you seem to wish to continue this course, until nature,
so shamefully abused for the sake of mere mind, is overstrained and fairly
crazed with impatience."

"A very clever pathological lecture," replied Edwin smiling. "I will
request the continuation in our next; there is always something to be
learned. But for all that, Fritz, you wont get a kuppel'pelz[3] from me."

"Nonsense! Who's talking about any such thing? But if I, with my
constantly increasing practice, can find time for little romances, in which
the mind has employment--"

"And also the heart, my boy."

"Well, the heart too, for aught I care, though that muscle is greatly
overestimated, and with all your sentimentality, only fit for a dangerous
hypertrophy. I'm now on the track of a little witch--"

"A fair Helen or Galatea?"

"Aristocratic, my son, and unfortunately very unapproachable--so far.
But what am I thinking about? You must have already made her
acquaintance."

"I?"

"Didn't you sit beside her in the box, day before yesterday? At least the
doorkeeper told me she always took the same place."

Edwin turned pale.

"I have a faint recollection of it," he replied. "Didn't she sit very far
front, and have brown hair, a very fair complexion, blue eyes--"

"Black or brown, my son. But we must mean the same person--and I,
magnanimous mortal that I am, solemnly renounce all my claims in your
favor."

"Then you must lend me your carriage, to continue this love affair
properly," said Edwin, forcing a smile, "for one can hardly pay attention to
this princess as a private tutor."

"You need have no anxiety on that score. To be sure I don't know the
will-o'-the-wisp very well, she baffled all my conversational powers. But
haughtily as she turns up her little nose--by the way it's a nose to rave over--
there is evidently something wrong about her. Young ladies who go to the
theatre alone, find their company home afterwards. But I will discover in
whose cage this bird of paradise has its nest--yesterday I unfortunately
came across an old Geheimrath, who wanted to consult me about his liver,
just as I was going to follow the proud little nose. If it is as I suspect, you
shall see, my son, what a base materialist is capable of doing for his
friends."

Laughing merrily, he sprang into his light carriage, took the reins from
the coachman and drove rapidly away.

Edwin looked after him. He could not be angry; only yesterday he had
himself weighed possibilities and struggled with impressions, which placed
this mysterious creature in no more favorable light. But to hear these
thoughts expressed by another, as a matter of course, gave him a feeling
akin to physical pain.

He had taken two volumes of Göthe to carry to her. Now he thought it
would be the wisest course to avoid her house, her presence, and any further
intercourse with her. But her face rose before his memory for a moment, her
voice sounded in his ear, and all hesitation was over. Suppose she was
better than she seemed? And what would she think of the strange man, who
had at first forced himself so eagerly upon her, and then never appeared
again?

But at least he would not see her to-day, and therefore merely handed the
books to the striped waistcoat, and in reply to the boy's question whether he
would come in, answered dryly: "It was not necessary, he would bring the
next volumes at the end of the week."

As he went down stairs, he praised himself for his resolution and
determined not even to look up at her windows. But this was beyond his
strength. He even remained standing on the shady side a moment, as if
uncertain which way to go, and allowed his eyes to wander, apparently by
chance, toward the windows with the palms and the bird cage. He fancied
he saw something moving behind the drawn curtains. The thought that it
might be a man's head shot through his heart like a burning-iron. He closed
his eyes and walked on.

He had promised to commence his lessons at the little house in the
lagune to-day. As he mechanically turned his steps in that direction, it
seemed almost impossible to retain any connected thoughts. Besides, the
interview with the little artist and his daughter appeared as far behind him
as if months had intervened, and was a matter of as much indifference as
the people who passed him. He resolved to merely go there, excuse himself
for to-day, and shake off the whole engagement he had undertaken, as best
he could.

But the reception he met with in the little house, baffled his designs.

The artist, clad in his thread-bare velvet coat, with a barette shaped cap
set jauntily over his left ear, was standing in the door-way, and as soon as he
saw Edwin approaching between the wood piles, turned back into the entry,
calling: "He's coming, he's coming!" Then he hastily advanced to meet him,
took his hand in both of his, and said: "So I've won my wager, and can exult
over my wise child, who for once was not so clever as her old father."

"What was your wager?" asked Edwin.

"Whether you would come or not. Leah said you had only promised, in
order to avoid telling us to our faces, that you did not wish to teach such an
ignorant pupil. With all your kindness, you glanced around you in such an
indifferent way--looked so absent, and in a certain sense weary--"

"My dear sir," interrupted Edwin, "your daughter deserved to win the
wager for her penetration. I am somewhat weary and absent-minded, my
head is revenging itself because I have racked my brains too often, and the
injuries it received cannot be quickly healed. In fact, if it were not for you
and your daughter, I should be wiser to defer our lessons till a more
favorable time. But if you prefer--"

"Leah! Leah!" cried the little artist, darting forward into the house.
"Where are you?"

The young girl was just coming out of the studio, in the same plain
brown dress she had worn the day before. Her black eyes greeted Edwin
with a quiet, almost wondering glance.

"I hear, Fräulein," he said in a jesting tone, "that you have lost a wager
on my account. You thought I would not come again, and as people usually
believe what they desire--"

She gazed at him with a look, that entreated him to spare her
embarrassment.

"It's true," she said blushing, "and I'm very much frightened to think that
I must confess to some one how ignorant and bewildered I am. I was so
anxious last night, that I could scarcely sleep."

"Than we must relieve you as quickly as possible," he answered smiling.
"I will make any wager that you will sleep admirably to-night."

"Do you also know what is the forfeit of our bet?" cried the artist merrily
rubbing his hands: "the loser was to paint you something, you may rejoice
that you will have a picture by Leah, instead of one of my wretched daubs.
You see virtue is its own reward."

They had entered the studio, which to-day seemed far more neatly
arranged. Instead of the desk with its painting apparatus, a table containing
only writing materials and a portfolio, stood at Leah's window. But there
was a fresh bouquet of flowers on the sill, tall dahlias and asters whose

bright colors mingled as if they wished to conceal the dull grey of the bare
wall outside.

"We thought you would be more undisturbed here, than in the sitting
room on the other side of the entry. Well; and so the hedge-sparrow is
turned out of his nest by his unfilial off-spring!" said the old man, gently
stroking the young girl's cheek. "My dear Herr Doctor, believe me: one may
fare badly with spoiled children, but the real tyrants are the good, well
behaved ones. It's a worse slavery than that of the most henpecked husband.
Well, adieu, child, and be industrious; meantime I will make some studies
from the back of the house near the stable as I have long intended. It's just
the right light."

He kissed her on the forehead and left the teacher alone with his pupil.

When at the end of an hour he returned, he heard Edwin's deep, musical
voice, and would gladly have listened a moment to learn the subject under
discussion, but such a course was repugnant to his delicacy, and besides he
hoped to hear how the lesson had passed off from the young girl herself.

Edwin rose as the little man entered. "Have I remained too long?" he
asked. "I hope Fräulein Leah will bear witness that I have not tired her."

Leah said nothing. She was standing before the little table like a person
just roused from a dream. The portfolio was unopened, the pen had not been
dipped into the ink.

Edwin asked whether he could not see the sketches. "No, no," replied the
little artist, "they are only for myself. And to-day in particular I have
worked with my eyes, rather than my hand. I will only tell you," he added,
smiling mysteriously; "that I am attempting something which will probably
exceed my powers. I have long been anxious to make a picture of our
lagune. You cannot imagine what charms of coloring the old muddy, dirty
canal often displays, of course in a favorable light. I have also been
experimenting with a little foreground I shall need, nay which will form the
principal part of the picture, for I shall not succeed very well with the water.
A week ago one of the wood piles was removed, which has stood for years
directly in my way, since it obstructed the best view of the wall and quay.

And see, that has revealed a fence, before which the prettiest weeds grow so
luxuriantly, that I shall have scarcely any alteration to make. If I succeed, it
will be my best picture, and may perhaps mark a new era in my
development."

He rubbed his hands contentedly and went up to his daughter. "I hope,
child, you have not become such a learned woman, that you forgot to offer
the Herr Doctor any refreshment. You really have forgotten? Then I will do
so at once--we have a bottle of excellent port wine in the house--a present
from our good friend, the professor's widow. By the way, dear Doctor, I
wanted to ask you something: you must do me the favor to pay her a visit.
We are so much indebted to her for Leah's education--she was really a little
piqued because I engaged a teacher for the child without first introducing
him to her. The best woman in the world, and in many respects, that is in
church history and the positive divinity, exceptionally well educated. You
will not regret taking the short walk--she lives in Louisenstrasse--if I
accompany you--"

"With pleasure, dear Herr König," replied Edwin. "But let me make the
acquaintance of the giver before I taste her gift. Fräulein Leah has learned
to-day, that a Greek philosopher believed that the earth rose from the water,
so for to-day I will take only a glass of water. Next time we will see
whether there is truth in wine."

Leah brought the glass of water, but was so silent, that her father before
going away, asked anxiously if she were ill. "I never felt better," she replied
with a radiant glance from her beautiful, calm eyes.

Shaking his head, the little man went out, accompanied by Edwin, who
took leave of his pupil with a cordial pressure of the hand.

"My dear Herr Doctor," said he when they were in the open air, "is it not
strange that a father cannot understand his own child? Certainly every
human being is a fresh marvel from the hand of God. This is not like our
other experiences, which are only a copy of our own natures and enlighten
us in regard to ourselves, our strength or weakness. Only the great masters
can have a similar feeling, when from the breath of divine art something
new appears, which resembles nothing in the world, and surprises the artist

himself. I believe that Raphael, when his Sistine Madonna was completed,
did not understand her much better than I do my daughter. Yes, yes, my dear
friend, these are transcendent mysteries; we can only pray and thank God
that we are considered worthy to experience them."

CHAPTER XII.

The Frau Professorin Valentin lived in a pretty new house, and occupied
large neat rooms, which however, to an artistic eye, with all their tidiness
had a somewhat gloomy, cheerless air. She received Edwin in the largest
and plainest of all; the little artist had not accompanied him upstairs, he
wanted to deliver a few engraved blocks to the person who had ordered
them. The stately, fair-haired woman must have been remarkably pretty in
by-gone years, and even now, though considerably over forty, her bright
eyes and white teeth possessed a youthful charm, especially when she
laughed. She was sitting with five or six seamtresses among mountains of
calico and linen, from which she was cutting children's dresses and
underclothes. She received her visitor like an expected guest, and ushered
him into a smaller apartment, her real home, as she called it, which was
fitted up with a writing table, book cases, a flower stand, and all sorts of
pretty trifles. Over the sofa hung the portrait of a hypochondriacal rascal
looking man with grey hair, from whose wrinkled brow and compressed
lips it was easy to perceive that the care of his digestion had been the
principal occupation of his life.

"My late husband," said the lady, as if introducing Edwin and the picture
to each other. "I have been a widow ten years, but you will find everything
here just as it was in his life time, this room (she opened a door to allow
Edwin to look in) was his study, and contains his whole library, though as
he was a mathematician, I can read none of his books. But they were his
pets and his pride, and I think that picture would fall from the wall if one
should ever get into a stranger's hands. If I had my way, the sooner I got the
horrible things out of the house the better I should like it. They cost me
tears enough when he could use them."

"Tears?"

"Yes, Herr Doctor, you're a learned man too, I hope you will do better
some day and not say like my late husband: 'first my books, and then my
wife.' And yet he married me for love and not mathematics. But after two or
three years, although I had not grown exactly ugly, he found those horrid
triangles and hexangles, and the queer plus and minus signs, far more
attractive than the blue eyes and round cheeks of his young wife. Well, I do
not complain, I had foreseen it and knew what I was doing."

"But aside from this jealousy, which you share with so many women,
you must have enjoyed a great deal of happiness in these rooms, or you
would not have so religiously kept them in the same condition."

The widow looked at him with a searching side glance, as if she wanted
to ascertain whether he was not too young to be trusted with any
confidential disclosures. His honest face, and frank, open bearing, untinged
by any shade of intrusiveness, seemed to please her. He was quite different
from the other young literati, whom she had seen with her husband. Her
quick, womanly penetration enabled her to perceive at once, that she was in
the presence of one of those rare men, who are really as wise as serpents
and as harmless as doves.

"You're still a young man, my dear Herr Doctor," she replied without the
least sarcasm in her tone; "I don't know whether you have yet had the
experience that certain natures are exceptions to the general rule, and do not
pursue happiness, but become their own tormentors. Although very young
when my dead husband offered me his hand, I was wise enough to know
that I should not find what is called happiness with him. He who is to
render another happy, must be capable of happiness himself. My poor
Valentin was the most wretched self-tormentor that can be imagined, and
without knowing it or wishing to do so, he tortured every one around him. I
calculated upon this with mathematical certainty, as I now tell you. And yet
I preferred him to all others, for he gave me a task, a constant, daily and
hourly work to perform in myself, and taxed all my strength, which is very
great and always longs to overcome every obstacle. Now nothing is more
difficult than to conquer one's self; I was then a spoiled, petted creature,
every one loved me, I coquetted with old and young, with my own heart,
nay, God forgive me, with our Lord Himself. How it happened that my eyes

were suddenly opened and I said to myself: 'You're a silly doll, you will ruin
an immortal soul if this continues--' is too long a story. Enough, that as my
heart had remained steadfast and honest, I resolved to try my fate with a
very peevish or unhappy man. It will probably be no indiscretion, if I tell
you that my dear old friend König was my suitor at the same time; we still
joke about the fact that I was his first love. When you become better
acquainted with this man, you will confess that it would be difficult to find
a happier person or a more loving Christian. If I had become his wife, I
should have lived in Paradise. But this was exactly what I did not desire. I
felt that to be treasured all my life by such an excellent man, would finally
have spoiled me. Well, with Valentin I often had more of the contrary than
was agreeable; but I have never regretted it. And now sit down by me, Herr
Doctor, and tell me a little about my foster child, Leah."

"I tell you, Madame? Nay, it would greatly interest me to learn from you
something about the childhood and early education of my pupil, who seems
to be somewhat reserved."

A sorrowful smile flitted over the lady's pleasant, cheerful face. "If I
could answer that question satisfactorily, you would hardly be sitting beside
me now," she replied. "But excuse me a moment, I'm wanted in the other
room."

One of the seamstresses had appeared in the doorway. Frau Valentin left
Edwin, and he heard her in the next room giving orders and directions in
her clear, positive manner. Then she returned.

"I always have my hands full," she began. "As I unfortunately no longer
have any household cares, I willingly take as much of the work of the
different clubs and societies to which I belong, as others wish to discard.
Ah! Doctor, it affords a great deal of pleasure to have a crowd of deaf and
dumb or neglected or orphaned children thank you for their warm, new
clothes; yet a single child of one's own, who need not even be deaf and
dumb or neglected, or even specially grateful, would bestow a very
different kind of happiness. A substitute is never the thing itself. And that's
the very reason why it makes me so sad, that the only child I could love
almost as my own, avoids me so strangely; she's not cold or ungrateful, but

I learn nothing about the best things that may be in her nature, and cannot
impart the best of mine, since she does not know how to receive them."

"Are you speaking of my pupil?"

The Frau Professorin did not answer immediately; she sat in silence
gazing into vacancy, with her pretty white hands folded in her lap.

"No one has ever caused me so much trouble," she continued, "and yet
she has so much amiability, goodness, unselfishness, and independence. But
that's just it, the one thing needful, the one thing lacking--you're a
philosopher, my dear Doctor, but I hope not one of those whose knowledge
has deprived them of faith. And this strange girl--it is not the pride of
superior knowledge that makes her unbelieving; no one has a more modest
opinion of her own acquirements. But it's in the blood. You ought to have
known her mother, whose character she has inherited, trait for trait. Nothing
has ever been more mysterious to me, than how my old friend, the artist,
who has such a living need of God, could be so happy with this woman,
who made no secret of her want of religion, and once when I asked her the
direct question, frankly acknowledged: 'that she really did not know
whether there was any God at all.' She would not have denied it; but I never
disclosed it, I don't know whether she made such confessions to her
husband, but I almost think he would not have been puzzled by them; he
loved her very dearly. And to be sure, no one could help loving her; I was
unable to do so myself, long after I had given up trying to lead her to the
light which has guided me through all the depths and shallows of this
world. To be sure the fact that she was a Jewess, rendered it difficult for her
to obtain a knowledge of the truth. But if she had only been a devout
Jewess! I respect all genuine convictions. But she, on the contrary,
confessed to me with the calmest possible face, that she knew no more of
all the mysteries of life in her thirtieth year than she did in her tenth; she did
not understand either this world or the next, and had no desire to fathom
their secrets; her beautiful, bright, thoughtless present, with her husband
and child, was all sufficient. I fairly started when this was first uttered so
plainly. What is this miserable twilight of our earthly existence, if no ray
from above warms and brightens it until we reach the full light? And
besides, hers was no shallow, sensual nature; or how would she have been

able to value so highly, love so fondly, her delicate high-minded husband?
But perhaps it was precisely because he remained all his life as little
understood by her, as she was by him, that they were so fondly attached to
each other. Possibly she felt a secret longing for the peace of the children of
God, and he, that desire to save which does not renounce the most darkened
nature and ever seeks the lost! Besides, she was far from despising or
jeering at anything others held sacred, and took it as a matter of course that
her child should be educated in the religion of its father. As she herself had
none, and probably sometimes felt a horror of this nothingness, she did not
wish to sin against her daughter. But it was of no avail. Nature is too
powerful. I fear if the daughter were asked to answer a plain question upon
her conscience, she would be found to believe little more of her catechism
than her mother did."

The bell, which rang in the entry outside, interrupted the conversation.
"Unfortunately we shall be interrupted," said the lady, hastily drying her
eyes, which were wet with tears. "I requested you to call upon me, because
as I said before, I love the child almost as fondly as if she were my own
flesh and blood. You must tell me, dear Herr Doctor, what you are going to
do with her, that I may be satisfied you will not make the evil still worse."

"I shall give her no religious instruction," replied Edwin, rising. "I am
not a theologian. But the philosophy to which I devote myself, has led as
many to a personal God as away from Him. No knowledge can replace or
destroy the needs of the soul, from which all religion springs. My
psychology can quietly let alone what philosophers term predestination, and
I am the last who would wish to divert any human mind from the path that
leads to peace--though it certainly is not my office to dabble in the business
of the missionaries."

Frau Valentin looked at him intently as he uttered these words. "I do not
fully understand you," she said, holding out her hand. "But this I do know;
you are a good, sincere, warm-hearted man. You will do the child no harm,
for that only comes from the wicked."

Just at this moment a maid entered and announced: "Herr Candidat
Lorinser."

"How fortunate!" exclaimed the Fran Professorin, and then turned to
Edwin. "Now you must stay a little longer. You will make an acquaintance
that will interest you more than an old woman who only hopes to be a good
Christian like thousands of others."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Don't be repelled by the first impression," she added in an undertone. "I
too was obliged to conquer a slight prejudice, but all trees do not have the
same bark. This man's good qualities lie in the depths of his nature."

The person thus announced now entered with a hasty bow, cast a quick,
strangely penetrating glance at Edwin, and then with an awkward manner,
like a boy aping a grown man for the first time, kissed Frau Valentin's hand.
When she pronounced Edwin's name, he bowed with studied courtesy, but
instantly threw himself on the sofa as if utterly exhausted, took no further
notice of this new acquaintance, but with the most entire absence of
constraint as if availing himself of his privileges in the house, tore off a
black cravat knotted around his thick neck, and began to comfortably sip a
glass of wine, which Frau Valentin poured out for him, at the same time
relating in a low, harsh voice, the result of various errands and
commissions, which despite the heat, he had executed for his hostess.

Edwin had plenty of leisure to observe him, and found the warning not to
allow himself to be discouraged by the first impression, very necessary. If
he had followed his own inclinations, he would not have breathed the same
air with this singular saint a moment longer. Now he remained and
determined to make a study of him.

He who looked more closely at the strongly marked forehead, broad
nose, and large, ever moving lips, could not help thinking the face a striking
one, and in its rare moments of repose even attractive. Bushy, unkempt hair
hung over the rounded temples, but the beard was closely shaven and the
cheeks thus acquired a bluish tint. What most repelled Edwin was that the
Herr Candidat either kept his eyes fixed intently on the floor, or else let
them wander aimlessly over the ceiling, without noticing the persons in the
room except by a hasty side glance. Moreover a bitter smile constantly
hovered around his lips, while he was silent, but instantly disappeared when

he began to speak. Then an almost fanatical sternness lowered on his black
brows, a firm decision and imperious implacability, although he expressed
himself in the mildest and gentlest words.

There was nothing remarkable about his black clothes, which were cut in
the usual style, but he wore shoes that enabled him to move almost
noiselessly, and a brown straw hat with a black ribbon a hand's breadth
wide.

After relating the result of his visits to the sick and poor and meantime
drinking a second and third glass of wine, he looked at an unshapely silver
watch he had drawn from the heart pocket of his black coat, and hastily
rose, saying that his minutes to-day were numbered. In reply to Frau
Valentin's jesting remark, that it was strange a person who, like him, always
lived in eternity, never had any time, he did not even answer with his usual
smile. On reaching the door, after not having addressed a single word to
Edwin, he said suddenly: "I shall consider it an honor to accompany you,
Herr Doctor, if you will wait until I have said a few words to our excellent
friend alone. Business matters!" he added, looking quietly at his patroness.
The latter seemed to have expected something of the kind, and without any
sign of curiosity led the way into the late mathematician's study, whither
Lorinser followed her.

Edwin's feeling of dislike had grown so strong, that he could scarcely
control it sufficiently to wait for the Herr Candidat. He could not
understand a word of what was being said in the next room, and only heard
enough to gather that Frau Valentin grew angry, but Lorinser speedily
soothed her; then a box was opened and money counted out on a table.
Directly after both re-appeared in the sitting room, the professor's widow
evidently out of humor and with deeply flushed cheeks, Lorinser following
her in the calmest possible mood. He kissed his hostess' pretty hand and
whispered something, that Edwin did not hear, but would not permit her to
accompany him to the door.

The seamstresses were sitting quietly at work in the large room. The
youngest was a slender brunette, with thick, shining hair, and beautiful
black eyes. As Lorinser passed, Edwin thought he saw the girl blush and

bend lower over her work, but the Herr Candidat seemed to take no more
notice of her than the others.

When they had reached the street, and walked on side by side for some
distance in silence, Lorinser suddenly stood still, removed his hat, and
casting an absent glance at the clouds, said: "You must not misjudge me.
This sort of practical religion, this busy attempt to earn heaven by making
ourselves useful to our fellow mortals, is thoroughly repugnant to me, and if
I allow myself to be used as a tool, it is only to have some kind of method
in the madness. This course or conduct may be everything you please,
warm-hearted, useful, a necessity to certain natures, but it is as different
from true religion, as all human worship is unlike the genuine service of
God."

"I have only made Frau Valentin's acquaintance to-day," replied Edwin.
"But she did not give me the impression that she was one of those persons
who hope to engage a place in heaven by their good works. She cannot
imagine any worship--and therefore certainly not the service of God--
without active exertion."

"You express her views exactly," said the other, as he withdrew his eyes
from the clouds and fixed them again on the earth. "To act is a temporal
thing; to be, to behold, to commune with ourselves--only thus can we here,
though imperfectly, attain a conception of the Infinite. It is possible that in a
purer and more sensitive husk than the one we now have, organs may grow,
by means of which we can take an active share in the inexpressible energy
of the Deity, become in a certain sense co-workers with God. Here below
the highest point we can reach, is: an ecstatic realization that we possess
God. Everything that perplexes us, procures our powers room to develop,
tempts us, so to speak, from resting in God to rely on ourselves, no matter
how useful it may be in a worldly point of view, is a sin against the Holy
Ghost, a crime against our own souls. I do not know how far your
philosophy will enable you to follow me."

Lorinser suddenly stood still, removed his hat, and cast an absent glance at
the clouds.

"To the most extreme consequences of your view of the world, which
extend to the familiar mystical quietism," replied Edwin with a calm smile.
"This is not the first time I have encountered such a mixed temperament--
you are undoubtedly phlegmatic---choleric--and therefore my philosophy is
not perplexed about the formula. The only thing new and not quite
intelligible, is how any one with such views can become a clergyman,
accept an office as the servant of religion, which calls itself the religion of
love."

"You are perfectly right. And I also am too honest a man to consent to
the pitiful compromises and casuistries, which most clergymen drag with

them through life as galley-slaves do the chains which grow into their flesh.
I wish to have nothing to do with the so-called established church, and
abhor or pity the delusion that religion can be managed in bulk, like a joint
stock company, on whose terms a deed of partnership is drawn up. There
has never been a revelation, which has come from heaven to earth as of
universal validity. At every moment the fulness of God's mercy is revealed
anew, the Son of Man dies again, sinful mortals are saved once more by the
Saviour's blood. But no one knows or perceives anything of this, except
those, who have not exchanged the gold of their love for God, for the base
coin of the so-called love for one's neighbor, only to be beggars when God
demands a sacrifice. We have only one neighbor, God himself. Our lives are
nothing but an act of mercy on the part of the Creator, who by means of a
temporary separation from him, arouses the wish, the desire, the passionate
longing for a re-union, and thereby affords us the first conscious delight of
sinking back into eternity. The souls who never attain to this, are, as it were,
only the dark elements in the nature of God, and in the great crucible of
time will be separated from the purer ore and cast aside like dross."

"Go on," said Edwin after a pause, as his companion relapsed into
silence. "I make no reply, because I have perceived it is utterly useless to
work against such a fantastic condition of the soul. But I am always
interested in watching this singular state of profound thought, which does
not rest until having reached the highest pitch, the overstrained powers
suddenly relapse into a voluptuous repose."

Lorinser paused again and cast one of those side glances, which so
strangely distorted his features, at his companion.

"I see you have a tolerably good theoretical knowledge of the matter,"
said he. "Perhaps you may also be nearer the experience than you suppose.
The unsatisfactoriness of the usual sensible analysis of the problem of life,
must have long since been evident to you, as well as every other honest
thinker. But most men, when they come to the point where their world is
nailed up with boards, are modest enough to see the bounds of all human
knowledge here, and turn back again like good sheep, who hit their heads
against the sides of their pen. My dear sir, the fence is not so high, that with
proper headway it cannot be overleaped, and the bound is so far from being

a salto mortale, that the true life only begins on the other side. God is
transcendent. If we are to approach him, we must spring upward."

"And do you believe that this leap depends solely upon our own
inclinations?"

"Not entirely. Not every one, even if dissatisfaction gnaws at his soul,
has obtained the power to lend his spirit wings. There are natures, like those
of our good Frau Valentin, who lack the necessary elasticity. But where it
does exist, it can, like any other power, be strengthened and steeled."

"I should be greatly obliged," said Edwin smiling, "if when occasion
offers, you would give me farther instruction in these gymnastics. But I
have now reached my home. I must not ask you to take the trouble to go in
with me. The old staircase is dark and steep, and one is obliged to grope his
way step by step, an easier operation for a dialectician of my stamp, than
for him who without assistance soars through the seven heavens."

Lorinser did not seem to hear the jest. His eyes were intently fixed upon
a female figure, which had approached the house from the other side a short
time before them, and with a hasty bow to Edwin entered.

"Who is that lady?" he asked.

"One of the lodgers in our house, a very talented musician, who lives in
great seclusion, so great that I can tell you no more about her."

"Will you allow me to look in upon you a moment?" replied Lorinser,
stepping into the entry before Edwin.

Balder looked up from his book in surprise, when his brother entered
with his singular companion. His soft, expressive eyes rested on the strange
face for a short time, but soon seemed to have perceived all he thought
worthy of notice, and remained persistently fixed on the sunlight that
bathed the branches of the acacia tree.

The youth's appearance was evidently more attractive to Lorinser. He
instantly directed the conversation back to his mystical experiences,

revelations, and divine joys, as he termed them, and turning with
unconcealed admiration toward Balder, declared that he seemed specially
fitted by nature to penetrate the depths of these secrets. He would, if
permitted, introduce him to other chosen spirits, by whom disclosures
would be made that would render his present relations to life, shallow and
profitless.

Edwin contented himself with now and then throwing in a sarcastic
question, which Lorinser merely noticed by a shrug of the shoulders, but
Balder, who met all his entreaties with unmoved composure, answered
shortly, that he was not in the habit of going out and felt no longing for any
other wonders than those revealed by his senses and quiet thoughts.

"You will think differently, when you are farther initiated," replied
Lorinser. "I can boldly assert, that without suspecting it, you are in an
unusual degree a child of God. The hour will come--"

Here he was interrupted by the entrance of Reginchen, who brought the
brothers their dinner. Lorinser only vouchsafed her a passing glance, and
the dishes she carried did not seem to him sufficiently choice to induce him
to remain longer. He begged permission to come again at an early day, and
withdrew smiling at Balder, who did not perceive it, as he was limping
around the room helping Reginchen set the table.

"Dear me," said the fair haired girl, as the retreating footsteps glided
over the stairs, "what a queer gentleman that is! I'd rather have mother scold
me half a day, than listen to his husky voice and hear him creep about as if
he had on felt slippers, for half an hour. It's fortunate he never looks any one
straight in the eye, for if he did nobody could endure it, at least not I. Did
you notice, Herr Walter: the whites of his eyes are like mother of pearl, or
the quicksilver in our thermometer. He looks very ghostly, not like anything
human."

"You foreboding angel!" cried Edwin laughing. "But don't be afraid of
him, Reginchen. This godly fellow won't come again very soon; he saw that
he had no power over our souls, and our flesh--I mean the excellent piece of
meat your mother has sent up to us to-day--did not tempt his appetite."

"I hope you may be right," said Balder. "But I'm afraid we shall not get
rid of this gloomy guest so quickly; he's only watching for a more favorable
opportunity to steal in again, though I don't understand what he hopes to
find here."

"We'll wait till he does, and if necessary use our right to close our doors.
He has left us his card: 'Unter den Linden, No. 10.' Of course in the most
fashionable locality. The children of God, who neither sow nor reap, since
their Heavenly Father feeds them, can afford themselves every luxury,
while we children of the world--but you're right, Reginchen, the dinner will
get cold. Come, child, let me pour you out a glass of wine. I'll take water
myself, to cool my indignation over the false prophet."

CHAPTER XIV.

Meantime Lorinser had only crept down one flight of stairs and stopped
before the door on the second story. He read the name on the small sign,
listened a few minutes, and then gently pulled the bell.

Christiane opened the door and gazed in surprise at the stranger, whom
she had just seen with Edwin. His penetrating gaze rested on her a moment,
then he raised his eyes toward the ceiling of the entry, as if solely interested
in the spiders' webs.

"Fräulein Christiane Falk?" said he.

She made an almost imperceptible bow. "What do you want, sir?"

"Will you allow me to come in a moment, the errand that brings me to
you can hardly be discussed here--"

She drew back a step from the threshold to admit him. In an instant he
had crossed the ante-room and entered the half sitting room half bedroom,
to which we were introduced the night that this story opened. Its appearance
in the broad daylight was not much more cheerful, than by the feeble rays
of the little lamp. The walls were hung with faded tapestry, but destitute of
pictures. The floor was uncarpeted, there were no flowers, none of the
hundred trifles with which lonely women adorn their rooms and endeavor to
supply the lack of human companionship; nothing but a quantity of books
on the bureau, the volume of Schopenhauer on the table before the sofa, and
numerous sheets of music scattered in disorder over the piano. The whole
produced the impression that there were no bright eyes here, to whom life
was pleasant for the sake of its charms.

The face of the occupant only too plainly confirmed the testimony of the
mute objects around her.

The features were unlovely, harsh, and no longer youthful, the brows
almost met over the light grey eyes, the hair, thick but not soft, hung over
the pale brow like a heavy shadow. The only charm in this stern visage, the
full mouth with its dazzlingly white teeth, had a decided approach to a
mustache, and by its habitual expression of gloomy defiance seemed to
contradict the idea that this face could ever wish to please. The same
avoidance of all desire for comeliness was visible in the dress. But even the
most clumsy folds could not wholly conceal the fact that the masculine
head was placed on a most exquisite female figure.

She stood quietly by the table, opposite to Lorinser, who without waiting
for her invitation, had thrown himself upon the little sofa and was scanning
the apartment with his lightning like side glance. With a careless gesture of
the hand he invited her to sit down beside him, but she remained standing
motionless, with folded arms.

"Honored Fräulein," said he, "I have heard so much of your talent, my
friend Doctor Edwin, your fellow lodger, has just confirmed it so warmly,
that it seems to me like a direct interposition of Providence that I have now
found my way to you. My business can be stated in two words. Some
friends who were not satisfied with the public worship of the church, have
for some time arranged a quiet service of their own, in which music
occupies an important part. The lady who formerly played the harmonium,
has gone away. There is no one among us who could take her place, so I
undertook to provide a substitute. I thought of you, Fräulein. That you are
no virtuoso of the common stamp, but a person to whom the mysterious
nature of true, genuine music is revealed, I see by a single glance at that
book, in which I read the names of Bach and Glück, and--allow me to speak
frankly--one look into your eyes, which beam with a deeper radiance than
those of ordinary women. Those eyes bear witness that your music is your
religion. I will not conceal from you that this point of view does not yet
seem to me the highest one. To me, music is only a stepping stone to divine
happiness, though certainly one of the nearest to the throne of the Eternal.
However, I am not here to preach to you. Besides, no one in our circle will
annoy you by the supposition that you will share our devotions. But for
what you give us, you will in every sense be richly rewarded. I only beg to
tell you on what conditions--"

"And suppose I could not consent upon any condition?" she quietly
interrupted.

He seized the book that lay on the table before him, turned the leaves
without apparently taking any notice of their contents, and after a short
pause replied:

"You will perhaps think differently, Fräulein, when I tell you that you
need not attend these religious exercises in person. The instrument stands in
a room, which is divided from the hall where we assemble by a tolerably
large apartment. You will play as if to yourself, and not a whisper of what
takes place in the little congregation outside, will reach your ears. In this
way both you and we will be spared any mutual annoyance, and only share
what is alike to all."

He looked at her with a keen, searching glance. She was gazing into
vacancy, and seemed to be considering how far she should reveal her most
secret feelings to this stranger. A bitter expression suddenly flitted over her
lips, and her brows contracted.

"Pardon me," she said hastily, "if I must decline under any
circumstances, to take part in what is called divine service. My reasons for
so doing I may be permitted to keep to myself. I doubt whether they would
be understood, far less appreciated by you, and I am not accustomed to be
faithless to my convictions, even for the large fee you intimate I should
receive."

"Your reasons?" he said smiling, as he rose and approached her. "Will
you permit me to read these reasons, or rather this one motive from your
brow?"

"Sir--"

She looked at him in astonishment and retreated a step, as if to protect
her personal freedom. He stood still and again gazed steadily at the ceiling.

"The one reason that you will take no part in any religious service, is:
that you have no God whom you desire to serve," he said in the frankest

possible tone, as if he were speaking of something that was quite a matter of
course.

She did not answer immediately. The man's amazing assurance seemed
to intimidate her. She was forced to arm herself with her old defiance ere
she could reply.

"Did you really read it from my brow, or only in the book on the table?"

"My dear Fräulein," he answered kindly, "if I had had the honor of a
longer acquaintance with you, you would expect me to be able to solve so
easy an enigma without such aid. The author of that book, believe me, with
all his atheism, knew more of God than you do--at least at this time, for he
knew that which alone leads to Him, and which so far as I see, has hitherto
remained unknown to you, and therefore renders the natural estrangement
from God you share with countless others, so harsh and apparently
necessary: sin. You need not answer yes or no. I'm sure of it: whatever
errors and weaknesses have entered your life, you have never known sin,
that sin which alone arouses in the wilful heart the need, the longing for
redemption, the burning sense of our own weakness and baseness, which
makes us thirst for God and is at last stilled by the dew of mercy. Do you
smile, Fräulein? This language seems to exaggerated to express the naked
truth. Some day you will remember it, and no longer smile.

"No," he continued as if in sudden agitation, pacing up and down the
room with hasty strides. "I will not give you up. I have felt too strongly
attracted toward you, from the first words that fell from your lips, to be able
to go away now and say to myself: this strong, beautiful soul will never find
the way to the holy of holies. Even such a powerful guide as music will
only lead you to the threshold. Believe me, my dear Fräulein, I too have had
similar experiences; I too once said like you: the God who has created
heaven and earth and myself, is too great for my love, too distant for my
longing, too silent for my confidence. And why should I have desired to
approach him? What did I lack, so long as I had myself, my virtue, my
worldly pleasure, my good works? Not until the day when I first became
familiar with sin, when I had lost myself, did I learn how near this far off
being can come, how eloquently he can console, how lovingly he can draw
you to himself. Since that time all the sorrows of the world, of which that

bewildering book speaks, have seemed to me mere child's play in
comparison to the misfortune of being sufficient to ourselves and
attempting to fight our way through the unconquerable horrors of existence,
by means of common place honesty, courage, and innocence, the trivial
'always practice truth and justice.'"

He remained standing before her and held out both hands, but she
continued to keep her arms folded over her breast.

"I don't understand you," she replied, "and moreover do not know why I
should take the trouble to understand you--above all, why you should take
the trouble to attempt to aid me in your own way. I do not feel at all sick,
and what I need to make me happy neither man nor God can give. If the
sense of your sinfulness has made you long for a 'Saviour,' I do not envy
you this happiness. I am a lonely woman; I have nothing but myself, my
pride, my obstinacy, if you choose to call it so. If I must lose this, must
become a worm and wallow in the mire--then to be sure I too might
probably succeed in crawling to the cross. But I do not desire a God, who
must draw me to himself through sin and disgrace! If he cannot clasp his
honest, upright creatures to his heart, I prefer to remain a step child."

"You prefer." said Lorinser in a low, but very impressive tone. "If you
always can do so."

"Who is to prevent me from being faithful to myself?"

"One who is stronger than our wills: the devil."

"I am too old for nursery tales."

"Oh! my dear child," he replied, "there are nursery tales which we first
experience, when our infant's socks are laid aside and we have discarded the
nurse's milk for sound human reason. Have you never learned that some
power is exerted over our wills by a sudden, as it were magical influence?
Has no eye ever bewitched you, no voice ever set your blood on fire, no
hand ever destroyed your defiant obstinacy by a single touch?"

A deep flush suddenly suffused Fräulein Falk's dark face.

"How do you presume to play the part of an inquisitor toward a lady
whom you see for the first time?" she vehemently burst forth. "Be kind
enough to leave me, sir, our conversation has taken a turn--"

She drew back as if to leave the way to the door open. He smilingly took
his hat from the table, but remained standing in the middle of the room,
waving it carelessly to and fro, with his eyes fixed upon the floor.

"You wrong me," said he. "I am not so indiscreet as to seek to force
myself into your confidence. What I said was aimed at people in general.
Inspired poets and sentimental children of the world talk of the magic of
love. As if these things were not perfectly natural, so natural that the power
exercised over the will has been very properly compared to chemical
processes. The word magic can only be used when unnatural--supernatural
things occur. If you follow the promptings of your inclinations, your blood,
your nature, even were it along the worst paths, to the greatest injury of
yourself and others--is there any witchcraft in it? Error, weakness,
perversity--I repeat it--are very human evils, and do not lead to God. But to
be urged on to what is most foreign, hostile to your nature, to be forced, in
dread and horror, to do what you abhor, to be faithless to what is dearest--
you see, Fräulein, that this only occurs under the influence of a powerful
spell, the only one that still remains in this enlightened world, and whose
consequences God scuds his pardoning mercy to destroy or efface: the
magic of sin. I beg your pardon for having troubled you so long. Perhaps I
shall frequently have the pleasure of conversing with you about these
mysteries."

He bowed with the look and smile of a man, who has tamed a fierce
lioness and can now venture to enter her cage alone. She stood speechless,
and made no motion to accompany him to the door. Her arms hung loosely
by her side, her chin drooped on her breast, her eyes were closed as if she
had given herself up to gloomy thoughts.

Mohr and Franzelius were just going up the narrow stairs, as Lorinser
closed Christiane's door behind him.

Coming from different directions, they had met at the outer door, and
unwelcome as the encounter was to both--for Mohr, who had his play in his

pocket, would also have liked to see the brothers alone--each was too
awkward or too proud to avoid the other.

They had bowed in silence, and Mohr had allowed the printer to precede
him. When they now met Lorinser on the stairs, Franzelius stepped aside
like a person who unexpectedly treads upon a toad. The incident even made
him forget his unfriendly relations with the eternal joker, and pausing on the
landing he looked after the rapidly retreating figure, saying in a tone of the
most intense abhorrence:

"Did you see that man, Mohr?"

"He came out of the young lady's room. Who is he? Where did you make
his acquaintance, Gracchus?"

"He's the same malicious hypocrite who made that speech before our
society. It's a pity the thought occurred to me too late, I might have thanked
him for the information he gave the police."

"Or helped him down stairs a little faster; he seems to have scented this
esprit de l'escalier!" Mohr replied, essaying to jest, but instantly added with
a gloomy brow, "What did the pale rascal want there? Couldn't she have
shut the door on him, as well as better people?"

"A bed-bug makes its way everywhere."

"You're right, Franzel!" replied Mohr with an angry laugh. Then twisting
his under lip awry, muttered: "Eternal Gods! I would not have believed that
a man could fall low enough to envy a bed-bug!"

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

He who undertakes to tell a "true story"--and ours is as fully attested as
any a novelist ever gathered from family archives--he who represents life,
as it is experienced, not imagined, must be prepared for all sorts of
objections and contradictions. The most improbable events, as is well
known, are those which most frequently happen, and on the other hand
nothing meets with less credence than that which nobody doubts; though
there are exceptions to the rule. Even on the stage we are not accustomed to
have a lover play a character part, any more than it will be obvious to the
readers of this entirely veracious history, when we report the authentic fact
that Edwin, faithful to his voluntary vow, actually waited until the end of
the week before he again entered the dangerous house in Jägerstrasse, nay
that he even put his resolution to a still harder test, by waiting until the
afternoon and occupying himself during the morning as usual. Our
knowledge of the age he had attained before being attacked by love, only
renders the matter the more incredible, as childish diseases are always more
violent when contracted in riper years. We have as yet seen too few tests of
his philosophy, of the influence of this stern science upon his character, to
be able to derive any explanation of his stoical abstinence. But whatever
share it may have had in his conduct, when on that Saturday afternoon, he
at last entered the memorable street, he found himself in anything but a
philosophical mood. The hand with which he stroked Balder's hair trembled
perceptibly; instead of the two little volumes of Wilhelm Meister he
intended to put in his pocket, he only took the second, and the volume
which with its mysterious beauties might almost bear away the palm from
her own Balzac. He answered Feyertag, who endeavored to draw him into a
learned conversation as he crossed the courtyard, so confusedly, that the
worthy man was greatly delighted and told his wife the Herr Doctor, was
beginning to feel a proper respect for his intelligence; he had said things to
him to-day so terribly learned, that they were almost incomprehensible.

On the way, our by no means heroically disposed hero endeavored to be
prepared for an emergency, which he considered almost as a favor of
fortune--that he might not find her at home, or be refused admittance. He
resolved to bear this like a man and make no attempt to bribe or learn
anything from the striped waist-coat. But when the solemn boy received
him with the words: "The young lady is at home and begs the gentleman to
walk in"--it seemed as if it would have been utterly impossible for him to
go away without seeing her.

When he entered the little red parlor, she was standing before the table at
which she appeared to have been writing, and came forward to receive him
with the frankest cordiality, as if he were an old acquaintance who had been
long expected. The repellant coldness had vanished from her face, only a
certain look of abstraction frequently recalled her former expression. She
thanked him for having kept his promise and even brought her something
new again. "But," she added, "I must not give you any farther trouble,
especially if you continue to act as you did the first time, and leave the
books at the outer door. You can surely make a better use of your time, than
in running errands for a stranger, and I cannot promise you that a closer
acquaintance will repay you for your trouble."

He answered with a few courteous words that betrayed none of the
thoughts passing in his mind. Her presence had again produced so strange
an impression, that he needed a short time to regain his composure. To-day,
in her simple dress of crimson silk, with her hair wrapped in braids around
her head and again utterly devoid of ornament, she seemed even more
bewitching than when he first saw her. Yet there was a timidity almost
bordering upon sadness in her voice and movements, that was contagious
and overawed him more than her former careless ease.

"You would certainly have gone away to-day too, if I had not expressly
invited you in," said she. "But it would not have required so much
discretion to convince me that you are an exception to the usual rule. I saw
in the first fifteen minutes of our acquaintance, that you were not like other
men, from whose importunity it is difficult for a solitary girl to protect
herself. That is why I am glad to see you again and thank you in person. I
live so entirely alone, and although it is my own wish, the days are long and

the necessity of hearing some voice except the twittering of the birds and
the meaningless remarks of the servants, soon forces itself upon one.
Besides, we like to discuss what we have read. To be sure--" she added
hesitatingly, tapping the book that lay beside her portfolio with her rosy
finger--"to speak of what you have lately brought me--"

"What have you read?"

"A great many of the poems; I was familiar with almost all from seeing
them in collections, some even when I was at school. But in reading them
together I now realize their beauty, at least so far as I understand them. But-
-Werther--you will scarcely believe that although I am twenty-one this is the
first time I have read it."

"What an enviable person!"

"How so?"

"I devoured it at fifteen, when I was far too young and verdant to enjoy
that most beautiful and mature of all the works ever written for young
people."

"Perhaps I'm already too old," she said blushing, "or still too young. For-
-it will seem very foolish and perhaps incomprehensible to you: I had some
difficulty in getting through it.

"That is," she hastily corrected herself, "I found certain things
wonderfully beautiful, the spirit, the clearness, the lofty, melancholy
thoughts, and what a living thing nature seems to become--I have copied
many passages to read again. But the whole, the work itself--you will surely
think me childish or heartless, if I confess that I was not in the least affected
when Werther shot himself."

He gazed into her black eyes with a quiet smile.

"Not even as much by Père Goriot" said he.

"No," she answered in an undertone. "I cannot help it, nothing makes
any impression upon me unless I can imagine it might happen to myself.
This good Père Goriot, who is so ill repaid for all he does for his daughters,
the daughters themselves, who have an actual passion for spending a great
deal of money and living in fabulous luxury, I can understand very well. I
too had a father who would have sacrificed himself for me if necessary, as I
would have done for him, and it is by no means strange to me that people
can set their hearts on a thousand beautiful things which only the rich
should possess. But that a man can no longer live, because he--because he is
in love--with somebody's wife--is a thing of which I have no idea. Why do
you look at me so? Don't you believe me? You can do so safely, I always
say what I think."

"I'm only looking at you," he replied, "because I do not know how to
reconcile your words, which I do not doubt, with your face and your
twenty-one years."

"And why not?"

"Do not consider it a tasteless compliment: but with such a face, I should
hardly think a person could live twenty-one years in the world, without at
least perceiving in others, what mad follies a man desperately in love may
commit. And have you never been moved when you made some one
unhappy, even if your own heart remained untouched? You have probably
known nothing of hunger except from hearsay, and yet the sight of misery
touches you."

"Certainly," she answered thoughtfully; "but you're mistaken, if you
suppose I have never suffered want myself. There have been times--but
that's my own affair. On the contrary, the love that has been offered me has
either seemed untrue and ridiculous, or excited actual horror and loathing,
never compassion."

Edwin's surprise increased at every word, whose sincerity he could not
doubt. But if it were as she said and her grave innocent gaze confirmed--
how had she come to these suspicious lodgings in such more than doubtful
company? What, if she had nothing to repent, was the cause of this

avoidance of men, this mysterious love of solitude in one so young and
independent?

He noticed that she looked surprised at his silence, and in order to make
some remark, said:

"If you place so little value on the passion, which since the beginning of
creation has, with hunger, been the motive power of the world, your
purveyor of romances certainly has a difficult task. Or would you prefer
novels of the latest style, which only contain enough love not to frighten the
owners of circulating libraries?"

"No," she replied laughing, "I'm not quite so spoiled. Dear me, what I
read aloud to my dear father was always French literature, which often, as I
noticed by his making me skip a chapter, was by no means fit for a young
girl. But do you know what I don't understand? Why the authors don't have
a better appreciation of their advantages and write only stories which
contain very elegant, rich, brilliant scenes, handsome parks, castles,
numerous servants, and fireworks, concerts, and balls every night. I should
never weary of such books, as when a child I could always read over and
over again the fairy tales, in which a fairy or magician builds in a single
night a splendid palace of gold and jewels, with the horses' mangers of
silver, and their hoofs studded with diamonds. Ought not poetry to describe
a fairer world than this, which with all its petites misères, is only too
familiar to us? Instead of that, village tales have now become fashionable,
and all the fuss, is made about them. Who can be interested in reading how
Christen seeks a wife and obtains now a well-kept farm, and now a
neglected one? And the principal point is always about a few hundred
thalers more or less; when they are obtained, the story ends. That--you must
not be offended by my frankness--is what seemed so strange to me in
Werther: narrow commonplace surroundings, ordinary, provincial people,
and the heroine--I will say nothing about the bread and butter--but has she a
lofty, noble soul? Does she love Werther or not? And if she does--but you're
smiling. I'm probably saying very stupid things. Teach me, if it seems worth
while. It's so tiresome always to think for one's self, in doing which of
course one is always right."

"My dear Fräulein," said he, "I have hitherto had very little inclination to
disturb people who were in perfect harmony with themselves, even if I felt
differently. Why should they not have the right to devote their attention
solely to the beautiful and brilliant? I only wish you might belong to the
favored few, who during their whole lives never see the wrong side of the
world. He who has once become familiar with it, is certainly interested in
finding even amid the narrow, commonplace limits of this miserable
existence treasures and blessings, which fill his heart and make his life
lovely. But you--"

"You are very much mistaken," she gravely interrupted. "I have already
told you that I too know what it is to sit in the shadow and feel no ray of
warmth from the sun that illumines the fairy castles of others. But it is for
that very reason, that I do not wish to be reminded in books of what I have
already had a sufficient experience of in my life, and found by no means
amusing or poetical. And however it maybe with outward cares, their
charms and pleasures; the inward poverty, the miserable, half developed,
embittered, starved feelings, the oppression beneath which human souls
drag out such a painful existence--will you assert that these also are fitting
themes for the poet's art?"

He was just beginning to reply, with a sense of secret surprise at the
gloomy, dismal feeling underlying her words, when the striped waistcoat
appeared at the door of the dining room. The dwarf had evidently just
brushed his tow colored wig, fastened his cravat tighter, and drawn on a pair
of white cotton gloves, which only made his short hands more clumsy.

"Pardon me for not interrupting the regular routine of my day," said the
beautiful girl, suddenly adopting a gayer tone. "That is my tyrant. Small as
he is, and submissive as he pretends to be--if I'm not punctual at my meals,
I lose his favor. The young man can vie in good sense and faithfulness with
many grown persons, but his stomach is still a child's and must have its
dues every two or three hours, or he gets very ill-natured. But I may venture
to invite you to be my guest. The restaurant provides me with such an
abundant supply of food, that even Jean sometimes gives up the task of
attempting to eat the portion I leave. You have already dined? But you will

at least give me your society; for my usual company, to which I will
introduce you directly, is only a make-shift."

She preceded him into the little dining room, where the boy nimbly
pushed a second chair up to the daintily spread table. But before the young
girl sat down, she went to the bird cage and opened the gilded door.
"There," said she, clapping her hands three times as if for a signal, "there
they come flying out. Some of them understand the order of proceedings
and will instruct the new comers--those shy ones at the back that will not
venture out. You must not suppose I take pleasure in shutting up the poor
things; I buy new ones almost every day, mere native birds, as you see, just
to feed them here a little while, and then after they have given me their
society at dinner, I let them fly away again. Many, to be sure, will not go;
but I am not to blame for that. Whoever voluntarily resigns freedom for
good food and care, must accept imprisonment cheerfully. Tu l'as voulu!"

He listened to her quietly as a part of the gay feathered flock darted out
of the cage and fluttered around the table and corners of the room, while the
others remained timidly within. The window stood wide open; some of the
most insignificant in appearance, after hesitating a moment, whetting their
beaks on the sill and trying their wings, soared out into the open air with
loud chirps and twitterings. The remainder, among which a beautiful gold-
finch was the most attractive, crowded about the side-board and covered
dishes on the table, in eager expectation of the good things they were to
receive.

"I don't object to being alone all day," said the young mistress, taking her
seat and motioning Edwin, with a gesture of charming authoritativeness, to
sit down in the opposite chair, "but it is horrible to eat alone. One never
feels so inhuman, selfish, and hard hearted, as when one is putting one
piece of food after another into one's mouth entirely by himself. I always
begin to think of the hundreds of thousands who have nothing to eat, and
the thought disgusts me with my favorite dishes, so that I can scarcely half
satisfy my hunger. But now look at this unruly rabble. How they quarrel and
scuffle over every little crumb, and the greatest eater there, the little
magpie, grudges the black bird every mouthful. Will you be quiet, you ugly
thing?"

She took a silver salt spoon and tapped the bird, that was giving itself
such airs, gently on the back, but without making any special impression
upon him, and then cut some little biscuits which had been served with the
dessert, into pieces, strewed sugared almonds over them, and divided these
dainties between half a dozen little plates, which she placed in a circle on
the table. The greedy birds instantly assembled around their food; only a
few timid ones that remained on the side board preferred to take the crumbs
she threw them, while the boldest perched on the edge of the dish of fruit,
and rioted undisturbed on the magnificent pears and peaches.

Meantime she herself began to eat, after vainly urging Edwin to do so,
and finally insisted that he must at least try some of the sweet Spanish wine,
of which she only sipped a little from a slender crystal glass to drink his
health. She ate in the same manner, tiny morsels which she took from her
plate with the silver fork, and while busily talking, partook a little more
freely of four or five vegetables and one sweet dish, but scarcely touched
the meats. Edwin jestingly asked if she were a vegetarian. She requested
him to explain the word, which she did not understand. "That's an excellent
system," she said with a thoughtful nod, "I'm really a born vegetarian,
without knowing it until to-day, and have often been laughed at in
consequence. See that partridge, how sadly it thrusts its roasted beak into its
own larded breast! I cannot look at it without reproaching myself for the
happy creature's early death. And I was not even personally acquainted with
the poor thing. But I could never have the heart to eat the chickens my
mother had fed herself. She called it affectation! Dear me, my appetite in
those days was far too healthy to allow me to be sentimental at the expense
of my stomach. Now I have little enough and believe I could live upon
bread and fruits."

As she said all this with a mixture of innocent gayety and womanly
consciousness, while her manner toward her guest was one of the most
perfect ease--he became more and more doubtful what to think of this
mysterious creature. He had had very little intercourse with ladies who had
seemed particularly worthy of notice. Face to face with this problem, which
even experienced connoisseurs of women had given up, all his
psychological wisdom was of no avail. But some secret feeling, which
would not be stifled, told him that whatever perverted, noxious, or

dangerous things there might be in this girl's character or fate, the depths of
her nature were pure and true, and even the open coquetry with which she
had entered into the rôle of a fairy among her enchanted princes in the cage,
had a tinge of innocent fancy, and suited her as well as the ribbons and
spangles of the child, who in play decks itself to represent a princess.

"You have grown so quiet," she said, paring a peach and placing half of
it on his plate, "that I see there is something about me of which you do not
approve,--perhaps the frankness with which I treat you like an old
acquaintance. Say so openly; true, I shall not be able to change my manner,
but I don't wish to impose any constraint upon you."

"I am reflecting," said he, "upon the strange chance which has brought
me to this place. Is it not really like a fairy tale, that I am here in your
society, while you do not even know my name, and I nothing more of you
than yours?"

She raised the silver fruit knife she held in her hand, and with a roguish,
mysterious expression, pressed it to her laughing lips. "Let that pass," said
she, "it has all come about by natural means, without any magic or sorcery.
But for that very reason, it is better to enjoy it so long as it lasts, and not
spoil it by reflections and investigations."

"Will it last?" he asked gravely.

"A little longer, a few weeks perhaps, who knows? Afterwards--what
will come afterwards nobody can tell. But if it seems like a fairy tale, be
kind and wise enough to let it remain so, do not seek to penetrate any
farther into my life, so that I shall be forced to explain the connection.
There's nothing very remarkable concealed in it, at least nothing particularly
pleasant or cheerful. I'm really glad that I have made your acquaintance; I
was too much alone, and in my situation I must beware of all persons whom
I cannot implicitly trust. Why I have confided in you, I do not know; but so
it is, and I should really be grieved if you did not think well of me, or if you
were deterred from coming again in consequence of my frank expressions
of opinion in regard to the various things I read or experience. And you
must not come too often. I do not wish to cause gossip among the people in
the house; but two or three times a week about this hour, before it is time to

go to the theatre--only you must not first get your dinner at home. Will you
promise me that?"

She rose and held out her hand, which he hastily grasped and pressed
cordially in his own.

"May the meal be blessed to you!" she said smiling. "We always said
that in my parent's house, and I miss it here. Jean has too much respect for
me, and the birds cannot be taught to do it. So I shall see you again soon,
and you will bring Göthe's other works, of which you have spoken?"

He bowed silently, involuntarily placing his hand on his heart, and in a
very puzzled mood left her.

Just as he emerged from the house, a light carriage drove up; the
gentleman, who had himself held the reins threw them to the servant sitting
behind and sprang out with the laughing exclamation: "Doctor, are you
mad?"

"Marquard! Is it you? Have you a patient in this house?"

"Only one, who as I see, is making my efforts superfluous by taking the
cure into his own hands. Or have you not just come from her?"

"From her? I don't understand you."

"Hypocrite! As if I did not see the fire in your heart burning through
your vest" (Marquard was fond of quoting from Heine.) "My dear fellow,
you won't find it so easy to deceive an old diagnostician of my stamp. But
how the deuce did you get on her track again?"

"Let's walk a few steps down the street," said Edwin coloring. "The
windows are open, every word can be heard up stairs."

He seized the doctor by the arm and drew him away, relating in an
undertone the story of the lost book-mark, and leaving it in doubt whether
the accident had brought him here to-day for the first time. "And you," he

hastily concluded. "How did you discover that our neighbor in the box at
the theatre lived here?"

"By means of the vein I laudably struck," declaimed the doctor. "The
renewal of my acquaintance with this fair Sphinx is only two days old, and I
fear it will not long survive the third. Day before yesterday, while visiting a
patient in one of the opposite houses, I was suddenly summoned from his
bedside; a boy was dangerously ill; I must come as soon as possible to the
very house before which we just met. How I scaled the staircase and
entered the second story rooms on the wings of my professional duty--a
doctor is an enviable person, Edwin! All doors open to him, while to you
ordinary mortals they only unclose when you knock as honest finders of
property, or--rascally seekers. Imagine my joyful surprise, when the fair
enigma who had so icily dismissed me in the box, now hastily approached
and in the confusion of terror claimed my assistance.

"Was she ill?"

"Not she herself But she has a lad in her service, a ridiculous little
fellow, who had already amused me greatly when he summoned me from
the other side of the street. The mysterious stranger--who at any rate seems
to have a kind heart, especially for minors--had allowed her footman to
invite a younger brother to dine with him, and the two precocious men of
the world had consumed a bottle of Cape wine and smoked some horrible
cigars. The striped waistcoat's stomach, already hardened to such sins,
endured the orgy without injury, while the hopeful Jean junior lay like a
broken lily on his brother's bed, and had frightened the young lady, who had
not the least suspicion of the cause--the young tipplers had carefully put the
bottle away--almost to death. Now I could not possibly do Jean--who was
leering significantly at me, and had taken me into his confidence on the
way--the injury of making light of the case. Besides, successful cures of
difficult cases are a greater recommendation to a young physician, than the
treatment of the sickness that follows a drunken spree. So I took the pallid
scamp to his unsuspicious parents in my own carriage, and yesterday
reported his rapid progress toward convalescence. I'm now just in the act of
giving the second bulletin; but as, when I left him, the patient was eating
pears and dumplings with the best possible appetite, and his noble patroness

intends to visit him herself, you can understand that I shall not be able to
pay many more visits to the fairy castle; for which I am very sorry--
especially on your account, since according to promise--"

"I have just told you--"

"That you're a Cato or a Plato, whichever you prefer. Meantime--even
without having felt your pulse--I see by your whole appearance, that you're
on the direct road to remain so no longer. My best blessing on your
conversion, old boy, and better luck than has fallen to me."

"To you?"

"Well, you may suppose that during my visit yesterday, I made every
effort to appear not only the experienced physician, but also the profound
connoisseur in female hearts and female beauty. Oleum et operam, my dear
fellow! A statue, I tell you, a marble Sphinx would have been more moved
by my engaging manners. This young glacier in Brussels lace remained as
unapproachable as on the first evening, and will you believe it: even my
secret ally, Jean the Little, who ought to be grateful--is a rocher de bronze
in everything that concerns his mistress. The maid, my last hope, did not
appear. So I'm just as wise to-day as I was before, or rather still more
stupid, for all my experience and psychology have not helped me to
understand our solitary beauty, or make up my mind whether she belongs to
the great world, the demi monde, or no world at all."

"There can be no lack of people who will help you on the trail."

"Perhaps others know more," said the doctor, as he paused and cleaned
his spectacles. "Meantime, as I told you just now: I give her up. I hereby
relinquish her to you for the second time and forever, and swear by yonder
turrets, that it does not even cost me an effort. She's an amphibious creature,
a beautiful, faultless young serpent, just fit to drive men mad. I prefer
warm, red blood. I've discovered some one--curiously enough in your
house--a soubrette, who takes lessons from your piano-playing young lady--
not by any means so exquisite or princess like as our sphinx, but to make
amends--you know 'we don't cry for the moon' unless we are incorrigible
idealists and star gazers, like certain people."

He laughingly shook hands with Edwin and entered the house before
which his carriage was waiting.

CHAPTER II.

Ever since the day mentioned in the last chapter, Edwin had become a
regular dinner guest at the house in Jägerstrasse. He came every third day,
but could never be induced to encroach upon little Jean's share of the
remains of the meal any farther than he had done the first time. He dined as
it were symbolically, by dipping a biscuit in the dainty glass which the
young hostess filled with Spanish wine. If she asked him why he would
never gratify her by really eating, he pleaded his old fashioned custom of
dining at noon. In reality, his feelings rebelled against being so luxuriously
entertained in the fairy castle, after having merely been a spectator at the
scanty meal in the "tun." Besides, he was now separated from Balder so
often and so long, that he wished at any cost to keep their cosy dinner hour,
where jesting with Reginchen roused him a short time from his reveries. Yet
it happened more and more frequently, that his evenings were not spent at
home. True, his fair friend always dismissed him just before she went to the
theatre, and neither invited him to accompany her nor gave him any hope of
seeing her afterwards. But the hour spent in talking with her, during which
he played the part of the calm, clever thinker, her "wise friend," as she
jestingly called him, left his soul in a state of agitation, a fever of doubt,
longing, gloom, and happiness, which he was forced to calm by long, lonely
walks, before he could associate with others again.

He knew also that Balder was rarely alone at these times, Mohr came
almost every evening to chat, to play chess with him, or to sit at the open
window and listen to Christiane's piano. He declared that this music and
Balder's golden mane were the only domestic medicines that afforded him
any relief, when he had a particularly violent attack of his chronic self-
contempt. He often brought some of his verses with him or a scene of his
famous comedy: "I am I, and rely on myself," to get the youth's opinion, but
could never make up his mind to read them aloud. Now and then Franzelius
also appeared, but soon went away again if he met Mohr. To be sure the
latter, at Balder's request, made the most earnest efforts to curb his mocking

tongue and to spare the fiery tribune of the people, who was so helpless
when in a small company. But his mere presence annoyed the irritable
fellow, especially as he imagined that since Mohr's return some secret
barrier had arisen between himself and Balder. He loved the youth more
than any other human being, and knew that no one understood him better.
Now he was jealous of every smile that Mohr's quaint manner won from his
darling, and in his stupidity and dullness, felt doubly at a disadvantage in
the presence of the cynical jester, who nevertheless was an object of scorn
to him, as a drone among the working bees.

Balder, with his delicate sensibility, would probably have been even
more careful than usual to soothe his wounded friend; but he was very
anxious, and his thoughts, even while the two young men were with him,
secretly followed his brother along the unknown paths, of which he had
such a superficial knowledge. Not that Edwin would have concealed where
he went, and that he was daily becoming more and more ensnared by the
magic of this singular relation, but he could not reconcile his mind to
confess the full extent of his weakness, for in so doing he would have been
obliged to have acknowledged it to himself, and against such an
acknowledgement all the pride and manliness in his nature struggled.

How contemptible he appeared to himself when at night, after he had
wandered about, long and aimlessly, he again turned his steps toward the
house in Jägerstrasse, instead of going home, to stand on the opposite side
of the street pressed against the wall in some dark corner, until her carriage
brought her back from the theatre, and then to wait hour after hour at his
post, to see whether the door would not open again and allow some more
fortunate person admittance or egress, until the light behind her curtain
vanished, and every thing around him was hushed to repose in the coolness
of the autumnal night, except the fever in his blood. How he cursed the hour
which had first brought him to her presence, and made the firmest
resolutions to put an end to this madness and never cross that fatal threshold
again!

But the next, day would find him once more at the little table, envying
the birds that pecked their food in happy ignorance and in freedom from
suffering like his.

The young girl herself seemed to have no suspicion of how little
prudence her "wise friend" possessed. She treated him on the tenth day
exactly as she had done on the first, with the same frank cordiality, the same
careless confidence; as if it were impossible he could ever become more
distant or approach her nearer. When he came and went, she gave him her
hand like an old friend, scolded him if he kept her waiting, questioned him,
after she had once discovered that his nerves were disordered, most
sympathizingly about his health, and urged him to use all sorts of remedies
and medicines, of which she had read or heard. More than once she
acknowledged that she did not understand how she had ever got through the
long days before making his acquaintance, and only dreaded the moment
when he would grow weary of wasting his time on such a foolish, ignorant
girl, though to be sure the tone in which she had expressed this fear was not
very grave. But though she must have been perfectly aware of her own
powers of attraction, the idea that any deeper feeling might bind him to her
never seemed to enter her head. The longer he watched her, the more he
became convinced that in speaking of love as she had, she had given
utterance to her real opinions. It actually appeared to her like a sort of
madness, by which weak minds were sometimes attacked. How a sensible
man, who came to see her every third day, brought her solid books and said
very clever things, could be seized by it, would evidently have been
incomprehensible to her.

He perceived all this, recognized the hopelessness of his concealed
longing, the improbability of ever thawing the ice that surrounded her like a
protecting wall. He had once asked what there was about him to inspire her,
usually so reserved to every one, with so much confidence in him. She
laughed, and shaking her head declared that that was a secret she intended
to keep to herself, and when, contrary to his usual custom, he pressed her
for an answer, she confessed that neither his honest face, nor anything he
had said, had given her the assurance that he would not abuse her
confidence, but--and here she looked at him with a bewitchingly droll, half
timid, half doubtful smile on her face, as if wondering whether he would
take it amiss--the fact that he wore no gloves, and did not pay any more
attention to his dress when he made the second visit, than when he first
called to return her the bookmark.

He laughed, but was obliged to exert considerable self control, to treat as
a jest a matter that was far from being one to him.

He distinctly perceived that she only preferred him because, as a being
belonging to a totally different sphere, she thought him perfectly harmless.
In the seclusion of her life, a visitor who, like him, brought her amusement
without making any special claims, was very welcome, and the fact that he
meantime remained as much a stranger to her, as she to him, only increased
the charm of this intercourse. Besides, a man who always visited her in the
same grey summer suit and without gloves, was safe from the least
suspicion of desiring any closer relation.

There were moments when he could not help being grateful to her
honesty, for not leaving him in doubt about the impassable gulf between her
worldly desires and needs and his own, when he suddenly shrank from the
mere thought that she could ever return his passion, as if such a return
would be a terrible misfortune. Aside from all the mystery that surrounded
her, how could he ever hope to harmonize his fate and Balder's, their
cheerfully endured poverty, his duties to his profession, with the life she
led, and which alone could be satisfactory to her, since she expressed no
wish to change it. He only needed to imagine her in the place of Reginchen,
who brought them their dinner, and to transport to the "tun" the form of his
enchantress, with the striped waistcoat and his silver dish behind her, to
measure the abyss of impossibility that yearned between them.

Thus weeks elapsed, without any change, either for the better or worse,
having taken place in their intercourse. To be sure he did not always find
her in the same mood; oftentimes he even thought he perceived that she had
been weeping, or she greeted him with a look of surprise, as if it were
difficult for her to recall her thoughts from some distant scene to him and
what he brought. But a few words from Edwin were sufficient to clear her
brow and transform her once more into the frank, friendly child that, with
all her pampering and the strange independence of her life, she really was.
She fairly provoked him to sometimes catch her in a piece of carelessness
or failure in etiquette, and then he treated her with condescending, sarcastic
composure, as if she were a person not fully accountable for her actions.
But he carefully avoided letting her feel his superiority in any other than a

jesting manner. If, as she was fond of doing, she roved in fancy, with
strange transitions of thought, over the world and mankind, life and death,
time and eternity, he could sit for fifteen minutes, tattooing an apple in
fantastic designs with a silver fruit knife, and listening in silence. It always
vexed her that he did not seem to think it worth while to contradict her, and
declared that even if he laughed aloud and derided her, it would be less
impolite than to sit silently smiling, while she was talking about the most
serious matters. If the wind were blowing, or a fountain plashing, he could
not adopt a more indifferent air--"Was it his fault?" he answered laughing,
"that in her presence he often felt as strange an emotion as in that of nature,
whose manifold voices frequently rippled over him with similar elementary
power, without his feeling called upon to make any reply? He would seem
to himself a ridiculous pedant if he tried to talk logic to the woodland birds,
and reason to the waterfalls."

And yet, when he came again, it almost always happened that the
conversation went back to the same point at which it had been broken off
the last time. Then they exchanged parts, and it was his turn to give
utterance to his thoughts and rhapsodize undisturbed over the most
important questions. It was the strangest dialogue in monologues that can
be imagined, since twice four and twenty hours usually elapsed between
question and answer.

Was the cause of this, his fear of making the contrast between their
natures too perceptible, the dread that any dispute must instantly part them
forever, while he still considered it almost a duty, when the matter had once
more become indifferent to her, not to withhold his opposition or deny his
opinion. Or did he suspect that he should lose all mastery over himself, if he
obtained more and more control over her and gradually harmonized and
assimulated the heterogenious traits in her character? And what was the use
of this daring venture? What was to be hoped for, even in the best case? To
tame a gazelle, an antelope--what can it avail in a zone and on a soil that are
not created for tropical animals--

It was on a gloomy afternoon in September, the first autumn rain was
falling, and the wind sweeping chilly through the empty street, the windows
were closed and a little fire was burning on the hearth, though rather for the

pleasure afforded by the sight of the bright flames, than through any
necessity for warmth. The beautiful girl, who had often boasted that she had
never been really sick, complained of a slight headache, sent away the
carriage which was to convey her to the theatre, and threw herself on the
sofa in the little red dining room, with her feet toward the flames, whose red
flickering light lent some color to her pale cheeks.

"Read something aloud to me, Doctor," she said. "If I fall asleep over it,
so much the better. But don't choose Hermann and Dorothea; I don't wish to
offend you, as we have already quarrelled over it once, and yet I can't help
being lulled to sleep by the wonderful verses, as if I were in a cradle, gladly
as I would keep awake to listen to the beautiful story. Do you know that I
consider this Dorothea a very enviable person, nay I have really never
found the fate of any heroine in a novel happier than hers? Poor, orphaned,
homeless--she suddenly comes into possession of a farm, and is loved and
petted, and it all comes about as naturally as if such a thing might happen
any day! She must have been very charming," she added after a pause, "I
always imagine her tall and slender, with raven hair and grey eyes, a black
ribbon round her fair neck, and ear rings with a red stone, which is really
only a bit of glass--"

"By the way," he interrupted, "I have long wanted to ask you something:
why do you wear no earrings or jewelry of any kind?"

"Because I am too poor to get large diamonds or real pearls, and I do not
care for any other ornaments."

"Too poor?"

"Yes indeed, much too poor, far poorer than you perhaps suppose, at any
rate poorer than Dorothea, who possessed the greatest treasure,
contentment. I, on the contrary--do you suppose I should have considered it
a happiness to become Frau Hermann?"

"If you had really been in love with him--"

She looked at him quietly, as if trying to discover whether he was in
earnest, and then said:

"You're a singular person. Wisdom does not seem to be any protection
against folly, and you take no notice of the existence of anything that does
not accord with your system. How often must I explain to you, that I have
no idea of what you call being in love. And see, even in your Dorothea,
though created by a poet--and falling in love plays so prominent a part in all
poetry--yet I can discover no trace of this singular condition. She meets a
young man, who leads her from the street into his house and wishes to make
her his wife. As he seems kind and good, and promises to become one of
those persons who are represented as pattern husbands--why should she say
no, especially as the pastor and doctor and provincial customs are not at all
repulsive to her? And that's just why I envy her. I, on the contrary--but
please throw a few sticks of wood on the fire; it's going out."

He did as she requested, and was kneeling before the hearth kindling the
flames anew with a dainty pair of bellows, when a noise and altercation
arose in the entry, which attracted his attention. The whinning voice of little
Jean, eagerly arguing with a deep bass, was distinctly audible, then the door
of the ante-room was thrown open, and the disputants approached the little
drawing room; the stranger, with a rude laugh, pushed aside the boy, who
endeavored to prevent his entrance, there was a knock at the door, and
without even waiting for a reply, a tall fellow in a rich huntsman's livery,
boldly entered, as if entirely at home.

The young lady had hastily started up and was gazing at the intruder in
speechless alarm. Edwin had also risen from his knees, with the bellows
still in his hand, and was just in the act of accosting the man, when the
latter, with an elegant bow to Toinette, drew a letter from his pocket and
laid it on the little table before the sofa.

"Beg pardon, Fräulein, if I have disturbed you," he said casting an
insolent glance at Edwin, "but the Herr Count expressly commanded me to
deliver this note into your own hands."

"Did not my servant tell you--?" Toinette interrupted.

"That his young lady was not at home, yes; and also that she wished to
receive no notes, and preferred not to know the Herr Count, as she had

already intimated by not answering the letters His Excellency sent through
the post office--"

"Leave this room at once," fell with great difficulty from the lips of the
pallid girl, "and if you venture to come again and force an entrance in this
way--I shall find some means to protect my rights in this house."

"Pardon me, Fräulein," said the impudent fellow, with a saucy grin, "but
no one has any rights in a house except the person to whom it belongs. If it
is agreeable to my lord the count, to have his servant turned out of a house,
or the doors shut in his face, when His Excellency is, so to speak, the
tenant--"

"Insolent rascal!" Edwin burst forth. "Did you not hear what the young
lady told you? I've not the honor of your master's acquaintance. But if he's a
gentleman, it cannot be his intention to have a lady insulted by a boorish
lackey!"

The man, with cool impertinence, measured the person who so
unexpectedly addressed him from head to foot.

"And I, sir, have not the honor of your acquaintance," he retorted. "But
as for my conduct, no one but the Herr Count has a right to call me a boor.
There is the letter, and now I can go, as I have done my errand. I had no
idea of insulting the young lady, that would have been entirely against my
orders. But to have the first stranger--"

Edwin involuntarily raised the little weapon he held in his hand, but the
next instant recollected himself. The bellows fell on the floor, he passed
close by the man, opened the drawing room door, and fixing a firm glance
on the suddenly intimidated lackey, exclaimed: "Be off!"

The man lingered an instant longer, then with another bow to Toinette,
slowly retreated.

"I will inform His Excellency," he said on the threshold, "that the young
lady had no time to answer the Herr Count's letters, because she had
gentlemen visitors."

Edwin closed the door behind him. They heard the fellow laugh loudly
and joke with Jean as he went away, as if nothing had happened.

A death-like silence pervaded the little drawing room. The beautiful girl
sat motionless on the sofa, with her eyes fixed upon the fatal letter, which
still lay unopened on the table, and her pale hands folded in her lap. Edwin
stood at the door, his hand still raised in the threatening gesture with which
he had motioned the insolent fellow to leave the room. Not until he heard
the outer door close, did he suddenly move, as if he had shaken off an
incubus, and quietly approached the silent Toinette.

"Will you have the kindness to explain this scene, Fräulein?" he asked in
a voice from which every trace of agitation seemed to have vanished. As
she did not immediately reply, he continued:

"May I hope that you will introduce me to this count, who apparently has
some right to compel you to read his letters?"

She was still silent. At last she timidly raised her eyes and gazed at him
beseechingly. The look penetrated to his inmost soul.

"If I beg you to ask me no farther questions, to trust me as before--"

"I should not refuse your request," he answered dejectedly, "but I should
take leave of you at once--never to return."

"And why?"

"Because I do not desire to visit in any house in the capacity of a guest,
without knowing who is the head of it. I do not wish to expose myself to the
possibility of having the master instead of the servant, appear before me
someday, and hearing that it does not suit his pleasure that you--should
receive gentlemen visitors."

She seemed to reflect a moment.

"You're right, my friend," she now answered. "I owe it to you to explain
all this, or rather I owe it to myself. What must you think of me? But I will

not relate this long and sorrowful story to-day, or here in this place.
Besides, your visit has already been greatly prolonged; it will soon be dark.
Come to the gold-fish pond in the Thiergarten, where the statue stands, at
eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. It's very lonely there then; I've often sat
under the trees with a book at that hour and not see three people pass. In
that spot I will tell you all. If the charm our game of hide and seek has had,
vanishes as soon as you know your friend's very commonplace and prosaic
story--you yourself have willed it to be so. But that you may have a pledge
of my sincerity at once--take this unlucky note away with you and keep it
for me until to-morrow. We will read it together--"

She rose and extended her hand, which, absorbed in gloomy thoughts, he
grasped and held firmly in his own. "I need no pledge," he replied. "Perhaps
it would be best if I--"

"If I should bid you farewell forever," he was going to say. But he had
not the courage to do so. He gazed into her eyes, which were again as
unclouded, nay, which sparkled as brightly as ever, and mechanically he
took the little note she held out to him. Then he bent over her hand and
kissed it--long and passionately; it was the first time he had ever pressed his
lips to her cool, soft fingers.

"To-morrow!" said he. "Keep your promise!"

"And suppose that the skies should fall during the night," she answered
smiling. "But sleep calmly. What I have to say to you, is only worth
knowing because you are still ignorant of it. Oh! my friend, I fear you will
yet regret having destroyed the spell by your question, if from to-morrow
the fairy tale is ended and Cinderella again sits in the ashes!"

CHAPTER III.

When, soon after, Edwin returned home, passed Christiane's door,
behind which he heard loud, eager voices, and climbed the dark stairs, he
was glad that neither Mohr's nor Franzelius' voice could be distinguished in
the "tun." He was longing for an hour alone with his brother, and therefore
the surprise was all the more unwelcome when he found Balder with his
usual companions. Mohr was sitting opposite him before the chess board,
which they had placed on one corner of the turning lathe, to take advantage
of the last fading daylight. He had set a bottle of Rhine wine--a small stock
of which he had stored in the cellar of the house, that he might not drink at
the brothers' expense--on the window sill, and seemed so absorbed by the
wine, the game, and the smoke of his cigarette, that he scarcely noticed
Edwin's entrance. Franzelius was sitting in the middle of the room astride a
chair on whose back he had clasped his broad hands, and rested his chin,
while his gloomy eyes stared intently at the bust of Demosthenes on the
book case. He, too, scarcely turned his head toward the new comer, and the
greeting he vouchsafed him sounded more like the growl of a watch dog,
than any human tone.

Edwin was no more disposed to talk. He stood behind his brother's chair
a moment, stroked his thick hair several times, and then went to his desk,
where he apparently began to read the newspapers. Once, however, he
turned toward the chess players and said: "It would probably be better,
Heinrich, if you would sacrifice your tobacco, which smells horribly, on the
altar of friendship. The time for open windows is over, and Balder has
already coughed three times."

Mohr instantly opened the window and tossed the cigarette into the
courtyard.

Then all four were silent, until Balder rose saying: "A wooden king can't
be expected to be checkmated more than five times. Besides, it's a hopeless

task to play with you. You're a master of the art."

"Then I am good for something!" laughed Mohr scornfully as he tossed
the little pieces Balder had turned into the box. "Master of an art in which
persons of the least brains are often the greatest virtuosos. Nay, it is still a
question whether a talent for chess is not a sort of disease, a hypertrophy of
the power of conbination. You see, Edwin, I, for instance--if this organ were
in a normal state--should have made more progress in my play. I plan the
finest chess problems through five acts, and when I afterwards examine
them narrowly, they are mere wooden figures, no living creatures. Basta! I
vow not to touch knight or bishop for a month, until I have arranged my
comedy."

He emptied his glass and then slowly poured the remainder of the wine
from the bottle into it. "Good evening, Edwin," said he. "We've not had the
pleasure of seeing you in the 'tun,' for a long time. Even to-day your
thoughts seem to be far away--like our worthy philanthropist's, who has not
spoken ten words since he's been here."

The printer rose from his seat with a violent jerk, passed both hands
through his bushy hair and said: "It's true: I'm perfectly aware that I've long
been a tiresome guest here. Therefore--and for one other reason--I hope our
feelings are still the same--"

"What fancy have you taken into your head now?" said Edwin, still
absorbed in his newspaper.

Balder had limped up to Franzelius and grasped his hand. "I was going
to ask you, Reinhold," he said in an undertone, "to come some day in the
morning; you will then find me alone, and I should like to say something
about your last essay--"

The other turned away. "No," he muttered, "it's better so, wiser to put an
end to this once for all. I'm glad Edwin is here too. I wanted to say it before,
but you were so absorbed in the game: I shall take leave of you to-day--for
an indefinite time--"

"Fools call it forever," quoted Mohr. "What devil has taken possession of
you, Caius Franzelius? Do you want to found a colony of workmen among
the red-skins on the Schultze--Delitz'schen principles? Or are you going to
the Salt Lake of Utah, to disgust the Mormons with their immortality! Or--
stop, now I have it--he can't endure the sight of a man who drinks Rhine
wine, while the camels in the desert of Sahara often cannot get even muddy
water."

The printer seemed about to make some angry reply. Edwin anticipated
him.

"You don't know what you are doing," said he. "If you part from old
friends, you must have some good reasons for doing so, for they are wares
that are not to be bought in every market. It would be kinder, Franzel, to
inform us of these reasons. Who knows whether they're so well grounded,
as you imagine."

"I thank you, Edwin," replied the other in a faltering voice. "I'm glad it's
not a matter of entire indifference to you whether or not our intercourse is
given up, little pleasure as it has afforded during the last few weeks. As for
my reasons--"

"I'm quite ready to forsake this locality, if unrestrained intercourse is
desired," said Mohr quietly, rising.

"There's nothing personal to be said," replied the gloomy visitor. "The
fact that we do not understand each other--unpleasant as it often is to be the
butt of your frivolous jests--could not induce me to remain away from the
'tun' entirely. The matter is far more serious; to tell the whole story in a few
words: I've decided to publish a newspaper, which is to acknowledge and
defend my principles more plainly and openly than my fugitive sheets have
hitherto done. It is to appear twice a week under the name of: 'The Tribune
of the People.' I thank you for the nick-name, Mohr, which I have now
made a title of honor. The prospectus will break with the last remnants of
superstition and traditional delusions, and as the rich have good reasons for
preserving these traditions, since they stir up the water in which they want
to fish, it will appeal expressly to the poor and miserable. I have recognized

this as my life task, for which I am ready to make every sacrifice--even the
hardest."

As he uttered these words he looked at Balder, but instantly averted his
eyes and pretended to be searching for his cap.

The brothers were silent, but Mohr went up to him, laid both hands on
his shoulders, and said: "Franzel, although you don't like me, you must
allow me before these witnesses to declare my respect for you. I envy you
such a life task, although I consider it perfect folly. At least change the title.
Your readers will hardly be sufficiently well versed in Roman history, to
distinguish the difference between tribune and tribunal. Besides, why
should we lose the pleasure of your society on that account? I will even
offer to be a coworker: in case you, as I hope, issue a feuilleton, I should
not be disinclined to write a few brilliant aphorisms--"

"Cease this jesting!" Edwin indignantly interrupted. "Franzel, what does
this mean? Because you're going to establish a newspaper, must we clasp
hands in an eternal farewell? You may do what you cannot leave undone.
Are we our brother's keeper? Or have we hitherto found fault with all your
sayings, to which we could not assent?"

"No," replied the printer, as he thrust his huge hands into his pockets.
"But that's the very reason; you must be as safe in the future as you have
been in the past, so far as it depends upon me. Unfortunately, I'm only too
well aware that we shall no longer agree as well on many subjects, as we
have done hitherto. But I'm determined to burn my ships; there shall be no
more evasions, no half-way measures. The people at the helm cannot
endure them. There will be trouble, they will use their usual coarse means--
arrests, searching of houses, seizure of papers, watching for conspirators. I
do not want to subject you--for I go nowhere else so often--"

"They can seal up all my papers," said Mohr dryly. "The mediocrity of
talent, to which they all bear culpable witness, is at least not dangerous to
the state. On the contrary, the less genius one possesses, the more useful he
is as a tax-paying individual, a sheep in the flock."

Franzelius seized his cap.

"You will do us no harm," said Balder. "Let us take the risk. What could
they find here? As I know Edwin--"

"I too would see them enter with the greatest composure," observed
Edwin smiling. "No, Franzel, your fears are visionary so far as we are
concerned. Can you not, in case of necessity, even swear that I have no
tendencies toward socialism, but on the contrary am an incorrigible
aristocrat, for which you have often reproached me?"

"And if they question you about your catechism, will you deny it? Will
you deny that our principles are the same, and that we only differ in opinion
as to whether the times are yet fully ripe for them? You are silent; now you
see--"

"Scientific convictions are somewhat different from public speaking, and
the police, thank God, no longer meddle with the freedom of thought of a
private tutor of philosophy. But since we have come to this point--once
more and, as it seems, for the last time: do you take me for a coward,
Franzel?"

"You! How can you even--"

"Or do you not believe that I would be drawn and quartered, rather than
deny my convictions? Well then, if you think me a man of whose friendship
you have no cause to be ashamed, let me tell you this: what you are about to
do, appears to me little more judicious, than if you wanted to set before an
infant that had not yet cut its teeth, a roast chicken instead of its mother's
milk or some of Liebig's preparations, with which it had hitherto appeased
its hunger. If any one attempted to do that to my child, I should certainly
forbid him the house, or at least endeavor to make his premature diet
harmless."

"You talk so, because you don't know the people," Franzelius burst forth,
"They are no longer children, their teeth are cut, and their eyes open; where
this is not the case, we will help them, offer hard food that they may cut
their teeth on it, instead of cooking the traditional children's porridge,
perpetually lulling them to sleep with baby talk, when they are grown men,
and the leading strings of guardians--"

"Don't get angry unnecessarily!" Edwin interrupted. "Who of us wishes
to check the natural growth of the mind, instead of aiding it according to its
powers? But what you have in view, is a forced, premature culture, your
demagogical enthusiasm is a hot house, and that is why I repeat: make no
useless sacrifices, which must not only ruin yourself, but many of your
foster children. You cannot carve an Apollo from every block of wood; not
every one who ties on a leather apron and earns his bread by the sweat of
his brow, will be able to grasp the idea of the fall of man which a follower
of Kant or Spinoza can form. Why, when there are so many crying wants of
a coarser nature to be satisfied, do you desire to create needs for our less
gifted brothers? Why show them what they lack, when, after they have with
difficulty learned to feel their needs, you can only give them such very
doubtful assistance? You aim to produce an artificial thirst, and then all you
can offer them to assuage it, is a pear; for the fountains that flow for us,
will, as matters now appear, long remain sealed to them."

"Edwin is right!" exclaimed Mohr, speaking for the first time without his
sarcastic curl of the lip. "The people are asleep, dreaming all sorts of things,
and Franzelius Gracchus goes about like Macbeth, and murders sleep. I've
never understood how anybody can be so inhuman as to rouse a person who
is slumbering. But that's the preaching of these humanitarians! You're just
as selfish as the priests. For the sake of making the people see, you drum
them out of bed at three o'clock in the morning."

"And suppose they are grateful to us for it? Suppose a nightmare has
oppressed or bad dreams tormented them?" exclaimed the printer
vehemently. "And that's just the case with the people. Their sleep under the
night cap of superstition is no longer so sound and refreshing as it was a
hundred years ago. All sorts of voices have startled them, and now they are
slumbering in the dusk of morning and do not know whether it is time to
rise. But why do I talk of this to you? You don't understand the times,
you've never felt the pulse throbs of humanity stir your heart, with all your
knowledge and good, intentions, you're--"

"Say no more, Franzel," whispered Balder. "You're excited; why should
we utter angry words in the parting hour,--if you really intend to take leave

of us? That we shall meet again, and before much time has passed, I'm
perfectly sure."

"You--I will never lose you!" murmured the deeply agitated enthusiast,
in a tone audible only to Balder. "You're right," he added aloud. "It's sad
enough to feel that our paths must diverge. We should not make the
inevitable unnecessarily difficult. Farewell, Edwin. I could almost envy you
the power of keeping to yourself what you consider an intellectual
possession; for to be sure, 'he who is foolish enough not to guard his own
heart'--but--it's useless: alus inserviendo consumor. Adieu, Mohr. With you-
-"

He was about to add something, but thought better of it and left the
room. On reaching the entry he paused a moment, as if waiting for some
one. He was not disappointed. Balder followed him, on the pretext that he
had something more to say. But he only pressed his hand in silence, then
threw his arms around his neck, hastily released him again, and Franzelius
stumbled down the stairs, like a man whose head is heavy or whose eyes are
closed.

"He's obeying his evil genius!" said Edwin, shaking his head. "I've seen
the fit coming and vainly endeavored to stay it. But water will flow down
hill."

Balder's farewell to Franzelius in the stairwell.

"It will soon come to a level and remain stagnant for some time,"
muttered Mohr. "I'm sorry for the poor fellow! Believe me, Edwin, it was
always disagreeable to me to be continually compelled to make fun of him.
At heart I not only respected, but liked him. He has exactly what I lack, and
because he is not ambitious of distinction, he is indifferent to his own
worth. He takes himself just as he is--I believe if he thought he was a
superior person liable to be admired in society, he would indignantly
ostracise himself."

Balder re-entered the room and they talked of other things; Mohr
inquired about the private lessons Edwin was giving the young hedge-
princess, as Leah was called in the "tun." But Edwin, whose thoughts were

entirely engrossed with the confession his mysterious friend had promised
to make on the morrow, gave very absent replies: he was explaining the
history of philosophy from his own books. He told her without any
oratorical flourishes, how the secret of the universe had been differently
reflected in various human brains, how thoughtful minds had endeavored to
interpret it and expressed the inexpressible in formulas more and more
profound. "I have now come to ideology," he concluded, "which to one who
possesses so deep an intellect as this girl, can afford a great deal of pleasure,
and be comprehended without much difficulty. I'm amazed to see what
progress she makes in Aristotle. Yet, after all, it only confirms the
proposition that where a real need exists, the organs for it are formed, as the
feeling of hunger always asserts itself when a creature possesses a stomach.
It's a pleasure to see this girl listen. She has long languished for knowledge,
now she fairly revives like a thirsty plant in the summer rain."

"Congratulate the Frau Doctorin," laughed Mohr.

The brothers' eyes involuntarily met.

"We're now just coming to Plato," Edwin forced himself to answer in a
jesting tone. "Whether my pupil, in spite of her studies of hedges and
lagunes, has sufficiently elevated thoughts to develop a taste for our 'tun'
philosophy, I greatly doubt."

Meantime Franzelius, walking slowly down stairs, as if every step cost
him a fresh resolution, had just reached the front of the house. When he
came to the glass door that led into the shop, he suddenly stopped.

In the chair behind the show window, where Madame Feyertag was
usually enthroned, sat Reginchen. It was already very dark in this corner,
for the gas in the shop was usually not lighted in summer, and September,
according to the Feyertag calendar, belonged to the summer months; yet
notwithstanding this, the printer had perceived at the first glance who it was
that sat in the corner knitting a stocking.

He seemed to struggle with himself a moment, then softly opened the
door and with a: "Good evening, Fräulein Reginchen!" entered the shop.

"Oh! dear, how you frightened me!" cried the young girl, starting from
her seat.

"I beg your pardon," stammered Franzelius, "I ought to have knocked.
But I have so many things to think of--sit still, Fraulein Reginchen, I--I only
wanted--I came--"

He clutched his cap convulsively in one hand, and was brushing the brim
with his elbow.

"My mother has gone out," said Reginchen, to make a little conversation.
"But father is still in the work room. If you want to speak to him--"

"Oh no--but allow me--" He picked up the knitting she had dropped, but
in so doing let his cap fall, and as she now stooped for it, their heads came
in contact somewhat violently. He blushed crimson, but she burst into a
merry laugh.

"That's owing to the short days," said she. "But father is anxious to save
the gas. I drop so many stitches!"

Then both were silent again.

At last the printer, pausing before the case of ladies' shoes and gazing
into it as intently, as if he were endeavoring to count each individual pair,
said:

"You're fortunate, Fräulein Reginchen. You can stay in this house. I--I
must--from to-day I shall--"

"Are you going away on a journey, Herr Franzelius?"

"No, Fräulein Reginchen, or rather yes!--it amounts to the same thing. I--
I'm glad I've met you--I should like--I didn't want to leave without a
farewell--"

"Are you going away for long?"

"No one can tell--perhaps I shall never return. Fräulein Reginchen, I
cannot hope--you know I--I have always revered you--"

She laughed again in her merry childish way; but if the shop had not
been so dark and he had looked at her, he would probably have noticed the
deep blush that suffused her face. "Oh gracious!" she exclaimed. "Revered!
No one ever did that before. A stupid creature like me, who can't do
anything and doesn't understand anything, as mother tells me every day--"

"You don't know your own worth, Reginchen, and that's the best proof of
it--I mean that it's no false worth. But excuse me for telling you this so
bluntly: It's the first--and last time. And of course you--if I don't come back-
-will never give me another thought."

The prudent child seemed to know that silence is sometimes the best
answer. She coughed several times, and then said: "Where are you going?"

"Wherever the winds and waves carry me!" he replied with sorrowful
pathos, and then paced heavily up and down the shop.

"So you're going to sea! Dear me, how frightened I should be! Do you
know, Herr Franzelius, I shall tremble every time that the east wind blows
and the window panes rattle and the gas lights flicker--and you'll be on the
angry sea--"

"Will you really do that, Fräulein Reginchen?" he asked hastily, pausing
before her. "If you were in earnest--but no, why should you give yourself
useless anxiety about a man who can never--to be sure, I--it will be a real
cordial on my journey--and I wanted to say something else: I should like to
take a keepsake to remember you and this hour."

"A keepsake?"--she involuntarily glanced at her knitting work, at which
he too was looking intently. "I'm just at the heel," she said, "and I suppose
you'll not wait till it's done."

"No, Fräulein Reginchen," he replied, "don't think me so presuming as to
ask for such a gift--your own handiwork--so unceremoniously. But--if I

could find any of your father's work--but I've an ugly foot, which is hard to
fit with ready made boots--"

"I could take your measure."

"Yes, you might do that; but no, Reginchen, in the first place I would not
accept such a service from you--"

"I would do it willingly, besides, I'm accustomed to it."

"No, no! A creature like you, and such an unlucky mortal as I--but if I
could find a pair already made--"

He looked around the walls, sighed, passed his hand through his hair,
seemingly endeavoring to avoid her glance.

"You have not the smallest foot in the world," said the girl, looking at his
coarse boots with the eye of an connoisseur. "If it were only as long in
proportion as it's wide. But it's so short beyond the instep, it would be hard-
-"

"Won't it? Two elephants' feet!" said the printer laughing bitterly. "We
men of the people, who don't tread as often as we're trodden upon, didn't
need to have such big feet. But it's no matter. Who knows when our turn
will come. Well, Fräulein Reginchen, if you can't--"

"Wait," she exclaimed, starting up and opening the show window, "I
think I can find something for you; that is, if you can use jack-boots. But as
you're going to sea--"

--"At least through fire and water.--Show me the jack-boots, Fraulein
Reginchen."

He sat down on a low stool and watched her, as she nimbly leaned
forward into the show window, dislodged with considerable difficulty two
huge boots paraded there as models, and placed them in the shop. During
this operation he again sighed, as if suffering. While, assisted by
Reginchen, he tried on the boots, which fitted admirably, that is were much

too large, he did not utter a syllable; but when with his feet cased in the
huge polished coverings he stood before her as if rooted to the floor, he
drew out his blue checked pocket handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and
slowly replacing it, said: "Ask your father to send me the bill with the old
boots. And now, Fraulein Reginchen, one thing more: take care of my
friends up stairs as before--especially Balder. He--perhaps you don't know
it--won't live to be very old; at least while he is here, let him know only
love and kindness--"

He turned away because his voice failed, and furtively wiped his eyes
with his cap.

"Good Heavens!" cried the young girl in terror, "what are you saying?
Herr Walter--"

"Hush!" replied Franzelius putting his broad fore-finger on his lip.
"You're a kind hearted, sensible girl--you'll keep it to yourself Oh! Fraulein
Reginchen, if it were not for that, if it were not for many things--of which
you have no suspicion--Heaven knows I--I would make no secret of my
feelings, and tell you--but no! Love him, Reginchen, as much as you can.
Will it be hard for you to love Balder?"

Again she made no reply. The question seemed to her a dangerous one.
He was looking at her with a strange expression of anxiety and love;
suddenly he caught both her hands in his huge palm, clasped them so
closely that she with difficulty restrained a cry of terror, and burst forth: "If
there is such a thing as an angel, you are one. Farewell. Think--forget--you
have never had a better friend than I! I only wanted to bid you farewell--
Fraulein Reginchen!"

He tore himself away and tramped out of the shop in his gigantic boots
as hastily as if he feared to remain longer, lest spite of these firm pillars, he
might lose his centre of gravity and fall at the feet of the shoemaker's little
daughter.

Reginchen looked after him through the show window. Often as she had
laughed at him, she could not do so to-day, she was much more ready to cry.
No one had ever spoken to her so before. She had longed perceived that he

liked her, and even prided herself a little upon that fact, because she thought
he must be unusually learned, as he was always occupied in printing. But
that he "revered" her, that he thought her almost an angel--! And what did
he mean in speaking so about Herr Walter?

She sat down again in her chair in the corner. "I'll commence to-night to
knit a pair of stockings for him to take on his journey," she thought. "If only
I can get them done! His feet are so awfully big."

CHAPTER IV.

About the same hour Lorinser was sitting on the little leather sofa in
Christiane's room, with his knees half drawn up on the seat, and his long
arms stretched along the back, like a person who is making himself
comfortable, because he does not intend to go very soon. Although it was
already so dark that faces could scarcely be distinguished, no lamp stood on
the little table. But from one of the windows in the front of the house
gleamed a faint light, which frequently moved and fell upon the pale face of
the man on the sofa, revealing the expression of eager expectation stamped
upon the strongly marked features. Whenever the light flitted over
Lorinser's countenance, the strange smile appeared on the mobile lips, and
he lowered the eyes, which so long as it remained dark, followed every
movement of the woman who, with her arms folded across her breast as
usual, was pacing up and down the room.

Suddenly she paused at the window, opened it a moment gasping for
breath, and then turned toward the silent man on the sofa.

"How people forget the flight of time when they are talking," she said. "I
see it has grown dark. Excuse me, Herr Candidat, my hours are so regularly
apportioned--"

"You wish to send me away, Fräulein Christiane," he said making no
preparation to move from his comfortable position. "I have really forgotten
the true cause of my visit, in your musical revelations, which have afforded
me a glimpse of depths hitherto unsuspected. So what answer can I give the
baroness?"

"Is any positive answer required?" she said. "Why should I have told you
how I prize music, except to explain that I will never become a drawing
room teacher, that I would rather starve than share in the universal sin of the
jingling, bungling profanation of what I hold sacred?"

"And yet you do not disdain to give lessons to a soubrette?"

"How do you know?"

"Because--well, because I've enquired about you. I must be able to
answer for a person whom I recommend to houses like that of the
baroness."

"Very well. I will tell you why I take this frivolous creature; from a
motive which will be perfectly obvious to you, as you too are interested in
home missions:--to save a soul."

"You want to transform this stage princess, who has already passed
through so many hands, into a saint? You're jesting."

Christiane laughed, a short, hollow laugh, utterly destitute of mirth.

"What do you take me for?" she asked. "To make a person something
which I myself neither am nor desire to be! And what has her mode of life
to do with me? I'm willing to allow everybody to be happy in their own
way. What I call saving her soul, is giving her an idea of true music. The
girl has the most enviable talents, voice, ear, passion, the genuine, the
natural musical sympathy, which in all such compositions instantly opens to
her the real meaning of the author or the part, so that she not only repeats
the notes, but reproduces the whole meaning to the life. This is rare, even
among those who consider themselves great artists, and are paid as such.
And that's why this stage princess as you choose to call her, is too high for
Offenbach, and, indeed, perfectly capable of interpreting Mozart and the
other great masters."

"And if you succeed, do you really believe that this rescued soul will be
made any happier?"

"Who can tell? I merely do what lies in my power. Happy! If music
alone could give happiness, few would possess such joy as mine. But it's
only a substitute, perhaps the most powerful and noble, but not the real
thing, not happiness itself. Of that I'm perfectly sure; I've had time to
experience it."

"And what do you consider real happiness?"

She was silent a moment, not as if it were difficult to answer, but as if
considering whether she owed the questioner any reply.

Then in a tone of cold resignation she said suddenly:

"Real happiness? I only know because I have never tasted it. Real
happiness can be nothing but to sacrifice ourselves without losing
ourselves, because we find ourselves again in something better than we are;
to forget self in another, without fear of being ashamed of it, because that
other at the same moment is thinking only of what we ourselves forget.
You'll not understand me, and no matter if you don't. I'll light the lamp."

"You speak of love," he said quietly. "I understand you, because the
same happiness you hope to find in earthly love, opens before us children of
God in the bliss of eternity. Did I not tell you just now, that you must forget
yourself to find yourself again in God, that there was no other redemption?
Now you come to meet me half way."

"But I shall never be able to traverse the other half," she said bitterly.
"Pray don't let us recur to that conversation. Once more--it's late. I've work
to do."

Still he did not move from his crouching position on the sofa.

"Don't be narrow-minded," he said quietly. "It doesn't suit you. You have
a larger nature than ordinary women; what's the use of these half allusions,
this shame-faced, prudish reserve, where the point in question is the
happiness of your life? If I could only really help you?"

"You? No one can help me."

"Except God, and he who leads you to Him."

"I do not understand you. Have I not told you plainly enough, that I feel
no longing for your God and his pardoning grace? All I can do for him, is
not to hate him; though he has placed me in this world as I am."

"As you are? And how are you?"

"You've just said it yourself: I'm no ordinary woman. I don't know what
could be more sad for a girl. And really: ever since the tale of a dear God
became improbable, ever since it dawned upon me that we poor human
animals only move about in the great throng of creation and have no more
claim to any special tenderness, than the thistles in the field, which the
donkey gnaws, or the donkey that the miller's boy cudgels, I've become
somewhat calmer. No one is to blame because I'm a joyless, ugly, lonely
woman, with a man's face, except perhaps my parents, who died long ago
and couldn't atone for it; the good people certainly did not know what they
were doing, when they gave me life."

She poured forth these words in harsh, scornful tones, as one relates
something that has long angered one, busying herself, while so doing, in
lighting the little lamp with the green shade which she now placed on the
table.

"I think you've heard enough," she added dryly. "You're now convinced,
Herr Candidat, that such a mangy sheep would make a poor figure among
the gentle flock you lead to pasture, so I beg you in the future not to trouble
yourself about my temporal and eternal welfare."

"Certainly I have heard enough," answered Lorinser opening his eyes so
suddenly upon her, that the metallic lustre of the whites, subdued by the
green lamp light, seemed ghostly, "though you have really told me nothing
more, than I knew at the first glance. You're mistaken if you think such
confessions are new to me or repel me. They always proceed from an
exceptionally powerful nature, and grace can work only where there is
strength. Gentle, unselfish souls have nothing to oppose and so nothing to
gain. But since I have fully understood your nature, it would be of great
value if you would trust me sufficiently to disclose the external
circumstances among which you have become--no, have remained, what
you were from the beginning; I mean, your history, the events of your life."

"My history?"--she laughed. "I have none, or what I have has already
been told you. My face is my history, my heavy eye-brows and the shadow
on my upper lip are my destiny. My father happened to look as I do, and

was considered a stately, interesting man. But I should have been wiser to
choose the face of my mother, who was by no means filmed for her beauty,
but must have been exactly what I am not, a thorough woman. At least she
made all sorts of innocent conquests. I, on the contrary, though I was
neither stupid nor had unwomanly manners--I mean when I was a young
girl; for I now go about boldly, like an old student--although my talents
early attracted attention among my father's colleagues--he was one of the
court musicians,--never made a conquest in all my life. That is, I might have
married two or three times; but it was for very different reasons than love.
One wanted to give concerts with me, another, who was an elderly man and
tired of his bachelor life, needed a housekeeper, and that she should be ill-
favored he rather preferred than otherwise. He thought he would be all the
more sure of her faithfulness and self-sacrificing gratitude, in return for his
making her a married woman. The third--but why should I tell you these
disgusting tales, which at first deeply humiliated me. And though I might
have learned from them what my mirror had not then taught me, I was mad
enough always to select as the objects of my secret adoration, the
handsomest, most agreeable, and most admired men, who never cast a
glance at me. I had artist's blood in my veins, I could not help being filled
with enthusiasm about everything that was lovable, charming, and
distinguished, even if my heart should burst in consequence. But now I
have reached my thirty-fourth year; youth with its foolish desires for love-
sorrows, yearnings, anxieties, and honey that turns to gall, may well have
raved itself calm. Do you wish to know more of my story? I am very sorry;
but unfortunately I have nothing to tell of love adventures, broken vows,
wanderings from the path of virtue. Unfortunately, I say. They would have
made a change in the dreary grey of my days and years, a few blood red
spots, a stain effaced with thousands of tears. Instead of that, I'm an old
maid in the fullest sense of the word, and your 'magic of sin' has no power
over my beggarly pride. Can you even imagine a bright, interesting,
exciting romance with such a frontispiece?"--She suddenly removed the
green shade and raised the little lamp to her face, which she turned full
upon him in the bright glare.

"That's a matter of taste," he replied without the slightest change of
countenance. "For instance, I for my part have always preferred faces full of
character to smooth, meaningless ones, which might nevertheless be

considered very charming, pretty, and attractive. Superficial sweetness
nauseates me. To feel strength, bitterness, even icy scorn and hatred melt in
the glow of passion, always seemed to me more desirable than the
sentimental fusion of two harmonious souls. The woman who is to attract
me, must have something of the devil in her. Put down the lamp Fräulein
Christiane. It is illuminating charms which under some circumstances might
become dangerous, and as I am at present entirely indifferent to you--"

At this moment the bell was violently pulled.

"Thanks for the interruption," said Christiane in a subdued tone, that the
person outside might not hear; "I should have given you an answer, which
perhaps would have seemed altogether too unwomanly. Now I shall dismiss
you without ceremony, and indeed--"

The bell rang again. Lorinser had put his feet on the floor, but did not
seem inclined to leave his corner.

She looked at him with a glance of indescribable astonishment and
anger, then took the lamp and went into the ante-room to open the door.

Mohr was standing outside; his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes, as
soon as the door opened, strove with a keen, intent gaze, to pierce the
darkness within; but his manner was perfectly unembarrassed, almost
formal.

"I beg a thousand pardons, Fräulein," he said, "for having knocked at
your door a second time at so unseasonable an hour, but if I violate
ceremony, to an artist my errand will plead my excuse. I only beg fifteen
minutes conversation;--Have you a visitor?" he continued, as he suddenly
perceived the figure of a man in the adjoining room. "So much the better,
that will prevent all thought of indecorum. Will you allow me to enter?
There's a disagreeable draught on these stairs. Or shall I interrupt you?"

"Not in the least," replied Christiane, with a very gloomy expression, as
she slightly bent her head. "To be sure I've not the honor of your
acquaintance--"

"As a friend of your fellow lodgers up stairs, I thought I had a sort of
right to introduce myself to you. A short time ago, in a merry mood, I made
an unsuccessful attempt to do so, though my friend Edwin tried to prevent
me. You cannot have condemned it so severely as I did myself, so soon as I
came to my senses."

"I have no recollection, sir--"

"So much the better. It was quite dark in the entry. Today, by the lamp
light, permit me to introduce myself to you: plain Heinrich Mohr; I scorned
to buy a doctor's title. A man usually who has nothing to make him must
have some distinction."

"Will you be kind enough to inform me--"

She was still standing in the ante-room with the lamp in her hand, as if
she wished to get rid of him as quickly as possible, while he from time to
time cast eager glances into the sitting room.

"I will come to the point at once," said he leaning against a chest of
drawers which stood near the door. "What I have to propose, is no secret
and requires no privacy. Unfortunately, it is tolerably well known to all who
are aware of my existence--but will you not sit down, Fraulein? To stand so-
-" He made a movement toward the door of the sitting room.

"Thank you. I'm not tired."

"Nor I. So to proceed: I'm unfortunately endowed with all sorts of
mediocre talents. One would be enough to make a man who is no fool, but
possesses a critical judgment, thoroughly unhappy. In the arts bungling
even is worse than in medicine. What does it matter if a few men die more
or less? But to corrupt or lower the standard of art, is a sin against the
divinity of genius. Don't you think so too, Fraulein?"

She looked at him intently, without opening her lips.

"But," he continued, "there's a false modesty too. Many a great man
would never have believed in his own talents, if kind friends had not

discovered them. Other gifts are, as it were, trampled under foot in the
crowd, through malice and envy--men are very envious, Fraulein, Germans
especially. I allude of course to the common envy of trade, which is no
more allied to the ideal, high-souled envy, than a toad-stool is to a truffle--
in short it's not easy for every man to know what's in him. My eyes have
gradually been opened to the fact that my talent for rhyming amounts to
nothing. But music, music! I play the piano very poorly and my voice is
like a raven's; but in regard to the gift of composition, it always seems to
me that I can compare very favorably with the shallow composers of
waltzes, or writers of street songs. As for yourself, Fräulein--pardon me for
having listened to your playing; you confided your musical confessions to
the quiet courtyard--I--I have the deepest reverence for your talent--for--
how shall I express it?--for the strong nature expressed in your style of
playing. Now you see--I have just finished--for a long time I have been
engaged on a great composition, which I have sometimes called--it's only a
fancy, or rather a bad joke--my sinfonia ironica. You understand: so far,
none of it has been written out, but in my head everything is as good as
ready for the press--except the instrumentation. Musicians to whom I've
now and then played parts of it, have usually been bigoted adherents of
some particular school. I must confess that I gave none of them credit for
really entering into the spirit of the work. With you the case is wholly
different. I would wager, that if you would only give me an hour--"

"Sir," she interrupted, "you over-estimate my knowledge and judgment. I
sincerely regret--"

"Pray do me the favor, Fräulein, not to condemn me unheard. I ask
nothing more than that you will listen to the first few bars, where the irony
is still in the stage of oppression and grief--C. minor, which afterwards
changes into F.--"

"I've never been able to understand the so-called language of music," she
answered curtly. "So it would be better--"

"Do you dislike the title? Very well! I'll give it up. It shall merely be
absolute music, like any other. I'll submit to hear Wagner all the days of my
life, intensified one day in the week by Offenbach, if the first bars do not

prove that the rest is at least worth hearing. You must allow me to play the
introduction on your piano--"

He did not wait for her permission, but hastily entered the sitting room,
so that there was nothing left her but to follow with the lamp.

Lorinser was still sitting in the sofa corner. His eyes were fixed on the
ceiling and he seemed so lost in thought that he did not notice the new
comers.

Christiane set the lamp heavily on the table, as if she wished to rouse
him by the rattling of the shade.

"Allow me to introduce you to each other, gentlemen," she said coldly.
"Herr--what is your name?"

"Heinrich Mohr, Fräulein. A name hitherto very obscure, but which you
will perhaps help to some moderate distinction. But an introduction is
scarcely necessary. I already have the honor of knowing that gentleman."

Lorinser fixed his piercing eyes on the other's face and then carelessly
replied: "I didn't know I had the pleasure of your acquaintance before."

"That's a matter of course," replied Mohr, approaching the little table and
raising the shade from the lamp. "The acquaintance has hitherto been
entirely on my side. Besides, with the exception of a casual meeting in the
entry, it's still very recent; it dates from last night."

Lorinser rose. He seemed to find the full glare of the lamp objectionable.

"Last night," said he. "You must be mistaken."

"My dear sir," replied Mohr with eager courtesy, "he who possesses so
marked a face as yours, may be certain that no one will ever mistake his
physiognomy, though to be sure, I only saw it for about five minutes
through a window on the ground floor."

"Sir, allow me--"

"But I'll take my oath before a magistrate, that it was you whom I saw in
very lively society--it was a house in König's stadt--you'll recollect. You
must know, Fraulein, that I'm still poet enough to prefer night to day. I
usually wander aimlessly about the streets till after midnight; to be sure one
doesn't always see the brightest side of men, but if you wish to know them
thoroughly--and they are so incautious! They fancy if the curtains are down,
they can show their weaknesses great and small in secret. As if there were
not chinks and cracks in blinds and curtains, and one tiny insignificant little
hole was not enough to afford a view of a whole room, as a single word
often gives a glimpse of the inmost depths of hypocritical souls."

"An extremely poetical fancy, to peep through curtains," Lorinser
remarked, seizing his hat. "Unfortunately this time you've made a mistake
in the person, as I could prove, if it were worth while to take the trouble, or
the lady could by any possibility be interested in it. Meantime, as you are
about to occupy yourselves with musical exercises my presence is
superfluous--"

He bowed to Christiane and walked toward the door.

She turned to Mohr, who was watching Lorinser with a mischievous
glance.

"I must request you to excuse me to-day," said she. "If your ironical
symphony is anything more than a jest--you will always find me at home in
the morning, between twelve and one o'clock."

Mohr did not make the slightest attempt to request a short respite for
himself and his composition. The musical object of his visit seemed to have
entirely escaped his attention, for his eyes were sparkling with delight at the
thought of having driven Lorinser from his sofa corner. He took a cordial
but respectful leave of Christiane, and followed the Herr Candidat, who
silently walked out into the entry.

On the stairs they passed; Lorinser seemed to wish to give Mohr the
precedence. "Pray go on," said Mohr in the most cordial tone, "I'm perfectly
at home here. But perhaps you may prefer not to come up these steep stairs

too often. You might get hurt. The house where I saw you yesterday is
better lighted at any rate."

Lorinser half turned and said in a tone of suppressed fury: "You're very
much mistaken, sir, if you expect to intimidate me by such paltry
expedients. I deny having any knowledge of the place where you pretend to
have seen me; but I suspect from the tone you assume, that the company
was by no means the best. Well I confess, that for a man who, in a lady's
presence, denounces another and tries to represent him as a person who
visits bad houses--for such a spiteful and slanderous spy, I repeat I've no
feeling but profound contempt."

"Thank you," replied Mohr dryly. "If you had assured me of your
esteem, I should have taken it more to heart. Besides, my worthy friend in
the dark, I shall throw a little light on your path, should you show any
disposition to continue your visits to this lady, whom you already know
quite too well; I should be forced to speak still more plainly. I don't see why
I am to withhold my information against an individual of your stamp, who
visits workmen's societies for the purpose of denouncing to the police any
speaker that may not happen to suit him. I have the honor to wish you a
good night."

He raised his hat with mock respect and pointed out the path across the
courtyard, but did not follow, until the stealthy steps of Lorinser, who in
helpless rage could only exclaim, "we shall meet again," had died away in
the hall leading through the front of the house. Then he looked up at
Christiane's lighted windows. "This time at least I did no half way work!"
he said in a well satisfied tone. "She will thank me for it some day. That
singular woman is a whole-hearted creature."

If he could only have seen what the object or his adoration was doing in
her lonely room! After the two men went out, she had hastily, as if to re-
consecrate a sanctuary that had been profaned by evil spirits, taken from her
bureau a small carved frame containing a photograph, and placed it like an
altar picture on the table, so that it was brightly illumined by the lamp. Then
she drew up a chair, sat down before it, and gazed at it in silent devotion.
But her stooping posture becoming uncomfortable at last, she glided down
from the chair upon the floor, and knelt, with her chin resting on the table

and her eyes fixed with enthusiastic fervor on the little card. The pictured
face gazed quietly into vacancy seeming to deprecate homage, and it bore
the familiar features of--our Edwin.

CHAPTER V.

The following day was cloudy and dismal. When at the appointed hour
Edwin arrived at the Thiergarten, he found it completely deserted. The
autumn rain was trickling drearily down, the trees, which had hitherto still
retained something of their summer aspect, now hung their heads and
seemed to realize that the sunny illusion could no more be retained than
their yellow leaves which were beaten down by the rain drops. Very dreary
looked the gold-fish pond, its surface bestrewn with withered foliage,
through which here and there a spot of deeper crimson betokened the
presence of some fish that snapped at a water-fly and then indignantly
retreated to the bottom again. Even the statue of Venus looked as mournful
in the falling rain as if she were reflecting with horror that the time would
soon come when a mantle of snow would rest on her bare shoulders, and a
crow, pecking at her diadem, scream the harsh song of the Northern winter
into her ear.

"She will not come," Edwin said to himself, after pacing up and down
once or twice under his umbrella. "The weather is too disagreeable.
Besides, perhaps she knows the contents of the Count's letter only too well,
and it was merely a gentle way of getting rid of me. Then--what am I to do
then. Did she expect me in that case, to open the letter and read what she
could not tell me?"--He drew the note from his pocket and again glanced at
the address: "'Mademoiselle Antoinette Marchand.' No, if she does not
come, has not the courage to come--the fish yonder shall keep the secret."

At this moment a carriage rolled along the avenue and stopped before the
open space at the end of the pond. The striped waistcoat swung himself
down from the box, and out sprang the beautiful girl, wrapped in a long
black silk cloak, with the hood drawn over her head like a nun, looking,
with her sparkling eyes and slightly flushed cheeks, more lovely than ever.
She nodded to Edwin from the distance and smiled so frankly that all his
doubts suddenly vanished, and he secretly begged her pardon for them.

"I've kept you waiting," she said, as she hung lightly on his arm. "But my
coachman made me wait. I suppose he did not think the weather suitable for
driving. However, I am here now, and it's all the better that it rains; no one
will disturb us; I shall not be interrupted in my confession and my 'wise
friend's' moralizing and head-shaking will have no hindrance."

"Have I ever shown a decided inclination that way?"

"No, but I fear when you know me better--! True, it is said: 'that which
can be comprehended can be forgiven.' But how are you to understand me?
Hitherto you have taken me for heaven knows who, at any rate, for some
very peculiar person, with good reasons for keeping her incognito. Now
when you learn how simply everything can be explained, won't you think it
your duty to guide me back to the paths of wisdom and self-sacrifice, which
will lead me straight to an early grave? If I had not seen this conclusion
foreshadowed so plainly, how gladly I'd have told you long ago what you're
now to hear for the first time!"

"Try me and see whether I'm not less stern than my vocation," he forced
himself to reply in a jesting tone. "I, like you, am no adept in self-denial,
where I feel that I have to assert a natural right, and therefore I lack the first
requisites of a moralist. What a foolish awe you have of a poor private
tutor! I know professors of philosophy who have done the most absurd
things."

"No, no, no!" she said earnestly, gazing down at the wet gravel, over
which she was lightly walking. "You don't understand it. You and I are
made of very different material. Can you understand why the little fish are
better off down in that dark water, than if you bade them to the most
luxurious couch of lilies and rose leaves? Every creature lives in its own
element, and perishes in an alien one. Don't you see, that I too can
philosophize?"

She paused, and for some time walked thoughtfully beside him, while
the solemn boy following some twenty paces behind under a large umbrella,
trod carefully in the dainty footprints made by his young mistress. The
carriage waited in the avenue beyond.

At last she paused a moment, looked him full in the face with a
mischievous expression in her large dark eyes, and said: "Before I betray to
whom you have given your arm, Won't you tell me what you have taken me
for?"

"I would not hesitate a moment," he answered smiling, "but indeed you
wrong me. Because I have confessed myself a philosopher, you believe me
foolish enough always to fancy things different from what they appear.
Thank God, I understand my own interests better. I'm glad when I encounter
something which banishes thought, and allows me to dream, as when I
listen to beautiful music, enjoy a spring day, or the fragrance of clusters of
roses. My thoughts--why should I deny it?--have been very much engrossed
by you, perhaps more than was well. But the idea of imputing any blame to
you has never occurred to me."

She laughed. "You're only evading the question. But no matter what
good or evil qualities you have attributed to me: I am neither an aristocratic
lady, nor an adventuress, but the very prosaic child of 'poor but honest
parents.' Do you remember, in your boyhood, hearing of a ballet dancer on
the Berlin stage called Marchand? But how should you? My father--he was
a Frenchman--was still in the prime of life, when he had an unlucky fall
from a flying trapeze, which forever shut him out from the field of his art,
with all its joys and honors. He took this so much to heart, that he never
wished to see or hear of the theatre, and voluntarily retired into exile in a
miserable little abode in the Mark. Here he married my mother, and had
three daughters beside the oldest, myself. One died young, but the two
others married worthy burghers and became happy wives. Things did not
prosper so well with me unfortunately. I never was like the others, and my
good mother had a great deal of trouble with me. Perhaps she'd have been
more successful in teaching me if she'd shown me more love, but though
possessing the kindest heart in the world, she was always cold, stern and
formal to me, and as my father only spoiled me the more, you can imagine
what sort of training I received. I once heard it whispered that I was not my
mother's child. But although in such a small place nothing remains a secret,
and everybody knows his neighbors' business by heart, I never discovered
what was meant by the hasty words, and almost believe it was only said in
explanation of my mother's coldness, which was noticed even by strangers.

Perhaps she was jealous of the love my father lavished upon me; for her
aversion increased with years, in exact proportion as I grew prettier and my
father petted me more. Besides, none of my sisters were like me. You ought
to have known my father, in order to be able to understand and forgive him
for idolizing me. When a very young man, he had gone through the best
dancing school in Paris, and the impressions made by the last brilliant days
of the Empire never left him. He always wore pumps and a white cravat,
and when he felt particularly happy, told us tales of Paris, the
entertainments he had witnessed at court--of course only from a corner of
the gallery--the duchesses and marquises to whom he had given lessons,
their beauty, grace, and the luxury that surrounded them, concluding usually
with a heavy sigh, as he looked around our miserable room: 'Ils sont passés,
ces jours de fête!"

"This always affected my mother unpleasantly, and my sisters listened to
these constantly repeated tales without any special pleasure. They had very
little imagination, and were completely absorbed in the petty cares and joys
of the present; but these fairy like descriptions so filled my mind, that the
wretched reality of my life became more and more distasteful to me. I
dreamed of nothing but magnificence and splendor, a luxurious existence
without any cares, and of kings and princes paying court to me. I gave
grand names to my dolls, constantly practiced speaking French, which my
father approved, and when one day at dinner, the conversation turned upon
what each of us wanted to become. I, precocious little ten-year-older,
exclaimed: 'I will be a duchess!'

"My mother angrily reproved me: 'it was wicked pride, I must try to
become good and pious, modest and industrious'--you can probably imagine
all I heard. My father was perfectly silent. Afterwards when I was alone
with him, he drew me, still violently weeping into his arms, kissed my wet
eyes, and said only: 'Sois tranquille, ma mignonne. Tu vas gáter tes beaux
yeux avec ces larmes.' From that day, at home and at school, whenever any
one wanted to tease me, I was called 'Duchess Toinette.' But I was not at all
annoyed; on the contrary I liked the nickname far better than the simple
'Toni,' my mother usually called me. After a time as I became more sensible
and perceived that my father's little pension would not enable us to live in
ducal style, I might have lost this sickly desire for royal luxury, and in time

learned to be satisfied with a modest income, like my sisters. But
unfortunately there was a constant temptation close at hand. For years, our
little city had been under the rule of a petty prince, and the ancestral castle
still stood in all its magnificence on a wooded height, which could be
climbed in ten minutes. The prince himself had been suddenly killed in the
prime of life, while hunting. The solemn funeral, which all the inhabitants
flocked to attend, was the first memorable spectacle that had left a lasting
impression on my childish brain. Since that time, the princess had lived in
the castle with her children, a pretty little boy some years older than I, and
several daughters. The household was maintained in the same style as
before, and after the year of mourning had expired, new guests and
entertainments brought fresh gayety.

"To be sure, we plebeian children only witnessed these things through
the railing of the park, or if we could slip in, through the lofty windows that
looked out upon the garden. But it was more than enough to give new food
to my ducal dreams. The superb toilettes, the countless candles, the graceful
curtseys, smiles, whispers, and flirtations, which I witnessed for hours, with
my face pressed against a window pane, fairly intoxicated me. I would
gladly have spent my life in the midst of such surroundings, and something
told me I should have harmonized with them well. At least I did not
understand my sisters, who always grew red and foolish if any of the
strangers in their walks about our little city condescended to exchange a
few gracious words with us children, who were standing curiously outside
the gates. I always had an answer ready and made my little curtsey so
easily, that more than once the ladies noticed me particularly, and
exchanged with each other in French, flattering words about my looks, not a
syllable of which escaped me.

"My father, who went to the castle, as he gave dancing lessons to the
princess' children, often repeated the compliments that had been paid me
there, and held me up as a pattern to my sisters. Of course this was not
agreeable to them or their mother, and often caused unpleasant scenes.
Often he brought home all sorts of dainties, confectionary, and rare fruits.
The butler was his god-father. This again made my mother angry and with
reason; for since I had tasted these delicacies, our simple fare, of which
there was often scarce enough, was far too coarse for me, and I preferred to

push away my plate and fast, rather than to eat a dish that didn't suit me. At
such times I satisfied myself with the fruits and berries to be found in the
garden and woods, and it was only strange that, in spite of all this, I did not
grow thin or weak, but retained the fair complexion and red cheeks which,
as I plainly perceived, were the envy of the rouged countesses and
princesses.

"And some one else there was who admired them; this was no less a
personage than His Highness, the little prince. He was an odd little mortal
then, and I think will always remain so; thin and fragile as if made of
porcelain, and equally stiff and polished, with a doll's face that would have
been very pretty if one could only have believed it alive. And in an equally
lifeless manner, as if he feared he might break while doing it, he paid court
to me. We had met him once in the park, a horde of children dashing
through the shrubbery with loud hurrahs; catch, and hare and hounds, were
our favorite games. He had come there, Heaven knows how, without his
tutor, and we suddenly grew quiet, more on account of his uncanny stiffness
and fashionable dress, than from respect. But he was inclined to be
especially gracious, to me in particular condescension itself, and I, stupid
little monkey, prided myself upon it not a little. Dear me, I was only ten
years old, but the idea of being a duchess was firmly impressed upon my
mind, and I actually believed that he would marry me and realize all my
fairy visions. So for several years this absurd secret flirtation, which
wearied as much as it flattered me, continued, until at last the princess
discovered it. To be sure, my chivalrous little lover declared that he had
never had any intention of making me his wife, but merely his mistress. In
spite of this precocious discrimination, however, it was thought better to
break off the childish intimacy once for all; so I again became a duchess in
anticipation, and even my father was no longer permitted to enter the castle.

"I remember, after this time, that is when I was grown up, but one
occasion when I again saw the park and even the interior of the castle.
Some cousin or nephew of my kind father came to visit us, for whom,
during the few days of his stay every effort was made to place our usual
homely mode of living in the most endurable light. As we could give him
no special entertainment at home, we were obliged to make excursions
abroad, and it fortunately happened that the princess and her children had

gone to some springs. So under the care of the butler, we visited all the
rooms, into which hitherto I had only peeped. My father was delighted to be
able to mount his hobby, and constantly related how this, that, and the other
had been handsomer, richer, or more tasteful in Paris. I could only gaze in
silent astonishment, and yet it seemed to me as if all this were a matter of
course, and I, if only permitted to do so, could use these costly articles as
carelessly as if born in such a sphere. On the following day, the cousin
stammered out a confused proposal of marriage, and, to make his worthy
person more agreeable to me, described the charms of his own home--he
had an oil cloth manufactory in a tolerably large city. I should like now to
recall the expression with which I gave him a positive refusal. It was
certainly one of which no full blooded duchess would have had cause to be
ashamed.

"No! if I could not have my faithless porcelain prince, I would never
take the first plain workman I met. When the cousin departed, my mother
looked at me with sincere sorrow. 'Poor thing,' said she. 'You're not to
blame, because others' (she meant my father) 'have turned your head. But
tell me, for what are you really waiting'--I answered that I was waiting for
nothing and for no one, and only desired to be permitted to live as I was
doing:--this was only half true. You may well suppose that I was waiting for
no lover, for I have frankly told you that up to this time I have been unable
to discover any talent for sentiment in my nature. But to continue to live as
I was--no, I could not have endured it forever.

"My father grew old and feeble, and many other little perquisites ceased,
besides the dancing lessons at the castle, for which he had been handsomely
paid. As the time hung heavy on his hands and he could read to himself
very little, one of us was obliged to spend half the day in reading aloud his
favorite romances, thereby neglecting her work, which to be sure brought in
a very small income. But why should I entertain you with the details of
these petty household wants? A man can never imagine all the
embarrassments, all the secret tears and vexations of a young girl who is
obliged to deny herself the necessaries of life to save the money required
for the trifles she deems still more necessary, and especially one who has so
much taste and love for luxury, that when the hard won finery is at last
finished, she would rather tear it all off and go about in her Cinderella garb,

because the articles obtained by so many struggles are still so poor. That is,
the dress was really not so bad, for with a few yards of white muslin and
some bows of ribbon a girl can look very well, especially at sixteen or
eighteen, and with a face like the one God had bestowed upon me. But
unfortunately, I continued to remember the real elegance, the Parisian
toilettes I had seen at the castle, the beautiful fans and flowers, real laces
and rustling satin robes, which my few pennies could never obtain. You
shake your head, my wise friend. But consider, that a trout obstinately
insists upon living in clear, fresh water, and no philosophy will induce him
to be satisfied with a stagnant pond, where other very estimable fish are
perfectly comfortable.

"And then--what had I to lead me out of these weaknesses and follies
and make amends, if the fairy tale of which I dreamed, should never come
true? You, my dear friend, have your thoughts, your ambition, your pride.
But I--knew nothing thoroughly. How should I? Where could I have learned
it? What had I been taught? To speak French, to play the piano a little--for
the young chorister, who gave me lessons, tried to drown himself in the
river on account of a hopeless love for me, and then married the pastor's
daughter, who came up just at the right moment and shrieked for help, and
of course the lessons were not continued. Sewing I had always hated, for it
is absurd to suppose that embroidering, knitting stockings, and making
shirts, can really render any human being happy, or compensate for
unsatisfied desires--"

She paused a moment and gazed sadly into vacancy. A sigh heaved her
bosom and made her nostrils quiver. "How cold it is!" she said, drawing her
cloak closer around her. "Come, we will walk a little faster. Where was I?
Oh yes; I was talking about knitting and sewing and everything connected
with them. How often I've heard and read that a girl will find her vocation,
her life-long happiness in love and marriage. I saw this confirmed in my
sisters, who though younger than I, had their little love experiences much
sooner, and patiently endured the tedium of knitting and sewing, since their
minds were not idle, but wove the fairest dreams among the meshes and
cross-stitches. Then they married utterly insignificant people, but were
perfectly satisfied, and continued to labor with hands and heads for their
husbands and children. But I--my prince had married, too, in accordance

with his rank, and quite without agitation, as beseems porcelain figures, at
least so I heard, and I still stayed with my old parents, waiting to ascend my
ducal throne.

"I ought to be there now, and after all it would be better for me, than to
wander about here in the rain with you and talk of things that are hopeless.
But these poor, dear parents, to whom I was a source of great anxiety--even
my father shook his head sadly when my birthday came round--were both
taken from me in a single week, and with them the only visible object in life
of which I was conscious.

"Fortunately the butler, whom my father's will named as my guardian,
was a sensible man. He perceived that he could not persuade me to remain
quietly in the little house from which my parents had been borne to their
graves, waiting to see if any one would come and take me away. He
suggested, as I still had an unconcealed desire to know something of the
world, that an advertisement for the situation of governess or companion
should be inserted in several of the Berlin papers. A place soon offered that
seemed very suitable. A baroness wrote to ask if I would take charge of the
education of her two little daughters and assist her in housekeeping, as she
was in delicate health. Nothing more than I had learned was required;
masters and mistresses were engaged for all the difficult branches of study.

"This was like a deliverance to me. To live in a large, elegant house,
make tea at the evening receptions, show that in spite of my provincial
origin I could vie in elegance and manner with my lady in Berlin--now that
you know me, you can understand what a tempting prospect this afforded.

"I persuaded my guardian to pay me my share of our little inheritance
and the net proceeds of our furniture at once. I intended to keep the few
hundred thalers for pocket money in the great city, or use it at once if my
outfit should not be presentable. During the year that I wore mourning for
my parents and was alone nearly all day, I had put my wardrobe in order as
well as I could. But who could tell what the baroness would say to it? Well,
I needn't have troubled myself about her. I liked her very well, and also the
house and children---I could not have desired anything better. But
unfortunately I pleased her too well; for scarcely had we exchanged a few
words, during which she scanned me from head to foot, when she said with

the greatest cordiality: 'My dear Fräulein, I regret having given you
unnecessary trouble. But you're far too pretty, to enter a house where there
are grown up sons and a great many young people going in and out. You
would turn the heads of some or perhaps all of them, and there would be
murders and homicides to pay. Don't take my frankness amiss, but I know
my circle, and moreover am ready to indemnify you for breaking the
engagement.'

"There was nothing to take amiss, and so fifteen minutes after I was
again standing in the street below, entirely alone, and without even knowing
the name of a hotel where it would be proper for me to stay; for in my
bewilderment, I had not thought of asking the baroness, who seemed very
anxious to get rid of me before the aforesaid grown up sons came home.

"On one course, however, I was positively determined: not to go back to
my former poverty in the little nest of gossips, where on Sundays the very
flies dropped from the walls out of pure weariness, and during the week
nothing was talked about but cooking, washing and saving--I would rather
have drowned myself. And who missed me at home? Who needed me? Who
would have been particularly glad to see me again? I should only have
found malicious faces, taunts, and probably even heard evil interpretations
of my unlucky expedition.

"As for the first time in my life, I walked in perfect freedom through the
streets, and the elegant ladies rustled past me, the carriages rolled through
the Unter den Linden, and the shop windows glittered with the most
beautiful things, like a bazar in the Arabian Nights, or the enchanted cave of
Xaxa, while I moved through the throng on the loveliest of summer days
with a treasure in my pocket such as I had never before possessed, and for
which I was accountable to no one--the thought suddenly darted through my
mind: 'for once in your life see how rich, aristocratic people feel, whose left
hands do not know how much their right hands throw out of the window.
Live for once in plenty, deny yourself nothing, show the stupid money that
has accidentally wandered into your pocket and for which you care so little,
how you despise it, though you are only a poor girl and must earn your
bread! If you were very avaricious and put your five or six hundred thalers
in a savings bank, the paltry interest you would receive would not make you

happy. When all has gone as lightly as it came, it will still be possible to
creep back into the yoke. Then you will at least have experienced how
happier mortals feel perhaps'--and I spoke as if some of my mother's nature
stirred within me--'perhaps you will fare like the apprentices in a
confectioners shop: become surfeited with luxury, and afterwards be
satisfied to return to narrow, commonplace surroundings.' Well I had now
decided that I would for once be Duchess Toinette in earnest. But as I was a
perfect stranger, and did not know a single human being:--who knows
whether I might not have lost the courage to execute my plan. A little
country girl cannot change herself into a great lady in the twinkling of an
eye, even if she has five hundred thalers to use for the purpose. But chance
came to my assistance. I had traveled to Berlin in a first-class carriage. I
had long desired to try one, and while making our short excursions about
the neighborhood always felt secretly ashamed and irritated because we
were compelled to use a third-class conveyance. Now I could gratify my
desire, and was very comfortable in my plush armchair, until a gentleman,
who occupied the coupé with me, commenced a conversation which
threatened to become a little dangerous. He was a very elegant, aristocratic
young man, whose servant came to the carriage at every station to ask his
masters' orders.

"I made such short answers to his gallant speeches, that he probably
perceived he must adopt a different tone with me. From that moment he was
courtesy and attention itself, and treated me as a high-born dame, though I
did not conceal the object of my visit to the city. When we stopped, he took
leave expressing the hope of seeing me again in a few days at the baroness'
house, where he was a frequent visitor.

"This was a matter of perfect indifference to me then. His Excellency,
the Count, as his servant called him, did not interest me in the least. But
now suddenly, as I wandered through the streets racking my brains to
decide what I was to do next, I heard a well known voice--it was the
count's. He greeted me very courteously, asked how I had found the
baroness, and when he had been informed of my fate kindly consoled me. I
need feel no anxiety, I could not fail to obtain a similar and even more
desirable position; he would himself make inquiries among all his
acquaintances, and in the first place, as I told him my difficulty about

finding suitable lodgings, he could recommend me to very pleasant rooms
which he had once rented for a relative. She had afterwards decided not to
take possession of them, as she had changed her plans; but they were still
empty, and the landlady was a very worthy woman, with whom I would be
very comfortable.

"Of course this intelligence was very welcome to me. I only insisted that
I would not avail myself of the fact that the lodgings had already been paid
for one quarter in advance, but remain my own mistress and be indebted to
no one.

"He at last assented to this, and treated me in every respect in a modest
and almost deferential manner. Yet I half regretted having allowed him to
accompany me to the house. The landlady seemed surprised, and then---he
would know where I was to be found. Who could tell whether he might not
become annoying? And besides my incognita was destroyed. But my fear
was groundless. On the day after I was settled, I received a note from him;
he was unfortunately obliged to forego the pleasure of inquiring about my
welfare in person, as his father's sudden illness compelled him to set out for
his estates at once. I acknowledge that I felt very much relieved. I was
really entirely free from control, and could regulate my life as I chose.

"What that would be, if directed by my taste, you have known me long
enough to be aware, although here and there various trifles were lacking.
When I opened my box of ornaments, the contents did not look exactly like
crown jewels. If I heard of a poor family, I could only show my generosity
by the gift of five thalers. And then--I was quite too lonely. When people
wish to live in ducal style, a little court must not be lacking. After I had
lived entirely by myself for two weeks, I fortunately made your
acquaintance. Then I was perfectly satisfied, and no longer feared the return
of the count, although he wrote me letters, in which he abandoned his
formal style of address and gradually became warmer and warmer. He
confessed that even anxiety about his father's life had been unable to drive
my image from his memory, begged for one line to assure him that his
attentions were not wholly indifferent to me, described his state of mind in
more and more exaggerated colors, and the more resolutely I left these
foolish epistles unanswered, the more passionate they became. This was all

that was wanting to completely disgust me with the acquaintance. I gave my
little Jean orders to receive no more letters, and if a gentleman whose
appearance I described, ever called upon me, not to admit him under any
circumstances.

"And now this scene of yesterday! I could not sleep half the night from
pure indignation. What does he imagine? For what must he take me, if he
expects by this bold intrusion--for the servant had his orders--to obtain any
concessions! Oh! these men, and what they call love! Am I not right when I
fear this mad passion, which makes positively dangerous, people otherwise
well-bred. And you--you have become perfectly silent and not interrupted
me once. Speak at least, or I shall be forced to believe that you think me not
only a poor fool, but a poor sinner."

She hastily withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped out from under
the umbrella. The rain had nearly ceased, a faint ray of sunlight pierced the
grey autumnal mist, she threw back her hood and revealed her face, deeply
flushed by her eager words and rapid pace.

"My dear Fräulein," he said smiling, "confession for confession: the fool
and sinner stands before you. But he hopes for absolution. It was beyond
human power to solve unaided an enigma so simple and yet so singular.
Besides, I must now confess--that 'worthy woman,' your landlady--"

"What! Do you know her? What do you know about her? Oh I pray do
not leave me in ignorance any longer!" she exclaimed with anxious haste.

He soothed her for she had suddenly grown very pale. "We must not talk
so loud," said he, "little Jean's great ears have approached nearer to us--"
She again took his arm and turned hurriedly into one of the side avenues.
"Well? Well?" she urged. "Oh my God, I had no suspicion of it."

He now told her all that he had heard from the woman, the previous
destination of the rooms, the understanding between the landlady and the
count, the dangers to which in her unsuspicious ignorance, she had exposed
herself. "I myself," he concluded, "although often anxious when I thought
of the mystery that surrounded your life--believe me my dear friend--only
needed to see you enter the room, hear your voice, your laugh, to be

perfectly satisfied, fully convinced, that nothing base could ever have
dominion over you. I was much more inclined to believe you to be in reality
what you were only feigning to be: a true princess in disguise who would
again re-ascend her throne some day and then appoint the faithful servant,
who during her exile had often chatted away her cares and ennui, to some
position that would require no gloves, such as court book-inspector, or
private secretary, or even chief bird feeder to Her Highness Duchess
Toinette."

She did not seem to hear the jest. The sweet face was bent steadily
toward the ground, the little hands trembled. She suddenly paused again.

"And the letter?" she asked, without looking at him, "Did you bring it
with you?"

He drew it out of his pocket. "It did not disturb my slumbers," he
answered smiling. "Shall we destroy it unread and throw it into the pond
among the withered leaves?"

"No. Read it. Read it aloud." He broke the black seal and read the
following lines:

"Honored Fraulein:

"You persist in refusing me a reply. I see that you put no faith in my
written assurances of devotion, and if it were possible for anything to
increase the strength of my love, it would be this proof of your proud
reserve, I will henceforth spare you my letters, as I shall soon be able to
reaffirm all my professions verbally, and then I hope to remove all your
doubt of the sincerity of my passion. The event I feared has happened, my
father died to-night, That the first lines I write after this heavy loss, are
addressed to you, will prove better than any words could do, that all my
hopes in life are bound up in your image, that my happiness or misery is in
your hands. Whether, in my present condition, you will deem me worthy of
kinder treatment I must humbly wait for you to decide.

"Ever yours

"Franz Count R----

"If the man is to be judged from his style, we have been hasty in making
the master responsible for his boorish servant," observed Edwin in a jesting
tone, as he folded the letter and handed it to her. "Will you not at least
condole with your faithful knight?"

Mechanically she took the black-edged sheet, but her face remained
perfectly immovable. "Come," she said after a pause. "It's beginning to rain
again. I don't feel very well. Take me back to the carriage. Oh! it's horrible!
horrible! horrible!"

He consoled her as well as he could.

"Suppose he offers you his hand and a count's coronet," he said, at the
same moment feeling a sharp pang in his heart that almost stopped his
breath.

She did not seem to hear him, but shook her curls back from her face, so
that her hair escaped from its confinement and rolled in luxuriant masses
from beneath her hood. Then she threw back her little cloak as if
suffocating. "Has it grown so hot?" she asked, "or is it only--but let's walk
faster. I can scarcely wait till I'm at rest--and alone! No, no, you're not in
my way, certainly not, I know what I owe you. But that--that--there are
things we can only conquer when we can close our eyes and cry like little
children. Do you know, my dear friend--I should like--But why speak of it?
You can't understand. To-morrow will be your day, won't it? Yes, it was
yesterday that you remained with me and that insolent man--but we'll say
no more about it. I shall expect you to-morrow. Farewell for to-day. Forgive
me for not asking you to drive home with me. But it's better so--besides, I
don't know what I'm talking about--I--oh God!" She pressed her hand to her
brow and paused a moment, as if her head realed. Edwin ventured to draw
her closer to him, "My dear, dear child, compose yourself," said he. "What
has happened? What is lost?"

She instantly regained her composure, "Nothing," she murmured. "I
thank you very much for all your friendship. So to-morrow--and farewell!"

She held out her hand and looked at him, apparently quite calm again,
and then entered the carriage; the dwarf climbed nimbly up to the box, and
Edwin saw her bend forward and look at him with a long, earnest gaze as
she drove away. Then he remained alone in the grey day with his gloomy
thoughts.

CHAPTER VI.

Why was he so much more hopeless after her frank confession, than
before? He now knew that his feelings had not deceived him, that the
equivocal circumstances in her position had nothing to do with her real
nature. Besides, nothing seemed to stand between them, no older rights and
claims of any third person, no contrast of rank or wealth. She was as poor as
he, as dependent, of equally humble origin, and when this artificially woven
fairy dream had passed away, which must soon happen, she would be
helpless in a strange world, where a friend and protector must be more to
her than anything else. True--for the moment he had no thought of asking
any woman to share his life. But hitherto he had neither desired nor
expected such an acquisition to his existence. If the matter now became
serious, why should he not be man enough to work himself out of the "tun"
and provide more spacious quarters for three persons? If the matter should
become serious! But that was what he could not believe after her
confession, as readily as before. He had never seen more clearly that all his
fire was blazing against a rock, that not even a suspicion of his state of
mind had yet dawned upon her. To have heard the saddest story of sin,
despair, and a lost youth, would have disheartened him less than this cool,
unapproachable innocence.

Sadly he returned home, drenched to the skin, having purposely exposed
himself to the rain to cool the fever raging within. While undressing he told
Balder everything, even his utter hopelessness. "And yet, after all, it is best
as it is," he concluded, "when I've once got over it. Could we receive a
duchess here?"

Balder did not understand all this. To him the very thought that any one
could refuse a kingdom for the sake of loving and being loved by Edwin
would have been incomprehensible to him. He eagerly began to contradict
him and to build castles in the air. "Let her once be poor again," said he.
"Then she'll feel what treasures still remain. Besides, she's no commonplace

person, and still so young; how much she can learn. And you're a good
teacher. What have I not learned from you!"

"Yes, you, child," sighed Edwin smiling and stroking his hair. He was
going to add something, but Mohr came in and told his adventure of the
preceding day with that fine fellow, the mysterious Lorinser, and how the
hope of establishing a musical intercourse with Christiane had given him so
much energy, that he had written out the first bars of his famous symphony
that very morning. He was in excellent spirits and according to his usual
custom let off a shower of fireworks in the shape of sarcasms and quaint
remarks, with which, to be sure, he was the only person amused, as the
brothers only laughed from sympathy.

When they had sat together for some time, Edwin went to his pupil.
Hitherto he had always felt a sense of comfort in the little house on the
lagune. His passionate restlessness passed away, the young girl's great calm
eyes, which rested so eagerly on his lips, had driven away all melancholy,
so that he grew eloquent and cheerful, and unfolded to her the ancient sages'
world of thought until long after the hour devoted to the lesson had expired.
But to-day, for the first time, this beneficent spell failed. He was forced to
plead illness and depart before the lesson was over, to Leah's evident regret.

The next day was "his day," but his impatience drove him to the house in
Jägerstrasse early in the morning. He started, when he saw the landlady's
broad face look peevishly out of one of the windows in the second story. He
darted breathlessly up stairs and pulled the bell. His suspicion was
confirmed. No striped waistcoat appeared, the shining glass eyes of the
solemn boy did not welcome him. Instead, the landlady herself, without
looking at him, sulkily opened the door.

"Whom do you want?" she grumbled. "Fräulein Toinette Marchand? I'm
sorry. She has moved. Ah! so it's you? That alters the case. What do you say
to it? You must know more than any of the rest of us, who were not thought
good enough for the least explanation--Or do you bring some order? Pray
walk in. I can make myself entirely at home here once more."

She allowed Edwin to enter and then followed him into the familiar red
drawing room. Everything was unchanged: the flowers was there, the parrot

was on the perch, only the bird cage stood open and empty, and the bronze
clock on the marble mantel piece no longer ticked.

"Just think," said the woman, evidently glad to pour out her heart to
some one who was half initiated into the secret, "she came home yesterday
in a droschky--the first time she did not have her hired carriage, and the boy
Jean came directly up to me and asked me to come down to the young lady.
When I entered, I found her maid already packing. She herself was standing
in the middle of the room, staring straight before her, as if she were troubled
about something. When I spoke, she instantly recollected herself. She was
obliged to leave the city at once, she said, and as she should not return to
these rooms, wanted to pay me the rent. 'Leave the city,' said I. 'Good
gracious! and so suddenly? And where are you going, if I may ask?' For I
thought, after all the police will make a descent upon me, the secret, the
crime she has committed is now discovered, and she wants to get away that
she may not be caught napping. But then--she looked so haughty and
composed, and did not address a single word to me more than was
absolutely necessary, and yet I'm the landlady. As she went away in the
midst of the quarter, it was fair, she said, that she should pay for the full
three months--though she'd not been here quite four weeks--and counted out
thirty-six thalers on the table. I could consider it so much profit. For
everything else--though, dear me, she'd given me no trouble at all--she laid
three louis d'ors on the table, and the maid too had her full quarter's wages
and a handsome present. Then she went to the birds--the parrot belonged to
the count--opened the door of the cage, fed them, and said: 'You'll let them
go free,' and with a flashing glance and a nod of the head went down stairs
to the droschky Jean had been sent to fetch, and on which her trunk was
already strapped. She took the boy with her, but to what depot she ordered
the man to drive--neither I nor the maid could hear. Mercy, what will the
count say when he comes back, for I promised I would keep her for him,
and he said 'you shall not lose by it, Madame Sturgmüller.' His servant was
here yesterday, 'How had the young lady behaved?' he asked. 'Who was that
gentleman with her'--he meant you. Well, I said no more than I knew--that
you only came to dine and always seemed very quiet and brought her
books. Then he laughed. 'They're probably studying something very
beautiful, Madame, and if I tell my master, the count--' 'Well,' said I, 'why
does he leave her all alone? Such a young thing--idleness is the beginning

of all love affairs.' But he shook his head and wanted to know nothing about
it. Now, tell me, my dear sir, what does all this mean? Merciful God, if I
should be obliged to go before a jury after all--"

Edwin, in spite of his sadness, could not help smiling. He denied all
knowledge of Toinette's movements, and his evident alarm at not finding
her, proved his sincerity. He had never inquired into her circumstances, and
where she had so suddenly vanished was as incomprehensible to him as to
the landlady. He walked, the woman constantly talking to him, through all
the pleasant rooms that suddenly seemed so desolate and lifeless, and for
the first time entered the sleeping apartment, where the traces of a hasty
departure were still visible. On the toilette table, among various empty
boxes, stood a small bottle in which there was still a little essence of violet,
a perfume of which she had been particularly fond. He took advantage of a
moment when he was unobserved, to appropriate the useless relic. With
what strange emotions he stood beside the bed and gazed at the snow white
pillows on which her head had rested. "She was a beautiful girl," said the
woman. "Even the most envious must admit that, and no princess could be
more stately. But mark my words, sir: one of these days her name will
appear in the papers, not on the first page where the arrivals and departures
of the aristocracy are announced, but among the miscellaneous news,
accidents and sentences of imprisonment for ten years or for life. Why
shouldn't she have waited for the count, who's such a charming gentleman?
If a girl has a good conscience, she doesn't try to be peculiar, but is neither
better nor worse than other mortals. Believe me, I know the world, and
haven't rented rooms for ten years to the very best class of lodgers for
nothing."

A feeling of inexpressible loathing overpowered Edwin. He hastily
turned away, promising to call again some other time, and left the house, in
the deepest melancholy.

CHAPTER VII.

She had not left a line for him, not even a note to say farewell; it was too
much kindness to say: 'I'm going for such and such reasons, to such and
such a place.' He was of so little importance to her, she was so utterly
indifferent to what he must feel at her sudden disappearance. No nomad
who strikes his tent, leaves his camping ground without casting a glance
toward the fire where he prepared his meals, the spring that refreshed him,
although he knows he shall find the same friendly elements everywhere.
And he, whom she had called "friend";--what a horribly cold heart, that can
prize the best treasures so lightly, leave the most unselfish devotion in the
lurch so carelessly, like a bottle of perfume, which was pleasant to the
senses, but which can be bought in any shop.

And on a creature of such a shallow mind, such an icy heart, he had for
weeks lavished his thoughts and opinions; nay his very anguish when he
had determined to break loose from her bonds, told him only too distinctly
that it would be long ere the task could be accomplished. The more
violently he strove to accuse her, the more victoriously the image of his
upbraided friend, with her artless expression and the last earnest gaze the
dark eyes had fixed upon him, rose before his fancy, and he at last perceived
that he only reproached her in order to have a pretext for constantly
occupying himself with her. He at last concluded a sort of truce with his
passionate grief. It was still possible that she might write as soon as she was
settled again. Had she not one of his books, Hafiz, from which he had last
read aloud to her at table? To be sure, she might think he had given it to her,
like the little copy of Hermann and Dorothea. And if not, why should the
possession of a borrowed book disturb her, when she was in the habit of not
even returning hearts into which she had glanced once or twice?

For the first time, he failed to tell Balder all that was occupying his
thoughts, and merely said that she had given up her rooms, but would
probably send him her new address.

This intelligence did not seem to trouble Balder much. He avoided
saying so, but in his heart he almost wished that this might be the end of the
adventure, for from what Edwin had said of the lady, it seemed more and
more doubtful whether this passion, which made the grave, self-contained
man so helpless, would ever compensate for the sacrifice of his repose.
Much as he desired to do so, he could feel no affection for this singular
being. His beau ideal of loveliness was in every respect the exact opposite
of this dazzling vision. But he said nothing, for he was well aware that
words would be spoken in vain.

"A little note from the Frau Professorin Valentin came while you were
away. The zaunkönig left it in the shop himself."

Edwin absently opened and read it. It contained a request to visit the
writer in the course of the day if possible, as she wished to speak to him
about a very important matter.

He threw down the sheet, took up a volume of some work on physical
science, and began to read. Balder, who was working industriously at his
turning lathe--he had reason to be industrious, since of late, unnoticed by
Edwin, the state of their strong box had become very critical--saw plainly
that he did not turn the page, but did not venture to rouse him from his
reverie. What could he have said to console him?

Evening came. The Frau Professorin's note seemed forgotten. But when
Balder reminded him of it, Edwin started up and said he would attend to the
matter at once; he was curious to know what important news could come to
him from that quarter. So he left the room, with a dry "Adieu!" Seldom, as
we know, did he part from Balder without a jest or a brotherly caress, but
the spell of melancholy was too strong for him.

Since his first visit, he had only seen the estimable lady a few times in
the zaunkönig's studio, from which she instantly retreated when he came to
give his lesson. She seemed very kindly disposed toward him, with a
motherly cheerfulness, which often, on her brightest days, reminded him of
his own mother; so he noticed it the more plainly, when she now met him
with anxious seriousness and a certain degree of formality.

"Dear Herr Doctor," said she, "I begged you to come to see me because I
wished to discuss a matter which has caused me grave anxiety. Do you
know that you've cost me a sleepless night?"

"You're too kind," he answered smiling.

"I'm entirely in earnest. I should have to like you much less than I do if
my opinion of you could be a matter of indifference to me. Tell me, is it
true? Are you really the author of this essay, or have you a namesake, for
whose opinions you are not responsible?"

She took out a green volume, which she had carefully locked up in her
writing desk. It was a number of a philosophical magazine, to which for
several years Edwin had been a contributor.

"So far as I'm aware," he answered in a jesting tone, "my parents have
had but one son Edwin, who devotes himself to philosophy. Let me see.
'Examination of the proofs of the existence of God.' Certainly that's mine.
It's to be continued. It was left unfinished on account of my foolish prize
essay."

He laid the book on the table, and now looked at his companion, who
was sitting opposite to him with the most heartfelt expression of pitying
surprise.

"So it's really yours!" said she. "And these views, these principles--
you've not yet renounced them?"

"I don't know of what principles you speak, Madame. So far as I can
remember, I refrain from making any hypothesis of my own, and limit
myself entirely to a critical investigation of the opinions that have been
advanced by others."

"Yes. So it appears! But can he who so coolly, in his own opinion,
annihilates the logical proofs of an eternal truth, be expected to cherish the
desire, to say nothing of the conviction, that this truth will endure, difficult
as it might be to find reasons for it, or proofs which would incontestably
establish to the reason its indisputable existence?"

"I might take that as a compliment to my essay," he answered, "although
coming from a woman's mouth, it cannot of course be understood in that
sense. Among scientific men, an investigation is thought the more worthy of
credence, the fewer traces it bears that its author set about the task with a
desire to find a certain result, or with even a previously formed conviction.
In my department, especially, much greater progress would have been
made, if even in the minds of its masters passion and prejudice had not
dimmed the pure mirror of experience and clearness of thought."

"Greater progress!" cried the excited lady, letting both hands fall into her
lap in sudden horror. "But for Heaven's sake, what progress can be made, to
what can you wish to turn your attention after you have so successfully
reached absolute nothingness?"

"And suppose I expected to prove," he answered smiling, "that this
nothingness is just as fruitful as the other nothingness, from which, as pious
men tell us, God created the world? But I'll not begin to philosophize here.
Even if I could hope, in a short conversation, to make you understand that
to which I have devoted the labor of a life, I should still prefer to keep
silence. You're in harmony with yourself--what more can you desire? I,
whose wants are so different, am also at peace with myself. Is it not better
to rest satisfied with that, each respecting the other's mode of thought and
feeling? Wherefore drag to light the differences about which we can never
agree, instead of rejoicing over what we possess in common? It's so easy to
dispute, and so difficult to become reconciled again."

"You think me intolerant," she replied eagerly, while a faint color tinged
her pretty, delicate face. "But my Creator knows I am not. I confidentially
believe that in our heavenly father's house there are many mansions. I honor
every true, genuine conviction, even if ever so widely different from mine.
My best friend, Leah's mother, was a jewess. My daily visitor, the Herr
Candidat--"

"Herr Lorinser?" Edwin dryly interrupted. "Ah! yes, now I understand."

"What?"

"It's a matter of very little consequence; I know the people with whom
I'm dealing. There are persons who take special delight in denouncing
others, of course for the greater honor of God, of Christian love, and of
eternal truth."

"You wrong him; to be sure he brought me your essay, but it was in
consequence of a conversation in which I was compelled to admit that I was
wholly in the dark about your opinions, and had not become much wiser
from Leah's very guarded remarks. Do not suppose I'm blind to the faults
and weaknesses of this singular man. I do not share his exaggerated
mystical views. But even his errors, which arise from an ardent heart, seem
more honorable, or to express myself more plainly, are more in sympathy
with my nature, than--"

"Than a man's honest confession that he knows nothing at all about
certain things."

"If it were only that! But must he, who knows nothing, or desires to
know nothing about that which is revealed to all who thirst for information,
makes a business of shaking the faith, rendering the ground unsteady
beneath the feet of those who do have the knowledge, or think they have?"

"If he really believes he is serving humanity, why should he not do what
he thinks productive of good? To be sure, I should not undertake this
business. I've not the temperament for it, the friendly importunity, nor any
of the other qualities that are necessary to make proselytes."

"You have not? And this treatise--"

"Is not written for those who know or think they know, but for persons,
who like me, are still seeking truth, perhaps doubting whether it will ever be
possible certainly to know, and meantime think themselves justified in
using the boundaries between knowledge and faith for a work which must
tend to the advantages of both provinces."

"No," she said, as she suddenly rose, "we shall make no progress in that
way. You're my superior in dialectics, and I see it's only chivalrous in you to
avoid the contest. But answer one question plainly: is it really true that you

not only have no God, but do not even feel any sorrow for it, any sense of
something wanting, of cheerless desolation and loneliness, when you survey
a world, from which to you the breath of a personal Creator has vanished?"

"And suppose I really did feel neither sorrow nor want, and yet did not
find the world utterly cheerless?"

She gazed at him with a steady look, as if she were obliged to weigh
such an answer before she could fully understand it. Her eyes grew dim, she
retreated a step and sank down on the chair which stood beside the sofa.

"You poor, poor mortal!"

"We agreed not to philosophize, Madame," he answered smiling. "But,
even in ordinary conversation, I suppose one may be permitted to remind
the other of contradictions in which he has involved himself. Does he who
has just told you that he feels no want, needs no consolation, seem poor in
your eyes? Then see how ill it fares with the toleration of which you
boasted. You allow every form of faith to exist, except that which
acknowledges it has nothing that resembles a creed. The jew, the
mussulman, the fire-worshipper, the idolater, who sees his God in a stock or
stone--all seem respectable to you, and none so poor as an honest seeker
after truth, who studies nature and his own heart, and cannot think all the
signs and wonders he there beholds explained, when he uses for them a
formula which means anything or nothing. Can you really consider it of any
importance, that I should use the same word, if to me it expresses
something totally different? Do you feel allied to an idolater, because in his
language he gives a block of wood the same name that to you in yours,
means the creator of heaven and earth? Would you not, though you might
respect his conviction, have greater reason to say to him: 'Poor, poor
mortal!'--?"

"'Blessed are the poor in spirit!'" she replied. "You certainly will not
question those words, neither will you deny that every religious feeling
springs from the consciousness of our own incompleteness, that he who
lacks nothing, who is sufficient unto himself, cannot know the loftiest
emotion: devotion to something loftier, richer, stronger--the ideal of what is
highest and noblest, which we call God. And therefore the idolater stands

nearer to me than the atheist. He shares with me the human need of
worshipping, of bowing before some powerful, inscrutable being. Is he to
blame if his ideas of this dim power are so narrow and gloomy, that in order
to be able to reverence something, he forgets that he carved these gods
himself?"

"Certainly not," replied Edwin gravely. "As little as you are to blame, for
adoring a God you have carved yourself or rather suffered others to fashion.
Oh! my honored friend, do not be angry with me, but the difference
between the poor doll that the south sea islander believes to be the creator
of the world, and the God of our ordinary christianity, does not seem to me
great enough to create such a stir. Are not both carved after our pattern, one
more rudely, the other more delicately, the former bedecked with barbaric
finery and painted in gaudy hues, the latter, according to the taste of our
times, adorned with more or less art and fantastic splendor, but always a
work of our own minds? I will not speak of those really poor mortals,
whom you also will hardly call blessed or think specially well fitted for
their heavenly kingdom: of those who, under the forms of the Christian
faith, practise the grossest idolatry, the merest image worship. But how do
even the most enlightened, the most intellectual, who take the scriptural
words 'God is a spirit' in the most solemn sense, imagine this spirit? In their
holy zeal, they ascribe to it every quality that seems worthy of honor and
love in themselves or others. And this ideal being, which they have created
in their own image, and only endowed with the thoughtlessly collected
attributes of omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence, this God-man or
man-God, they set on a throne somewhere in space, give him the world for
a globe, and the lightning for a sceptre, and are perfectly convinced that in
the fullest power and majesty, he will guide the stars on their courses, and
decide the destinies of mortals with mercy and justice. And meantime the
sorrows of the world take their course, evil reigns, the unequal distribution
of blessings still exists, and the all-merciful, omniscient, all-righteous, and
omnipotent God, does not move his little finger to effect a change; his most
eager devotees must seize upon very common place, earthly means to keep
the world in its grooves; but where these are not enough, where the whole
cannot sufficiently protect the individual, then arises the old sardonic
consolation: 'Help yourself, and God will help you.' So we're again thrown
back on ourselves. It is still our strength, our intellect, our good purposes!

And yet earnest men, who have their doubts about the contradictory stories
concerning the government of the world by a God who is just and good
according to human ideas, are blamed if they seek to help themselves
through life by their own efforts, and at the same time try whether they
cannot make things harmonize without nursery tales." He had risen and was
pacing up and down the room in increasing excitement.

"You reject the good with the bad," she replied shaking her head. "Who
denies the imperfection of our ideas of the supreme being? Who asserts that
our human images and comparisons describe his real nature? They are all
mere make-shifts, a species of flying machine to enable us, who are denied
wings on earth, to approach as near him as possible? Do you wish to
deprive the poor mortals who languish in the dust, of this solace?"

"I? You're again forgetting that I wish to deprive no one of his religion,
nor arouse in any one who is satisfied higher desires; nor to seek to guide
him to what affords me happiness. Let them soar as high as they wish and
can; but they, too, ought to permit the plain pedestrian, who climbs the
rough path to the summit step by step, to move quietly on his way, and not
throw stones at him from their balloons."

"Who does so? Who, that has understood the law of love, the most
sacred tenet of our religion?"

He approached her and took her hand, exclaiming eagerly: "Not you, my
honored friend. You will not cease to include in your prayers, the man who
acknowledges that he does not join in the words, 'we all believe in one
God.' Perhaps you will prefer not to associate with him, as with all our love
for our neighbor, we do not choose an outcast for a companion. But ask
yourself, how many of your brothers and sisters in faith have advanced so
far in toleration that they will not only permit every one to be happy in his
own way, but even endure those who feel no desire for what is called
heavenly bliss, who see the circle of their duties and privileges, toils and
joys, coupled here on earth, and do not wish to be more perfect, wiser, or
more immortal than one can become with human intellect and powers? Yet
the word 'godless' is still the harshest that can be said of a fellow man, and
people speak of envy, hatred, revenge, and malice, as traits natural to
humanity. But all neighborly love is refused the poor fellow creature, who

confesses that he can form no idea of a personal ruler of the world,
according to the human pattern, and the one word 'atheist' is sufficient to
forever brand the most peaceful citizen, the noblest philanthropist, the most
earnest seeker after truth. Yet we talk of an age of enlightenment! We boast
of our freedom of thought, our scientific triumphs, and even men of science
fear to express their deepest thoughts in their works, even those which are
not even intended for the masses, in order to be sure of their peace, if not of
their lives! Their real, inmost conviction, they whisper like some guilty
secret into the ears of those whom they have recognized as kindred spirits,
while childish folly, criminal stupidity, are permitted to display themselves
in every street, and the holiest things are used by cunning speculators for
very worldly purposes."

"What am I to answer?" said the Frau Professorin, with an expression of
the deepest anxiety. "You yourself are noble and pure enough in your
intentions, to be permitted without danger to your social duties, to disclaim
what we call duties toward God. But what would be the consequence with
the great majority, whose 'sensibilities are not so delicate, to whom piety,
unconscious devotion to an inscrutable being, nay if you will, the fear of
God, is a necessary check to their sensual natures, if you suddenly left them
to themselves, and relieved them of all responsibility? Or what
compensation can you offer nobler souls, of deeper feelings, that feel a need
of sanctification, to make amends for a destroyed or diminished confidence
in the love of God? My dear friend, if you had ever enjoyed the deep bliss
of knowing yourself a child of God, you would willingly overlook the
vagueness, the childish narrowness, that to pure reason this idea may seem
to contain, and understand that it is natural to consider innovators
dangerous, or even to strive to crush as enemies of mankind, those who
threaten to deprive their brothers of this consolation."

"I understand, I excuse it--and yet I ask that it may cease," replied
Edwin, "for really the danger with which the children of the world threaten
the children of God, is a purely imaginary one. The offence we give is very
harmless. No mind which, in your sense of the word, is religiously
disposed, will endure to think of the world without a personal Creator. No
seduction can take place where the germ of the fall did not previously exist.
And the vacillating or utterly frivolous cannot be of so much importance to

you as peace and tolerance. I cannot forsee the future, but I have a
conviction that the time will never come, when all men will declare that
they are of age and have outgrown the childhood that renders them happy,
any more than that political freedom will ever become a necessity to all.
Only let people cease to measure differences in viewing the world by moral
standards, to regulate for the individual his capacities and wants, God and
the world, to call him to account for mere opinions which have a very slight
influence upon his actions. To be sure, those ideas of God, freedom,
immortality, which even the free thinkers of the last century recognized as
an inalienable possession of mankind, have at last, in popular opinion, been
called in question by our intrusive, persistent investigation. But I'm as sure
as of my own existence, that a time will come when honest children of the
world will be permitted, without suspicion, to renounce that trinity also, and
is not the hope of contributing to such a future worth the toil of the noblest?
Then for the first time the word tolerance will have attained its full sense;
then conversations like ours will be conducted without the slightest tinge of
vehemence or bitterness, which have blended here and there with our words
to-day, and for which I in particular, as a philosopher, who ought to have
learned to be patient and trust to time, sincerely beg my honored friend's
pardon."

He bent toward her, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. She absently
permitted him to do so, absorbed in thoughts which she apparently could
not express in words. He had already reached the door, when she said
sudden:

"Does Leah know these opinions of yours?"

He paused. A dull pain, a feeling of regret, overpowered him, which he
did not know how to explain. "We have never discussed these questions,"
he replied, "or as school children say, we've not yet come to them. We're
still at the Greek philosophers."

"But when you progress so far, shall you tell her openly what you
think?"

"Certainly, as openly as I have told you. Surely if I showed no reserve
toward you by your personal request and as a matter of friendship, to my

pupil, I should believe myself to be fulfilling a sacred duty in speaking
plainly. For this knowledge her nature yearns; she will digest it, it will be
transmuted into a part of her blood. Could you be so intolerant, so envious,
as to seek to deprive this excellent girl of what will be a positive benefit to
her?"

For a moment she was silent. "I must be perfectly frank with you," she
said, and the embarrassment which flushed her cheeks gave her a winning
expression. "My old friend, Leah's father, asked me to question you about
your belief. He found one of his daughter's exercise books, in which were
certain expressions and sentences that startled him. He himself is entirely
destitute of dogmatic fanaticism, as I've already told you, but he is a true
child of God, and is now alarmed and grieved to discover that his only
daughter aims to be no different from her teacher: an upright child of the
world. Therefore--"

"I understand," Edwin interrupted with a bitter smile. "You need proceed
no farther with his apology. Give my compliments to the worthy gentleman,
who will not permit his child to eat from the broad dish, because his own
mouth is formed to take nourishment from the narrow bottle. But from what
I know of the girl, she will find proper sustenance in spite of this
guardianship, though with rather more difficulty. The only loser will be
myself. Those grave thoughtful eyes always had a good influence over me.
But I might have known it would come to this some day, so--without ill-
feeling--farewell."

She called to him to detain him. But he had already passed through the
ante-room, without ill-feeling, as he had himself said, but not without a
sense of bitter sorrow. "And these are the best of them!" he murmured. "If
such things happen when the wood is green, what marvel is it that the dry,
dead branches and knots, which can nevermore put forth leaf or blossom,
crackle so merrily when a heretic is to be burned!"

He returned home and spent the remainder of the evening in quiet
conversation with Balder, with whom he soon regained his lost
cheerfulness, though the shadows would not wholly vanish from his sorely
wounded soul. Both slept very little that night. When the pump handle
creaked the next morning, they had been up a long time. Balder at his

turning lathe, and Edwin wandering about the room, now and then turning
the leaves of a book, both silent, as they usually were during the first part of
the day.

Reginchen brought up with the breakfast tray a carefully folded package
and a letter. They had just been left for Edwin.

When he had unfastened the strings and broken the seal, a beautiful
porcelain plate appeared, on which was painted a bouquet of corn flowers,
poppies, and wheat; on the edge, in gold letters, was the inscription: "A
memento from a grateful pupil." There was also a sealed book, without any
address, but the letter was from the old gentleman, and ran as follows:

"My Deeply Honored Friend:

"You already know what I have to communicate in these lines, which in
consequence of the great esteem, and love I have always felt for you, I can
hardly force my pen to write, I have never presumed to suppose that I alone
possess the truth; but to secure to my child the happiness that I have
enjoyed in my own life, is a matter that lies very near my heart. If peace
does not come to her when sought in my way, I shall not forbid her to seek it
in another; but I think she's still too young to clearly perceive the right
path, and therefore I would rather leave her for a time without a guide, than
see her moving along a road I think dangerous. Nevertheless, I shall always
be grateful to you for having so kindly devoted your time to her. My
daughter, who desires to be respectfully remembered to you, begs you to
accept the accompanying specimen of her work--the forfeit of the wager you
perhaps still remember. A book, in which she was in the habit of keeping an
account of her progress with you, I will beg you to take charge of for a time,
as I do not wish her to return to these studies at present, and cannot expect
her to entirely give up the pages which are precious in her eyes. And now
farewell, dear Herr Doctor. May you ever be prosperous and remember
with the old affection,

"Your sincerely grateful

"Philipp König."

Enclosed in another envelope was a sum of money, not very large in
itself, but munificent considering the circumstances of the man who lived in
the little house on the lagune. Edwin instantly sat down at the table, sealed
up the money again and wrote the following lines:

"Honored Friend and Patron:

"Deeply as I regret that my visits to your house which had become so
pleasant must be so suddenly discontinued, I cannot help respecting the
motive which prompted your letter, and in all friendship bid you and my
dear pupil farewell--until we meet again! Thank your daughter most
warmly for her beautiful work of art, which affords me the greatest delight.
But I do not understand how you imagine yourself to be in my debt. You
cannot expect me to accept a fee for my small beginning at teaching, any
more than you would call upon a customer to pay for a half finished picture.

"With kindest regards, yours,

"E."

"There," said he to Balder, "we've done with that too! I can put the little
bottle of violet perfume on this painted plate--two frail mementoes of a life
and memories quite out of place in our tun. Come, child! We'll get to work
again. Everything flows steadily on; ought not certain memories to find
their way also to the great ocean?"

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

A fortnight had elapsed. The autumnal storms, which had burst over the
country, had stripped the last withered leaf from the top of the acacia tree,
and the little garden with its shade loving plants, as well as the dry tendrils
of the bean vines, were destroyed by the ceaseless rain.

Even in the "tun," whose inmates usually possessed the art of making the
sunlight within shine all the more brightly in the stormiest weather, a
strangely dull, sorrowful mood had prevailed, like the autumn mists which
float over forest and meadow, and are only now and then lighted by a
noontide sunbeam. A dull oppression weighed upon Edwin's mind, and with
all his manliness he was unable to shake it off. This mysterious silence and
disappearance caused him more pain than the sharpest break in his life, the
most open renunciation on the part of the beloved being. He hourly felt that
all must be past, but he could not yet realize it to be at an end. It was as if
he carried a bullet in his body very near the vital organs, and until it was
extracted, no one could tell whether he would survive or bleed to death.

Besides, now that he again spent more time in the house, he became very
anxious about Balder. During the time of his futile love-making, when he
had often only seen his brother at dinner or late in the evening, the latter
had succeeded in concealing the fact that his time was divided between
arduous toil and complete exhaustion. Now it could no longer be hidden.
Marquard, whom Edwin instantly called in to prescribe for a first severe
attack of pain in the chest, shook his head very angrily over the
unpardonable carelessness which had permitted matters to go so far. He
forbade Balder to make the slightest exertion, and during some of the
stormiest days kept him in bed. Balder smilingly protested against his
tyranny, and declared that he did not suffer at all; nay that he could breathe
more freely and easily when in his stooping posture at the turning lathe. He
would doubtless have carefully avoided acknowledging that, when at work,
he could more easily forget the anxiety about his health which daily became

more pressing. But it was useless. Edwin saw through the ambiguous
words, especially as, roused from his long dream, he had now discovered
for the first time that during the last few weeks Balder must have done
double work to defray the current expenses. This was all that was needed to
make the recollection of the time so hopelessly lost, still more painful and
bitter. "Careless children ought never to be left alone," he said
reproachfully, crushing back tears of sorrow for his brother and rage against
himself. "Now you have accomplished a fine piece of business, worked
shamefully hard that I might not only play the fool the more undisturbed,
but become your murderer into the bargain. Oh! child, all the duchesses in
the world, who might want to make me their court-fool, would not
outweigh a single hair from your thick locks, though they really might lose
a few handfuls without injury. Instead of taking up my station on the nearest
street corner, as was my duty, and waiting to see if some one would give me
work, I've wasted my days in the most worthless way, playing the courtier,
while you--fie! A fine brotherly love on both sides! One idles enough for
two, and thoughtlessly allows himself to be fed at the expense of the other,
who meanwhile works for two so recklessly that he almost deprives himself
of life, and the idler of his only brother."

He would not allow himself to be quieted, until he had carried the
dearest things he possessed, a few dozen of his most valuable books, to an
antiquary, and thus defrayed the most pressing necessities for several
weeks. Besides this, as the lectures had not yet commenced, he plunged
headlong into all kinds of remunerative work, criticisms upon new books
and contributions to scientific journals, and remained persistently at home
all day long, with the exception of a short afternoon walk, never losing
thought of Balder amid all his work. No one interrupted this strict seclusion
except the faithful doctor, Mohr, who came daily for several hours to play
chess, and Reginchen, who brought up the meals.

Some change seemed to have taken place in the child, which transformed
her whole nature in a mysterious, but very charming manner. She no longer
sang and glided about like a young bird, or even prattled in her half
childish, half motherly way to Balder, whom she now had to nurse; but the
thoughtful, somewhat absent and sorrowful expression her countenance
now wore, undoubtedly suited it better than her former wholly unshadowed

mood. She seemed to have grown an inch taller, her face was perceptibly
narrower, her cheeks less blooming, but suffused with a delicate glow from
within. Moreover she was often found, as if spell-bound, standing still in
the midst of a task gazing steadily into vacancy. When Balder asked what
she was thinking about, she blushed crimson and laughed in an embarrassed
way, but the next instant her face again wore a strangely quiet expression,
such as no one had ever seen before.

Even Edwin, who usually noticed her but little, remarked her altered
manner. "Our little house swallow is thinking of building a nest," said he.
"You'll see, Balder, before next spring she'll leave us to become her own
mistress. It's a pity! I can't imagine the tun without this wandering ray of
sunlight."

Balder was silent. He had long been uneasy about the matter. Little as he
was in the habit of thinking of himself, this time, with a joyous terror that
for some moments threatened to burst his heart, he could not help believing
that he was the author of this change. On the very day Franzelius bade them
farewell, the young girl had asked him to lend her Schiller's poems. She had
heard so much about them, she wanted to see if they would please her as
well as her cousins and the head journeyman. The book was in Balder's
locked drawer; he had pressed in it a flower from a small bouquet she had
once brought him when she came home from a walk. The verses he had
written on her birthday were also there, but he did not think of them when
he took out the volume. Afterwards, when it was too late, he had recollected
them, and as the verses expressed somewhat plainly what for years he had
carefully hidden in his heart, he could scarcely doubt that they would now
do their duty and reveal all. Probably it might have been so, but for that
twilight hour in the shop, when the state of another equally reserved soul
had suddenly become clear to her. There was only room for one thought at a
time in her head and heart, and therefore, as her love for literature was not
very great, she had not taken out the borrowed book she had placed in her
work table, and had no suspicion what a secret she would have learned.
Even in her leisure hours, she did not have much time for reading.
Whenever she was left to herself, she eagerly knitted the before-mentioned
stockings, whose unusual size could not fail to remind her for many days of
the lucky fellow destined to own them.

Balder, however, who knew nothing of all this, could not help
interpreting in his own favor the altered manner of the child he secretly
loved, especially as since he required her care, she had become at once
more devoted and more reserved. His first emotion at this supposed
discovery was, as has been stated, one of joyful alarm. Having renounced
all the happiness of healthy men, he had never thought such an event
possible, nay scarcely desirable. He looked upon himself as a passing guest
at the table of this world, who could only taste the various dainties, and who
after a short enjoyment of the pleasures of the feast, a modest sip from the
beaker of earthly joys, must silently slip away. That he might take his place
there with the others, join in the festivities till midnight, and drain the last
dregs of the wine cup, was something of which he had not dared to think.
He had yielded the more freely to a feeling of happy hopelessness, because
he thought himself sure, of standing in no one's way by so doing. This fair,
innocent child, in the exuberance of perfect health, possessed exactly what
he lacked; that she had grown up in the insensibility of pure nature, without
intellectual wants, culture, or training, while every expression, every
gesture revealed strength, freshness, and the most joyous good nature,
attracted him to her as one is attracted toward an object always longed for
and always withheld. When she entered his room, he forgot his sufferings
and banished the thought of the future, since she herself seemed to be
satisfied with the present and the pleasures it contained; therefore the
thought that any change could take place in this familiar, unconstrained
intercourse had hitherto never occurred to him.

Now he was suddenly thrown into a state of bewilderment in which he
was no longer in harmony with his own heart, since that which had hitherto
filled it with such pure and calm emotions, now appeared sinful, and
certainly was the source of many sorrows.

But he had reached his twentieth year and the feeling of delight must
needs outweigh all sadness. Almost insensibly, the hopes he believed long
since buried, again appeared before his eyes. Why should not a miracle be
performed in his case as well as in so many others, and nature summon her
wondrous powers of healing, especially as the soul was now ready to assist?
And if it should really prove that the strength of manhood was to make
amends for the sufferings of his youth, how beneficent was the star which

had enabled him to find in this little spot, the treasure that would make him
rich for all time.

This belief became more and more fixed in his mind, so that he
submitted to all the remedies prescribed without opposition and with far
more patience than usual, and he even, often as a loving word to Edwin or
Reginchen hovered on his lips, strictly observed the prohibition against
speaking. He would lie half the day in a reverie, his eyes fixed upon the
sorrowful plaster mask of the prisoner opposite him, composing verses
which he hastily wrote down as soon as Edwin's back was turned. Even his
old regret that he could not make up his mind to confess his secret to his
brother, who never had one from him, no longer troubled him. When he had
grown strong again and could at last go out into the world and cast aside all
his premature renunciation of self, he would pour out his happiness, and
compensate Edwin tenfold for what he had lost.

All these thoughts had passed through his mind, while the leaves of the
acacia were falling off, and Edwin wandered about with a wound that
would not heal. The oppressive stillness that pervaded the tun, seemed to
have affected the other lodgers in the house as well; they appeared to be in
that uncomfortable, chilly autumn mood, in which man, like nature,
gradually becomes silent, until the crackling flames in the stove beget
encouragement and the lips of human beings once more unclose.
Christiane's piano emitted no sound. The head journeyman, whose
grumbling and scolding often echoed in the air as long as the windows of
the work shop remained open, was no longer heard. In the rooms occupied
by the old couple no one opened a window to look at the thermometer,
which hung on the shady side of the house. They well knew it was no
weather for a once famous tenor to expose his throat to the air. Even Herr
Feyertag was in a bad humor, although an unusual number of jack-boots
were ordered and business was very prosperous. His son, who had imbibed
from Franzelius all sorts of wild communistic ideas, caused him a great deal
of anxiety, and out ran with seven league boots that worthy citizen and man
of progress, his father. All such cares seem doubly threatening in the
autumn rain, and we are the more inclined to believe the end of the world is
coming, when the summer sunlight has long lulled us into forgetfulness of
all anxiety.

But suddenly this consoler seemed inclined to return for a time to
celebrate another festival. When Edwin opened his eyes one morning, the
brightest blue sky was smiling into the tun, and the atmosphere was as still
and soft as if ashamed of all the stormy misdemeanors of the last few
weeks. As good things, like evil ones, rarely come singly, this morning also
brought all sorts of unexpected pleasures. First came a letter containing
money to discharge a debt long since given up as hopeless, the fee for a
private lecture on Hegel's philosophy, which Edwin had given a sceptical
Russian. The auditor had suddenly disappeared, and Edwin supposed him to
be either in Paris or Siberia. But he had preferred to make his peace with
the Lord, and had now obtained a position in St. Petersburg, from whence
he sent double the fee. Edwin was just forbidding Balder (who in his delight
suddenly broke his vow of silence and insisted that the money must be
devoted to buying back the books that had been sold) to meddle with the
financial department of the tun, which now, since Balder by his secret
earnings had basely betrayed the confidence reposed in him, was to be
exclusively in Edwin's hands, when Marquard came in, and after carefully
examining the patient, declared him out of danger for this time. He
cautioned him however, against any excitement or bodily exertion, which
would again open the scarcely healed wounds Then he turned to Edwin: "I
wish I could be as well satisfied with you," he said, looking sharply into his
face, "but I must confess that your appearance, your pulse, your whole
condition, don't suit me at all. A few more days of this stooping, drudging,
and brooding, and we shall be just where we were the evening of the ballet.
Deuce take it! I'd rather prescribe for a whole cholera hospital, than a single
thinking patient, who's always opposing Mother Nature, and by his
pondering and cogitations during the day, tears into lint the repairs she
makes in his nerves at night. Or is--you have no secrets from Balder--your
crazy abstract love affair at the bottom of it? That was all that was wanting!
How far have you progressed with the little princess in Jägerstrasse? Still
the 'fir and the palm' longing and yearning in anxious pain?"

"If the matter is of scientific interest to you," replied Edwin with a totally
unembarrassed face, "you may as well know that the story ended before it
had fairly begun. I should be strongly inclined to put the apparition in the
category of delusions of the senses, if it were not for the perplexing