"As we always will be towards each other," said _Heinrich_, firmly. "In
your youthfully hasty judgment you have placed me in the position of a
criminal. I will not justify myself, but afford you the possibility of
doing so. To deny my faults would help you very little, but I will
teach you to understand them. First of all, let us be perfectly clear
in regard to the relation in which we wish to stand towards each other,
then you will trust me more. I perceive, by your last remark, that you
consider me a universal gallant. You are mistaken, Fraeulein; I do not
love you, and I desire no such feeling from you. Do not fear that you
will be compelled to listen to tender declarations from me; I should
not venture to offer you a heart which you know has already loved so
often! But I offer you a feeling that hitherto has slumbered in my
soul, pure and unprofaned; I offer you the truest, most devoted
friendship. If you will neither accept nor respond even to _this_, I
ask of you a portion of that philanthropy whose missionary you are,--I
ask and demand from you that Christianity which vouchsafes to all the
same blessing, and excludes none who truly desire it."
Cornelia sat in silence, with her eyes fixed upon the floor.
"You are silent! you have no answer for me! Prison Fairy, Prison Fairy,
must I remind you of your mission? Oh, girl! do not let me be perplexed
by you; do not let me think that those eyes,--that the mighty
pulsations of a breast animated by a lofty idea,--have deceived me;
that you are less noble than they seem: it would be the last, the most
terrible disappointment of my life."
Cornelia gazed at the ardent speaker with a searching glance. Her
breath came more quickly, her lips parted several times before she
could utter the words, "We will be friends, Herr von Ottmar."
_Heinrich_ bent over her with a winning smile. "You are forcing back
something that hovers on your tongue, Fraeulein! Do you know that on
that first meeting you promised to be good to me if I would be good to
the prisoners! I have redeemed my promise; but _you_?"
"That is not sufficient; you must abide by it still longer. Keep your
word, and I will keep mine."
"Dear Fairy," said _Heinrich_, "cast aside this cold formality, which
is ill-suited to you and not at all in place towards me. Be the warm,
earnest creature, loving both God and mankind, whom I found in the
dungeon, and who, by her rich soul, could transform the prisoner's
punishment to reward. Be gentle; you know not how necessary you are to
this wounded heart, burdened by heavy chains. We are nearly akin to
each other, and you will perceive it some day. I see it in the flashing
of those mysterious eyes; in you also slumbers a secret before whose
revelation you would recoil in terror did not the faithful arm of an
experienced friend guard you from the horrors in your own breast. Come,
give me your hands,--so,--now you look kindly at me; that haughty brow
grows smooth,--does that mild, thoughtful glance rest willingly upon my
features? Say nothing, our souls are talking together, and confiding
things of which neither of us has any knowledge. Oh, dear one our souls
already understand each other better than we."
"We and our souls are one," murmured Cornelia; "if they understand each
other, so do we. Let me confess that I believe I have done you a great
wrong; if that is the case, forgive me, for the sake of this moment."
"There is no wrong, Cornelia, for which a single moment of true love
could not make amends."
Cornelia pressed his hand with the half-grave, half-friendly smile
which had so great a charm for _Heinrich_.
"So I have found you at last, you dear, beautiful child!" he exclaimed.
"Cling to me faithfully; you shall not be mistaken in me."
She rose to return to the guests. "Surely you will not deceive me?" she
asked, half doubtfully and half firmly, but with charming sincerity.
"Prison Fairy, do you need any other assurances? Only try yourself, and
you will refute your doubt better than modesty allows me to do."
"Are you so sure of that?" she asked, smiling; "now I think your
modesty does not weigh very heavily upon you." An expression of the
most charming petulance gleamed over her face as she glided away.
"You are caught, wild, changeful soul; yet not to cause you pain, only
to do me good, I impose upon you this chain, whose weight you shall
never feel," said _Heinrich_. "You soar towards the sun; let us see
whether you will have the strength to draw me up with you!"
"You can be borne towards the sun on the wings of her aspiring spirit!"
cried _Henri_, "if only the lovely form which enthrals me as no other
ever did before remains upon the earth. Guide her _soul_ whither you
please, and leave me alone with its _earthly husk_. Then we can both
possess a happiness we have never yet known."
"So long as I can be with her I shall maintain my place," said
_Heinrich_; "and this time I do not think you will obtain the victory
over me!"
"Indeed! Well, let us see who will first conquer the other," said the
aroused spirit of sensuality. "Will you all at once meet me in a
hostile encounter, after letting me have my own way so long? What will
come of it if the gulf between us should be so greatly enlarged?"
"What will come of it?" asked _Heinrich_. "I do not know; probably
merely what has always happened,--a loss of peace; and, although I have
hitherto indulged you, it has only been because I could share your
pleasures as little as you could find joy in mine. Here, for the first
time, we unite in a common desire; our mutual interest is captivated by
one and the same object, but it is our curse that the very thing which
ought _unite_ us _severs_ us most violently. Her noble mind attracts me
as greatly as her beautiful person charms you, and I will not
voluntarily resign to you a single hour I can spend conversation with
her. Therefore, we must struggle."
"Yes, we will," said _Henri_.
"Herr von Ottmar," cried Veronica from the door, "will you join the
young people's games, or do you prefer the salon?"
"Don't grudge me the privilege of mingling with the young people for a
time," he answered, and entered the room where Cornelia, radiant with
mirth and mischievousness, was bantering the young girls who were
standing around her.
"Veronica," she cried, "the ladies have been industrious; we sha'n't
play games any longer. There are poems and essays to be read aloud.
Come in, Messrs. Critics; collect your thoughts; we have a severe judge
to-day."
"Will you take part in our little college, Herr von Ottmar?"
"I am very anxious to do so," he replied.
"You must have patience and be indulgent to this kind of
entertainment," laughed Cornelia. "It is the personal friendship that
unites our little circle which makes it interesting to us, and of
course that is a thing you cannot yet share."
"You must know," said Veronica, in a low tone, "that my darling child
has established among her friends a sort of nursery, in which she
wishes to rear clearness of intellect and feeling, noble principles,
and independent judgment; and the gentlemen eagerly assist her; they
are all more or less in love with her. Every week Cornelia gives the
young girls a subject for prose or poetic treatment, or a work to be
critically examined. Whoever receives the greatest praise from the
majority obtains the prize,--a picture by some one of the artists
present, or the dedication of a song by one of our musicians. The young
poets criticise the essays and read their own productions aloud.
Finally, the older gentlemen pronounce their ultimatum. You will
probably belong to this last and highest court to-day, though less
entitled to do so by age than intellect."
"That is a charming idea," said _Heinrich_, "and is in harmony with you
both. You thus give society an intellectual seasoning which it usually
lacks. Have you poets in your circle?"
"Oh, certainly!" replied Veronica. "Don't you know our young
celebrities? See, that one yonder is the tender lyric poet, D----, a
sensitive, foreboding soul; the stout, broad-shouldered man is the
bold, patriotic bard, B----; and the pale aristocrat, with the bent
head, is the poet T----, a very talented person. You have surely heard
of the enthusiastic reception of his first tragedy. I only fear his
intellect is developing too rapidly. Sooner or later this premature
growth will make it sickly, and that would be a pity. There is splendid
material in him, which, by the forcing system of our times, would be
made to shoot upwards too quickly to form a stout, healthy trunk, from
whence the productive power is always freshly supplied. The young man
is only twenty-four years old, and his work is already much more
massive than Schiller's first attempts; but he accomplishes a
remarkable amount in his department, and is a noble, estimable man.
These are the poor victims of our times, where the utmost is extorted
from every one."
"You are right," replied _Heinrich_. "I am familiar with young T--'s
work, and, like you, think it unnaturally mature for his years.
Schiller and Goethe themselves won their way by degrees to what is
recognized as the highest stand-point. But our young people want to be
born upon this height and begin where they ended. It is perfectly
comprehensible that they don't wish to remain where they begin, but
struggle on and test the powers of their young intellects, as Lessing,
Goethe, and Schiller did when they gradually raised themselves above
the inferior performances and requirements of their times."
"That is just what I always say," cried Veronica; "and this runs
through all circles of society. Our young people no longer have any
_simplicity_, and I think this is the glass case beneath which the
young plants of the soul should grow, with all their faults and
excrescences, until they are strong enough to bear without injury the
storms of life and the shears of negation. Without simplicity there are
no illusions, and without illusions there is no youth! You will perhaps
find here a circle which answers to my demand in this respect. True,
there are only a few poets of importance among them, but these
compensate me for all the famous, keen, analytical minds which pluck
the fragrant rose to find faults its calyx would have concealed, and
give us only the purified but empty branch of thorns. You see I am not
called the Sensitive Plant without reason."
"Yes, yes," said _Heinrich_, with a kindly smile, "we must learn from
you how to keep young!"
Meantime a reading-table had been placed in the centre of the room.
With cheeks glowing with embarrassment, a young girl seated herself at
it, cast a hasty glance at Ottmar, and read aloud from a manuscript an
essay whose subject and title were the justification of sympathy in
opposition to the judgments of reason. It was simple, but written in a
style free from faults; some of the ideas were not devoid of talent;
and it revealed a more thorough culture than is usually to be found in
young girls. _Heinrich_ perceived Cornelia's influence. His eyes rested
steadily upon her; she was standing behind the reader's chair, and
often looked thoughtfully at him. It was evident that she had given
this subject from a recollection of him.
The following essays, which were read aloud in turn by the young girls,
all treated the same idea with more or less talent, and three poems
reproduced it in rhyme.
_Heinrich_ perceived with increasing admiration the activity of the
Prison Fairy, whose strong, earnest will effected good results, even
under the garb of jest, and gave purpose to the most useless things.
The reading ended, and the gentlemen, in mingled jest and earnest, gave
a stern criticism. Each sought the lady whose essay had made the most
impression upon him,--discussed and opposed the separate points. The
authoresses were obliged to defend themselves, and thus the argument
continued till Cornelia, who had previously been inclosed in the
circle, suddenly started up, exclaiming: "Say what you please against
sympathy, it is the only true oracle among us! If our reason enjoined
upon us ever so strictly to keep together as we are now, should we not
rush apart to all quarters of the globe if it were not for sympathy?
And if reason causes a person to appear ever so wicked, and sympathy
attracts us to him, we follow the latter, and often convince ourselves
that reason, which judges only by deceptive facts, misled us. Reason
disjoints and severs, sympathy conciliates. Reason calculates, sympathy
discovers; and, what is after all the principal thing, reason does not
make people happy,--sympathy does."
"Cornelia," cried the poet T--, "I have never heard you talk so before!
What has become of the logic, the clearness of perception, with which
you gave these young ladies the guiding threads for their essays upon
this subject?"
"If we were permitted to refer to this enthusiasm, we should be greatly
delighted, my dear T----; but I fear it is one of her whims," said
H----, the novelist.
The gentle poet D---- whispered, softly, "I know what you mean,
Cornelia, but I no longer understand you."
"I understand you," a voice which thrilled all the chords in her nature
suddenly murmured in her ear. "I thank you, Prison Fairy!" She turned
towards _Heinrich_ and looked up into his face. She was bewilderingly
beautiful at that moment, with the bold, noble profile half turned
towards him, the slender neck thrown back, the full lips curved in a
smile which made the small, white teeth glitter in the light, and the
hair combed up to form a natural diadem above the thoughtful brow. The
floating folds of her dress, the drooping crimson flowers, which
trembled at every motion, gave her an ideal, fairylike aspect, which
was increased by her dark eyes. Those eyes belonged to the class which,
the ancient myth tells us, had power to turn to stone any one on whom
their gaze rested. The large, sparkling pupils allowed very little of
the white of the eye to be seen. They often gleamed like two suns when
the long lashes were raised; and softly and sweetly as they rested upon
the object of their observation, their expression must be terrible in
anger. Ottmar gazed at her with increasing rapture. "Yes, yes," he
said, under his breath, "that is the Medusa from whose blood Pegasus
sprang."
"How little she knows herself, that she thinks I could see her without
coveting her!" thought _Henri_, making a fresh effort to dislodge
_Heinrich_; _Heinrich_ resisted his attack with unaccustomed strength.
He gazed into the depths of those mysterious eyes; and the secrets
which, unconsciously to herself, slumbered within them, irresistibly
allured him.
"Cornelia," said the young girl who had read the first essay,--and a
tear trembled on her lashes,--"they are looking for you."
Cornelia looked up as if aroused from a dream, threw her arm around her
friend's neck, and embraced her warmly. "I thank you, Hedwig!" Then she
entered the noisy circle and summoned the gentlemen to select the essay
most worthy of the prize.
The company voted, and the majority decided in favor of the first one
read.
"Oh, I am glad, dear Hedwig!" said Cornelia, hastily, taking the
garland of fresh flowers she had woven for the victor and placing it
upon her brow.
It was a beautiful sight as the loveliest maiden in the throng adorned
the diffident young girl and led her triumphantly into the middle of
the room. The gentlemen came forward, bringing the prize upon a
cushion. Poor Hedwig, who, in her embarrassment, had by no means the
air of a conqueror, received the gift from the hands of the young
artist A----, who whispered, gently, "I beg you all not to show it to
the original, if it can be avoided. I did not know he would be here."
The young girl did not understand him, and hastily raised the cover,
but dropped it again in terror when she saw the sketch, while a burning
blush overspread her face.
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Cornelia, taking out the picture. "A
study of a head! Herr von Ottmar,--a perfect likeness!" she exclaimed,
undisturbed by the young artist's embarrassment.
_Heinrich_ stepped forward and gazed in astonishment at the successful
portrait.
"I must crave your pardon for presuming to steal your features, Herr
Geheimrath," stammered the artist. "I know you are very highly esteemed
in this circle, and could not refrain from robbing my portfolio of the
picture, in order to give pleasure to those who assemble here;
otherwise this bold attempt of my talent would have remained entirely
concealed."
_Heinrich_ smilingly listened to the long apology, and watched, with
silent amusement, an old gentleman standing at some distance from the
artist, who was accompanying his speech with numerous bows. This
gentleman was a certain Archivrath Linderer, an old friend of
Veronica's. The worthy man possessed such a wonderful impulse of
courtesy that he could not see any one make a bow without mechanically
imitating him, and never heard any sort of speech without mentally
making one also.
_Heinrich's_ inclination to laugh was so greatly aroused by this sight
that he could scarcely utter a few reassuring words in reply to the
embarrassed artist. He was about to go in search of Veronica, to
question her about this comical man, when he saw Cornelia, who had been
gazing at the picture in silence, go to a table and take up a pencil.
He went up and glanced over her shoulder at the portrait. She cast a
hasty look at him and then fixed her eyes upon the sketch. She felt his
beard touch her hair, and shrank back.
"Look, my dear A----!" she exclaimed. "Here are only two false strokes!
When these are altered the picture will be masterly! The lines just
over the eyebrows, expressing penetration, are very strongly marked in
Herr von Ottmar, and you have not brought them out sufficiently. The
upper portion of the brow is also remarkably expressive; there must be
a shadow here, and here."
"You may be right," said A----, looking at Ottmar's forehead; "make the
strokes."
Cornelia rapidly deepened the shadows, and all the bystanders
exclaimed, in astonishment, "Ah, that's it exactly! One would think you
had studied the head!"
Cornelia quietly compared the picture with the original. "It is a noble
work! You have really been carried away by your subject! The eyes and
mouth seem as if they were about to speak!"
"Your praise makes me very proud," said the young man.
"And me!" whispered _Heinrich_, almost inaudibly.
"May I ask you to come in to tea?" cried Veronica, from the doorway.
"If any one of the gentlemen has anything to read aloud, he must be
kind enough to defer it until after supper. It is already somewhat
late."
_Heinrich_ was in the act of offering Cornelia his arm when Veronica
requested him to take her to the table. He patiently submitted to this
duty, and the ill-assorted pair moved on into the tea-room followed by
the others.
Cornelia and Hedwig stood together a moment alone. Hedwig threw herself
on her friend's breast, and exclaimed, in a low, rapid tone,--
"I will give you the picture, Cornelia. I don't want it."
"You don't want it?" asked the latter, in astonishment.
"What should I do with it? I think you would value it more, and take
more pleasure in it than I," replied Hedwig.
"But, Hedwig, you were always so enthusiastic about him."
"Even if I were, it was all in joke. But you know and value him in
earnest: I saw that to-day; and if _he_ had given the picture, he would
have bestowed it on no one but you; so how could I take a thing to
which I have no right? Keep it, I beg of you. It is of no value to me."
"But ought I to accept it from you?" asked Cornelia. "Shall I not be
robbing you?"
"Robbing me? I owe you so much, and am so poor in comparison with you,
that it will make me rich if I can offer anything that will please you.
I would give you more, far more, if I had it to bestow."
She pressed Cornelia lovingly to her heart, and the young girls were
holding each other in a close embrace when T---- came in search of
them, and Heinrich appeared behind him in the doorway.
"Good heavens! Here they stand, kissing each other, while we have been
waiting for them so impatiently!" cried T----.
"We humbly beg pardon for having had no one to escort us to the table,"
laughed Cornelia. "We were consoling each other for the misfortune."
"How malicious you are again! We were so sure that you would be
escorted to the table by your lucky Herr von Ottmar that we did not
even look for you," said T----, apologetically.
"And you were not mistaken in your belief, sir," said _Heinrich's_
voice.
He went up to Cornelia and offered her his arm. T---- stood petrified
with astonishment. There was nothing left for him to do except to turn
to Hedwig. _Heinrich_ led Cornelia to her place, and then went back to
Veronica. Cornelia sat opposite to him, and on his right and left hand
were the fairest and brightest young girls in the whole circle. Many
mothers and fathers looked towards them with almost imperceptible
hopes, but everything fell into the lap of the one who neither hoped
nor desired anything. _Heinrich's_ interest was centred in Cornelia
alone.
"You see, my dear Herr von Ottmar," Veronica began, "I have tried to
make amends to you for being obliged to take an old lady to the table.
My most charming young ladies are around you."
"You would give me far greater pleasure if you would permit me to spend
my evenings with you and your adopted daughter, for I must confess that
I prefer you to all other ladies, be they ever so charming," he
whispered.
"Oh, that you shall certainly do!" exclaimed Veronica, in delight.
"Come as often as you please. You will be a welcome guest."
"I thank you," replied _Heinrich_.
Meantime, Cornelia had been conversing with the extremely polite old
gentleman, and _Heinrich_ now asked who this eccentric person was.
With gay humor she described his peculiarities, and in a low tone
related how, on festival occasions and during public speeches, he often
disturbed the bystanders by repeating the words half under his breath,
and supplying the bows omitted by the orator; how he always most
dutifully repeated the last words said to him; how he invariably
removed his hat when he saw two persons salute each other in the
street, etc. etc.
"Do you know," she said, at last, "I think this proceeds from an excess
of benevolence and sympathy! It must be the same feeling that prompts
the mother who hears her daughter say a pretty thing to put on
precisely the same expression. The mother enters into her child's
situation so earnestly that she involuntarily imitates all her looks
and gestures; nay, I once saw an actress, starring with her daughter,
so carried away by the latter's playing that she unconsciously imitated
her darling, and almost merged her own part in her child's. What is
this except an excess of sympathy for the beloved being?"
She then, in a most masterly manner, imitated the different mothers and
the tragic scene of the two ladies upon the stage, so that those around
burst into shouts of laughter.
Yet the gayer the others became the more serious _Heinrich_ looked: and
she asked, with mingled surprise and anxiety, why they all had so
little success in amusing him.
"Oh, you do not know how happy I am!" he replied; "but I am reflecting
about something. I see you develop so many different traits and talents
that I am bewildered. When I have at last succeeded in harmonizing one
of your changeful moods with your whole character, before I am aware of
it a new picture appears before me, which I must again incorporate with
the whole. You keep me in a perpetual mental excitement, and it
seems as if I were compelled to sketch the different waves upon the
sea-shore. Scarcely have I fixed my eyes upon one ere it is already
swallowed up in another, and I am constantly raising my eyes again to
sketch the whole as it spreads before me in its infinite majesty."
He gazed at her with so strange an expression that she looked down as
if dazzled.
"Oh, what are you making me?" she said, in confusion. "I am a very
simple person, who am merry with the mirthful and serious with the
grave. If I am different from others in any way it is because I am
always natural. Thousands feel as keenly, change their moods as
frequently, as I; but it is not noticed in them, because they have
accustomed themselves to a uniform etiquette, an unvarying manner. I
have often envied such persons, for they know how to give themselves
the stamp of a finished individuality far better than natures like
mine, which are sometimes thought gay, sometimes melancholy, now good
and then bad, or not at all what they seem, which are sometimes too
little, sometimes too much, trusted, and rarely or never understood."
"Oh, Cornelia!" cried one of the guests, the famous actor N----, across
the table. "Do you mean to say that we don't understand you?"
"No, certainly not," replied Cornelia. "I had principally in view those
whom I consider different from myself. You understand me because you
resemble me, and are all, more or less, artist natures!"
"Do you mean that all artist natures are as truthful as yourself?"
asked _Heinrich_, doubtfully.
"Certainly; when I trust a man it is the artist, especially those who
represent things."
"I am curious to know upon what you found that idea," murmured
_Heinrich_, in a low tone. "The actor certainly practices dissimulation
as his profession."
"Oh, do not say that! You will surely admit that in every man there is
an impulse towards truth and falsehood, as well as good and evil,"
began Cornelia. "With almost all persons this impulse, like their other
good and bad qualities, exerts an influence upon their lives; they lie
and deceive in personal intercourse. But there are exceptions, among
those in whom this propensity to deceive is decomposed by Heaven knows
what process of intellectual chemistry, and becomes objective; that is,
forms a power of acting entirely apart from the subject. This power
seeks an independent form, and finds it in art, wherein it develops the
highest, most artistic structure, and those in whom such a process has
been completed are artists, especially actors. Then if the commonplace
man can satisfy that strange and undeniable propensity towards
falsehood only in real life, in the actor it is to a certain extent
_guided_ into a higher, loftier region, and he becomes in reality truer
and more natural than many who are only considered honest because they
are too awkward to feign."
"Your explanation is logical," replied _Heinrich_, "but you cannot
carry it into practical execution. Opportunity makes thieves, a
capability for falsehood tempts to falsehood. Even the actor will not
disdain to obtain an advantage at the expense of truth, and the
temptation is all the greater the more he is convinced that the
deception will be successful. Nay, I can even imagine that there must
be a charm to him in making use of his histrionic skill, not only upon
the stage, but off the boards, and I have seen celebrated actors who
could not help perpetually performing a part."
Cornelia reflected a moment, and then said, calmly: "There are such
instances, of course, but I do not call such people artists; there are
two distinct classes of men who bear that name. If this talent we have
just mentioned is coupled with more or less mental capacity, the union
produces more or less brilliant _performers_; if, however, there is a
counterpoise of the great qualities of the soul and heart, it produces
_artists_. The performer, it is true, employs the talents at his
command in life as well as in art; he knows no higher object than
effect. He deceives in life as well as in art when it will make an
effect, and in both is true to the same purpose. As he has neither
character nor heart, he is neither good nor bad upon principle; he
simply turns his talents to his own profit where and as he can. It is
this class of people who have in many respects degraded the position of
artists. The artist, on the contrary, perceives and seeks something far
higher than effect! Like all men of noble aims, he, too, has an ideal
towards which he unselfishly struggles--truth. If he seeks this in his
art, often even at the expense of the applause so indispensable to the
actor, if he is so conscientious in the realm of illusion, why should
he not be equally so in the domain of reality? The power of
transforming his whole nature at will he considers as a gift bestowed
to serve the holy purpose of art, and would no more turn it to his own
advantage than the honorable citizen would obtain an illegal profit
from an accidental or fairly won supremacy over others. A keener, more
active, sensitive faculty, and the habit of an elevated manner of
expression, may give him a peculiar, 'exaggerated,' perhaps 'affected'
appearance,--words with which the commonplace man so eagerly points out
what he does not understand; but you will acknowledge that a person may
be affected and yet possess true, genuine feelings; as, on the other
hand, the falsest and most designing men often appear the most
artless."
"Certainly," said _Heinrich_.
"You see," continued Cornelia, "that as from the worst and most
different materials the brightest, purest flame can be produced, so art
transfigures deception with the highest manifestations. Thus in real
artists falsehood aspires towards truth! The highest object of his
performance is the union of both, and the triumph of falsehood becomes
in him a triumph of truth!"
Cornelia glanced gayly upwards towards the jets of gas in the
chandelier. In her enthusiastic defense she had involuntarily raised
her voice, and did not notice that every one was looking at her. When
she paused, all shouted a hearty bravo. _Heinrich_ sat motionless, with
his head resting on his hand, gazing earnestly at her; he could not
smile and applaud with the others,--he was asking himself, "Do I
deserve this woman?"
The supper was over; he started up and approached her as the company
prepared to take leave. "Cornelia, Prison Fairy, you have opened a new
world to me. My mind is so full of all I have heard from you that I
cannot speak. Only tell me whether I may come again tomorrow?"
"Certainly, Herr Baron."
"Oh, do not be so formal, Prison Fairy! Let me hear my name from your
lips as you bid me farewell, that I may hold it dearer; or my baptismal
name. Ah, Cornelia, I should like to hear how it sounded if you would
say Good-night, _Heinrich_.'"
"No, Herr von Ottmar, I cannot; you are still too great a stranger."
_Heinrich_ bit his lips as if deeply abashed, and said, with a low bow,
"Pardon me, Fraeulein, I was indiscreet."
Cornelia held out her hand and looked at him with all her winning charm
of manner. "No, no, Herr von Ottmar, I did not wish to cause you pain.
I promise you that ere I sleep I will say in thought, 'Good-night,
_Heinrich_!' Does that satisfy you?"
_Heinrich_ kissed her hand in a transport of delight. "Thanks, lovely
creature! And now good-night, my fairy; send me a pleasant dream."
Veronica approached: he took leave of her; the departing guests pressed
him back, and, waving a farewell to Cornelia, he left the house. When
he reached the street he raised his hat from his head to allow the
night wind to cool his burning brow; and now he was _Henri_ again, for
he knew he was expected by a beautiful woman who had followed him home
from his last journey, and hitherto held his senses in her chains. He
mechanically obeyed the force of old habit and turned his steps towards
her residence. But when he stood before the house behind whose lighted
windows the glittering daughter of sin awaited him in dreams heavy with
forebodings, a strange, incomprehensible feeling overpowered him.
Cornelia's pure, wonderful charms appeared so vividly before his soul
that he turned with repugnance from the desecrated image that allured
him. He perceived that no one had any power of attraction except
Cornelia, and that nothing could satisfy his longing for her. He went
home, and that very night wrote a farewell letter to his purchased
love, and freed himself from his unworthy chains.
A ray of light fell through the heavy silken curtains of Veronica's
bed, and waked the sleeper. She looked around and saw Cornelia, who,
with a lamp in her hand, was noiselessly gliding through the chamber
towards the door of the salon. "What do you want there, child?" asked
Veronica; "why are you still dressed? I had already fallen asleep."
Cornelia started. "I forgot something," she replied, and slipped out of
the room. When she returned through Veronica's chamber she carried a
portfolio in her hand.
"What have you there?" asked Veronica.
"Don't be angry with me for waking you, dear," said Cornelia, kissing
the white, aged brow, "I only wanted to read Hedwig's essay again; it
was left in the parlor."
When she had closed the door of her pleasant bedroom behind her, she
took Ottmar's portrait from the portfolio, placed it on a reading-desk,
sat down before it, and, shielding her eyes with both hands, rested her
arms on the table, and became absorbed in studying the mysterious head.
The more she looked at it the more beautiful she found it. "How simple
those lines are, and yet how rich, how infinitely expressive! Oh, who
could decipher the mute language of that ardent mouth, whose kiss still
burns upon my hand? How can people kiss so with such delicate lips? It
is not the lips that kiss, it is his heart, which lies between them;
that is why his caress is so soft, so warm; that is why it penetrates
to the inmost soul. And when he speaks they are again only the
beautiful, slender banks over which the flood of feeling streams! And
those eyes,--oh, they reveal all the wonders of the soul! He might err,
nay, he might even be shattered by life, but the look that shines in
his eyes is divine; it will raise him above his lower nature, and
everything else. And I,--I will aid him; I will join the good genius
that floats above the darkness of his soul like the Spirit of God over
chaos, and teach him to perceive his own greatness, his ideal
strength."
She sat long, absorbed in thought; but, by degrees, it seemed as if the
pictured head moved to and fro, the eyes turned, the lips parted and
closed again. She gazed and made the light burn brighter; in vain.
Nature asserted her rights, sleep was casting her deceptive veil over
her weary head. She rose, removed the flowers from her hair, and
released her lovely form from its clinging drapery. Again and again her
eyes rested upon the drawing. She paused. "How you look at me, as if
you were alive! as if I ought to be confused! Stop, wait! You shall not
see me undress." So saying, she hastily placed the picture in the
writing-table, went to bed, extinguished the light, and nestled
comfortably among the pillows. "Good-night, _Heinrich_."