If I were not sketching a real personage, and retailing an anecdote once
heard, I should pronounce the Hofrath von Froriep a fictitious
character, for which reason I bear you no ill-will if you incline to
that opinion. I have no witness to call in my defence. There were but
two Englishmen in Gottingen in my day; one of them is now no more. Poor
fellow! he had just entered the army; his regiment was at Corfu, and he
was spending the six months of his first leave in Germany. We chanced to
be fellow-travellers, and ended by becoming friends. When he left me, it
was for Vienna, from which after a short stay he departed for Venice,
where he purchased a yacht, and with eight Greek sailors sailed for a
cruise through the Ionian Islands. He was never seen alive again; his
body, fearfully gashed and wounded, was discovered on the beach at
Zante. His murderers, for such they were, escaped with the vessel, and
never were captured. Should any Sixty-first man throw his eye over these
pages he will remember that I speak of one beloved by every one who knew
him. With all the heroic daring of the stoutest heart, his nature was
soft and gentle as a child’s. Poor G----! some of the happiest moments
of my life were spent with you; some of the saddest, in thinking over
your destiny.
You must take my word for the Hofrath, then, good reader. They who read
the modern novels of Germany--the wild exaggerations of Fouqué and
Hoffman, Musaeus and Tieck--will comprehend that the story of himself
has no extravagance whatever. To ascribe language and human passions to
the lower animals, and even to the inanimate creation, is a favourite
German notion, the indulgence of which has led to a great deal of that
mysticism which we find in their writings; and the secret sympathies of
cauliflowers and cabbages for young ladies in love is a constant theme
among this class of novelists.
A word now of the students, and I have done. Whatever the absurdities in
their code of honour, however ludicrous the etiquette of the ‘comment’
as it is called, there is a world of manly honesty and true-heartedness
among them. There is nothing mean or low, nothing dishonourable or
unworthy in the spirit of the Burschen-schaft. Exaggerated ideas of
their own importance, an overweening sense of their value to the
Fatherland, there are in abundance, as well as a mass of crude,
unsettled notions about liberty and the regeneration of Germany. But,
after all, these are harmless fictions; they are not allied to any evil
passions at the time, they lead to no bad results for the future. The
murder of Kotzebue, and the attempt on the life of Napoleon by Staps,
were much more attributable to the mad enthusiasm of the period than to
the principles of the Student-league. The spirit of the nation revolted
at the tyranny they had so long submitted to, and these fearful crimes
were the agonised expression of endurance pushed to madness. Only they
who witnessed the frantic joy of the people when the tide of fortune
turned against Napoleon, and his baffled legions retreated through
Germany on their return from the Russian campaign, can understand how
deeply stored were the wrongs for which they were now to exact
vengeance. The _Völker Schlacht_ (the ‘people’s slaughter’), as they
love to call the terrible fight of Leipsic, was the dreadful recompense
of all their sufferings.
When the French Revolution first broke out, the German students, like
many wiser and more thinking heads than theirs in our own country, were
struck with the great movement of a mighty people in their march to
liberty; but when, disgusted with the atrocities that followed, they
afterwards beheld France the first to assail the liberties and trample
on the freedom of every other country, they regarded her as a traitor to
the cause she once professed. And while their apathy in the early wars
of the republican armies marked their sympathy with the wild notions of
liberty of which Frenchmen affected to be the apostles in Europe, yet
when they saw the lust of conquest and the passion for dominion usurp
the place of those high-sounding virtues--_Liberté, Egalité_--the
reverse was a tremendous one, and may well excuse, if excuse were
needful, the proud triumph of the German armies when they bivouacked in
the streets of Paris.
The changed fortunes of the Continent have of course obliterated every
political feature in the student life of Germany; or if such still
exist, it takes the form merely of momentary enthusiasm in favour of
some banished professor, or a Burschen festival in honour of some martyr
of the Press. Still their ancient virtues survive, and the German
student is yet a type--one of the few remaining---of the Europe of
thirty years ago. Long may he remain so, say I; long may so interesting
a land have its national good faith and brotherly affection rooted in
the minds of its youth; long may the country of Schiller, of Wieland,
and of Goethe possess the race of those who can appreciate their
greatness, or strive to emulate their fame!
I leave to others the task of chronicling their beer orgies, their wild
festivals, and their duels; and though not disposed to defend them on
such charges, I might, were it not invidious, adduce instances nearer
home of practices little more commendable. At those same festivals, at
many of which I have been present, I have heard music that would shame
most of our orchestras, and listened to singing such as I have never
heard surpassed except within the walls of a grand opera. And as to
their duelling, the practice is bad enough in all conscience; but still
I would mention one instance, of which I myself was a witness, and
perhaps even in so little fertile a field we may find one grain of
goodly promise.
Among my acquaintances in Gôttingen were two students, both Prussians,
and both from the same small town of Magdebourg. They had been school-
fellows, and came together to the University, where they lived together
on terms of brotherly affection, which even there, where friendship
takes all the semblance of a sacred compact, was the subject of remark.
Never were two men less alike, however, than these. Eisendecker was a
bold, hotheaded fellow, fond of all the riotous excesses of Burschen
life; his face, seamed with many a scar, declared him a ‘hahn,’ as in
student phrase a confirmed duellist is termed. He was ever foremost in
each scheme of wild adventure, and continually being brought up before
the senate on some charge of insubordination. Von Mühry, his companion,
was exactly the opposite. His sobriquet--for nearly every student had
one--was ‘der Zahme (the gentle),’ and never was any more appropriate.
His disposition was mildness itself. He was very handsome, almost
girlish in his look, with large blue eyes and fine, soft silky hair,
which, Germanlike, he wore upon his neck. His voice--the index of his
nature--soft, low, and musical, would have predisposed you at once in
his favour. Still, those disparities did not prevent the attachment of
the two youths; on the contrary, they seemed rather to strengthen the
bond between them--each, as it were, supplying to the other the
qualities which Nature had denied him. They were never separate in
lecture-room, at home, or in the _allée_ (as the promenade was called)
or in the garden, where each evening the students resorted to sup, and
listen to the music of the Jâger band. Eisendecker and Mühry were names
that no one ever heard separated, and when one appeared the other was
never more than a few yards off.
Such was their friendship, when an unhappy incident occurred to trouble
its even course, and sow dissension between these who never had known a
passing difference in their lives. The sub-rector of Göttingen was in
the habit of giving little receptions every week, to which many of the
students were invited, and to which Eisendecker and Mühry were
frequently asked, as they both belonged to the professor’s class. In the
quiet world of a little University town, these soirées were great
occasions; and the invited plumed themselves not a little on the
distinction of a card which gave the privilege of bowing in the Herr
professor’s drawing-room, and kissing the hand of his fair daughter the
Frederica von Ettenheim, the belle of Göttingen. Frederica was the
prettiest German girl I ever saw; for this reason, that having been
partly educated at Paris, French _espièglerie_ relieved what had been
otherwise the too regular monotony of her Saxon features, and imparted a
character of sauciness--or _fierté_ is a better word--to that quietude
which is too tame to give the varied expression so charming in female
beauty. The _esprit_, that delicious ingredient which has been so
lamentably omitted in German character, she had imbibed from her French
education; and in lieu of that plodding interchange of flat commonplaces
which constitute the ordinary staple of conversation between the young
of opposite sexes beyond the Rhine, she had imported the light, delicate
tone of Parisian raillery--the easy and familiar gaiety of French
society, so inexpressibly charming in France, and such a boon from
heaven when one meets it by accident elsewhere.
Oh, confess it, ye who, in the dull round of this world’s so-called
pleasure, in the Eryboean darkness of the dinners and evening parties of
your fashionable friends, sit nights long, speaking and answering, half
at random, without one thought to amuse, without one idea to interest
you--what pleasure have you felt when some chance expression, some
remark--a mere word, perhaps--of your neighbour beside you, reveals that
she has attained that wondrous charm, that most fascinating of all
possessions--the art to converse; that neither fearful of being deemed
pedantic on the one hand, or uninformed on the other, she launches forth
freely on the topic of the moment, gracefully illustrating her meaning
by womanly touches of sensibility and delicacy, as though to say, these
lighter weapons were her own peculiar arms, while men might wield the
more massive ones of sense and judgment. Then with what lightness she
flits along from theme to theme, half affecting to infer that she dares
not venture deep, yet showing every instant traits of thoughtfulness and
reflection!
How long since have you forgotten that she who thus holds you entranced
is the brunette, with features rather too bold than otherwise; that
those eyes which now sparkle with the fire of mind seemed but half an
hour ago to have a look of cold effrontery? Such is the charm of
_esprit_; and without it the prettiest woman wants her greatest charm. A
diamond she may be, and as bright and of purest water; but the setting,
which gives such lustre to the stone, is absent, and half the brilliancy
of the gem is lost to the beholder.
Now, of all tongues ever invented by man, German is the most difficult
and clumsy for all purposes of conversation. You may preach in it, you
may pray in it, you may hold a learned argument, or you may lay down
some involved and intricate statement--you may, if you have the gift,
even tell a story in it, provided the hearers be patient, and some have
gone so far as to venture on expressing a humorous idea in German; but
these have been bold men, and their venturous conduct is more to be
admired than imitated. At the same time, it is right to add that a
German joke is a very wooden contrivance at best, and that the praise it
meets with is rather in the proportion of the difficulty of the
manufacture than of the superiority of the article--just as we admire
those Indian toys carved with a rusty nail, or those fourth-string
performances of Paganini and his followers.
And now to come back to the students, whom mayhap you deem to have been
forgotten by me all this time, but for whose peculiar illustration my
digression was intended--it being neither more nor less than to show
that if Frederica von Ettenheim turned half the heads in Göttingen,
Messrs. Eisendecker and Mühry were of the number. What a feature it was
of the little town, her coming to reside in it! What a sweet atmosphere
of womanly gracefulness spread itself like a perfume through those old
salons, whose dusty curtains and moth-eaten chairs looked like the
fossils of some antediluvian furniture! With what magic were the old
ceremonials of a professor’s reception exchanged for the easier habits
of a politer world! The venerable dignitaries of the University felt the
change, but knew not where it lay, and could not account for the
pleasure they now experienced in the vice-rector’s soirees; while the
students knew no bounds to the enthusiastic admiration, and ‘Die
Ettenheim’ reigned in every heart in Göttingen.
Of all her admirers none seemed to hold a higher place in her favour
than Von Mühry. Several causes contributed to this, in addition to his
own personal advantages and the distinction of his talents, which were
of a high order. He was particularly noticed by the vice-rector, from
the circumstance of his father holding a responsible position in the
Prussian Government; while Adolphe himself gave ample promise of one day
making a figure in the world. He was never omitted in any invitation,
nor forgotten in any of the many little parties so frequent among the
professors; and even where the society was limited to the dignitaries of
the college, some excuse would ever be made by the vice-rector to have
him present, either on the pretence of wanting him for something, or
that Frederica had asked him without thinking.
Such was the state of this little world when I settled in it, and took
up my residence at the Meissner Thor, intending to pass my summer there.
The first evening I spent at the vice-rector’s, the matter was quite
clear to my eyes. Frederica and Adolphe were lovers. It was to no
purpose that when he had accompanied her on the piano he retreated to a
distant part of the room when she ceased to sing. It signified not that
he scarcely ever spoke to her, and when he did, but a few words,
hurriedly and in confusion. Their looks met once; I saw them exchange
one glance--a fleeting one, too--but I read in it their whole secret,
mayhap even more than they knew themselves. Well had it been, if I alone
had witnessed this, but there was another at my side who saw it also,
and whispered in my ear, ‘Der Zahme is in love.’ I turned round--it was
Eisendecker: his face, sallow and sickly, while large circles of dark
olive surrounded his eyes, and gave him an air of deep suffering. ‘Did
you see that?’ said he suddenly, as he leaned his hand on my arm, where
it shook like one in ague.
‘Did you see that?’
‘What--the flower?’
‘Yes, the flower. It was she dropped it, when she crossed the room. You
saw him take it up, didn’t you?’
The tone he spoke in was harsh and hissing, as if he uttered the words
with his teeth clenched. It was clear to me now that he, too, was in
love with Frederica, and I trembled to think of the cruel shock their
friendship must sustain ere long.
A short time after, when I was about to retire, Eisendecker took my arm,
and said, ‘Are you for going home? May I go with you?’ I gave a willing
assent, our lodgings being near, and we spent much of every day in each
other’s chambers. It was the first time we had ever returned without
waiting for Mühry; and fearing what a separation, once begun, might lead
to, I stopped suddenly on the stairs, and said, as if suddenly
remembering--‘By-the-bye, we are going without Adolphe.’
Eisendecker’s fingers clutched me convulsively, and while a bitter laugh
broke from him, he said, ‘You wouldn’t tear them asunder, would you?’
For the rest of the way he never spoke again, and I, fearful of
awakening the expression of that grief which, when avowed, became
confirmed, never opened my lips, save to say, ‘Good-night.’
I never intended to have involved myself in a regular story when I began
this chapter, nor must I do so now, though, sooth to say, it would not
be without its interest to trace the career of these two youths, who now
became gradually estranged from each other, and were no longer to be
seen, as of old, walking with arms on each other’s shoulder--the most
perfect realisation of true brotherly affection. Day by day the distance
widened between them; each knew the secret of the other’s heart, yet
neither dared to speak of it. From distrust there is but a short step to
dislike--alas! it is scarcely even a step. They parted.
Every one knows that the reaction which takes place when some long-
standing friendship has been ruptured is proportionate to the warmth of
the previous attachment. Still the cause of this, in a great measure, is
more attributable to the world about us than to ourselves; we make
partisans to console us for the loss of one who was our confidant, and
in the violence of _their_ passions we are carried away as in a current.
The students were no exception to this theory; scarcely had they ceased
to regard each other as friends when they began to feel as enemies.
Alas! is it not ever so? Does not the good soil, which, when cultivated
with care, produce the fairest flowers and the richest fruits, rear up,
when neglected and abandoned, the most noxious weeds and the rankest
thistles? And yet it was love for another--that passion so humanising in
its influence, so calculated to assuage the stormy and vindictive traits
of even a savage nature--it was love that made them thus. To how many is
the ‘light that lies in woman’s eyes’ but a beacon to lure to ruin? When
we think that but one can succeed where so many strive, what sadness and
misery must not result to others?
Another change came over them, and a stranger still. Eisendecker, the
violent youth, of ungovernable temper and impetuous passion, who loved
the wildest freak of student-daring, and ever was the first to lead the
way in each mad scheme, had now become silent and thoughtful; a gentle
sadness tempered down the fierce traits of his hot nature, and he no
longer frequented his old haunts of the cellar and the fighting school,
but wandered alone into the country, and spent whole days in solitude.
Von Muhry, on the other hand, seemed to have assumed the castaway mantle
of his once friend: the gentle bearing and almost submissive tone of his
manner were exchanged for an air of conscious pride--a demeanour that
bespoke a triumphant spirit; and the quiet youth suddenly seemed changed
to a rash, high-spirited boy, reckless from very happiness. During this
time, Eisendecker had attached himself particularly to me; and although
I had always hitherto preferred Von Muhry, the feeling of the other’s
unhappiness, a sense of compassion for suffering, which it was easy to
see was great, drew me closer in my friendship towards him; and, at
last, I scarcely saw Adolphe at all, and when we did meet, a mutual
feeling of embarrassment separated and estranged us from each other.
About this time I set off on an excursion to the Hartz Mountains, to
visit the Brocken, and see the mines; my absence, delayed beyond what I
first intended, was above four weeks, and I returned to Gottingen just
as the summer vacation was about to begin.
About five leagues from Gottingen, on the road towards Nordheim, there
is a little village called Meissner, a favourite resort of the students,
in all their festivals; while, at something less than a mile distant,
stands a water-mill, on a little rivulet among the hills--a wild,
sequestered spot, overgrown with stunted oak and brushwood. A narrow
bridle-path leads to it from the village, and this was the most approved
place for settling all those affairs of honour whose character was too
serious to make it safe to decide nearer the University: for, strangely
enough, while by the laws of the University duelling was rigidly
denounced, yet whenever the quarrel was decided by the sword, the
authorities never or almost never interfered, but if a pistol was the
weapon, the thing at once took a more serious aspect.
For what reasons the mills have been always selected as the appropriate
scenes for such encounters, I never could discover; but the fact is
unquestionable, and I never knew a University town that did not possess
its ‘water-privileges’ in this manner.
Towards the mill I was journeying at the easy pace of my pony, early on
a summer’s morning, preferring the rural breakfast with the miller--for
they are always a kind of innkeepers--to the fare of the village. I
entered the little bridle-path that conducted to his door, and was
sauntering listlessly along, dreaming pleasantly, as one does, when the
song of the lark and the heavy odour of dew-pressed flowers steep the
heart in happiness all its own, when, behind me, I heard the regular
tramp of marching. I listened; had I been a stranger to the sound, I
should have thought them soldiers, but I knew too well the measured
tread of the student, and I heard the jingling of their heavy sabres--a
peculiar clank a student’s ear cannot be deceived in. I guessed at once
the object of their coming, and grew sick at heart to think that the
storm of men’s stubborn passions and the strife of their revengeful
nature should desecrate a peaceful spot like this. I was about to turn
back, disgusted at the thought, when I remembered I must return by the
same path, and meet them; but even this I shrank from. The footsteps
came nearer and nearer, and I had barely time to move off the path into
the brushwood, and lead my pony after, when they turned the angle of the
way. They who walked first were muffled in their cloaks, whose high
collars concealed their faces; but the caps of many a gaudy colour
proclaimed them students. At a little distance behind, and with a slower
step, came another party, among whom I noticed one who walked between
two others, his head sunk on his bosom, and evidently overcome with
emotions of deep sorrow. A movement of my horse at this instant
attracted their attention towards the thicket; they stopped, and a voice
called out my name. I looked round, and there stood Eisendecker before
me. He was dressed in deep mourning, and looked pale and worn, his black
beard and moustache deepening the haggard expression of features, to
which the red borders of his eyelids, and his bloodless lips, gave an
air of the deepest suffering. ‘Ah, my friend,’ said he, with a sad
effort at a smile, ‘you are here quite _à propos_. I am going to fight
Adolphe this morning.’ A fearful presentiment that such was the case
came over me the instant I saw him; but when he said so, a thrill ran
through me, and I grew cold from head to foot.
‘I see you are sorry,’ said he, tenderly while he took my hand within
both of his; ‘but you would not blame me--indeed you would not--if you
knew all.’
‘What, then, was the cause of this quarrel? How came you to an open
rupture?’
He turned round, and as he did so his face was purple, the blood
suffused every feature, and his very eyeballs seemed as if about to
burst. He tried to speak; but I only heard a rushing noise like a
hoarse-drawn breath.
‘Be calm, my dear Eisendecker,’ said I. ‘Cannot this be settled
otherwise than thus?’
‘No, no!’ said he, in the voice of indignant passion I used to hear from
him long before, ‘never!’ He waved his hand impatiently as he spoke, and
turned his head from me. At the same moment one of his companions made a
sign with his hand towards me.
‘What!’ whispered I in horror--‘a blow?’
A brief nod was the reply. Alas! from that minute all hope left me. Too
well I knew the desperate alternative that awaited such an insult.
Reconciliation was no longer to be thought of. I asked no more, but
followed the group along the path towards the mill.
In a little garden, as it was called--we should rather term it a close-
shaven grass-plot--where some tables and benches were placed under the
shade of large chestnut-trees, Adolphe von Muhry stood, surrounded by a
number of his friends. He was dressed in his costume as a member of the
Prussian club of the Landsmanschaft--a kind of uniform of blue and
white, with a silver braiding on the cuffs and collar--and looked
handsomer than ever I saw him. The change his features had undergone
gave him an air of manliness and confidence that greatly improved him,
and his whole carriage indicated a degree of self-reliance and energy
which became him perfectly. A faint blush coloured his cheek as he saw
me enter, and he lifted his cap straight above his head and saluted me
courteously, but with an evident effort to appear at ease before me. I
returned his salute mournfully--perhaps reproachfully, too, for he
turned away and whispered something to a friend at his side.
Although I had seen many duels with the sword, it was the first time I
was present at an affair with pistols in Germany; and I was no less
surprised than shocked to perceive that one of the party produced a
dice-box and dice, and placed them on a table.
Eisendecker all this time sat far apart from the rest, and, with folded
arms and half-closed eyelids, seemed to wait in patience for the moment
of being called on.
‘What are they throwing for, yonder?’ whispered I to a Saxon student
near me.
‘For the shot, of course,’ said he; ‘not but that they might spare
themselves the labour. Eisendecker must fire first; and as for who comes
second after him----’
‘Is he so sure as that?’ asked I in terror; for the fearful vision of
blood would not leave my mind.
‘That is he. The fellow that can knock a bullet off a champagne bottle
at five-and-twenty paces may chance to hit a man at fifteen.’
‘Mühry has it,’ cried out one of those at the table; and I heard the
words repeated from mouth to mouth till they reached Eisendecker, as he
moved his cane listlessly to and fro in the mill-stream.
‘Remember Ludwig,’ said his friend, as he grasped his arm with a
stronger clasp; ‘remember what I told you.’
The other nodded carelessly, and merely said, ‘Is all ready?’
‘Stand here, Eisendecker,’ said Mühry’s second, as he dropped a pebble
in the grass.
Mühry was already placed, and stood erect, his eyes steadily directed to
his antagonist, who never once looked towards him, but kept his glance
fixed straight in front.
‘You fire first, sir,’ said Mühry’s friend, while I could mark that his
voice trembled slightly at the words. ‘You may reserve your fire till I
have counted twenty after the word is given.’
As he spoke he placed the pistol in Eisendecker’s hand, and called out--
‘Gentlemen, fall back, fall back; I am about to give the word. Herr
Eisendecker, are your ready?’
A nod was the reply.
‘Now!’ cried he, in a loud voice; and scarcely was the word uttered when
the discharge of the pistol was heard. So rapid, indeed, was the motion,
that we never saw him lift his arm; nor could any one say what direction
the ball had taken.
‘I knew it, I knew it,’ muttered Eisendecker’s friend, in tones of
agony. ‘All is over with him now.’
Before a minute elapsed, the word to fall back was again given, and I
now beheld Von Mühry standing with his pistol in hand, while a smile of
cool but determined malice sat on his features.
While the second repeated the same words over to him, I turned to look
at Eisendecker, but he evinced no apparent consciousness of what was
going on about him; his eyes, as before, were bent on vacancy; his pale
face, unmoved, showed no signs of passion. In an instant the fearful
‘Now’ rang out, and Mühry slowly raised his arm, and, levelling his
pistol steadily, stood with his eye bent on his victim. While the deep
voice of the second slowly repeated one--two--three--four--never was
anything like the terrible suspense of that moment. It seemed as if the
very seconds of human life were measuring out one by one. As the word
‘ten’ dropped from his lips, I saw Mühry’s hand shake. In his revengeful
desire to kill his man, he had waited too long, and now he was growing
nervous; he let fall his arm to his side, and waited for a few seconds,
then raising it again, he took a steady aim, and at the word ‘nineteen’
fired.
A slight movement of Eisendecker’s head at this instant brought his face
full front; and the bullet, which would have transfixed his head, now
merely passed along his cheek, tearing a rude flesh-wound as it went.
A half-cry broke from Mühry: I heard not the word; but the accent I
shall never cease to remember. It was now Eisendecker’s time; and as the
blood streamed down his cheek, and fell in great drops upon his neck and
shoulders, I saw his face assume the expression it used to wear in
former days. A terrible smile lit up his dark features, and a gleam of
passionate vengeance made his eye glow like that of a maniac.
‘I am ready--give the word,’ cried he, in frantic impatience.
But Mühry’s second, fearful of giving way to such a moment of passion,
hesitated; when Eisendecker again called out, ‘The word, sir, the word!’
and the bystanders, indignant at the appearance of unfairness, repeated
the cry.
The crowd fell back, and the word was given. Eisendecker raised his
weapon, poised it for a second in his hand, and then, elevating it above
his head, brought it gradually down, till, from the position where I
stood, I could see that he aimed at the heart.
His hand was now motionless, as if it were marble; while his eye,
riveted on his antagonist, seemed to be fixed on one small spot, as
though his whole vengeance was to be glutted there. Never was suspense
more dreadful, and I stood breathless, in the expectation of the fatal
flash, when, with a jerk of his arm, he threw up the pistol and fired
above his head; and then, with a heart-rending cry of ‘Mein bruder, mein
brader!’ he rushed into Mühry’s arms, and fell into a torrent of tears.
The scene was indeed a trying one, and few could witness it unmoved. As
for me, I turned away completely overcome; while my heart found vent in
thankfulness that such a fearful beginning should end thus happily.
‘Yes,’ said Eisendecker, as we rode home together that evening, when,
after a long silence, he spoke; ‘yes, I had resolved to kill him; but
when my finger was even on the trigger, I saw a look upon his features
that reminded me of those earlier and happier days when we had but one
home and one heart, and I felt as if I was about to become the murderer
of my brother.’
Need I add that they were friends for ever after?
But I must leave Göttingen and its memories too. They recall happy days,
it is true; but they who made them so--where are they?