"Then order a pitcher of fresh spring water from the well, and a tub to

be brought. The rest I will manage myself."

He hastily opened both windows, and took the feather-bed from off the

child, only covering it lightly with a large plaid. Then he called in

the farm-servant who was standing in the passage, with the rest of the

people, grumbling, and waiting for the result of the stranger's

despotic interference. He asked if no snow or ice could be procured in

the neighbourhood. "Yes," growled out the man, "there was some to be

had; but one must climb for about an hour through the woods, to get to

the crevice in a rock, where the snow never melted summer or winter, as

the sun could not reach the spot. To-morrow morning he would go and

fetch some!"

"You don't seem to understand me," resumed the doctor; "here I lay down

this kronenthaler; it is now half past nine o'clock; the moon is up,

the storm has ceased--whoever brings me in the course of an hour, a

load of snow or ice has gained this reward. Tomorrow you may bring down

a whole glacier, and will not get a penny for it." "All right," said

the farm-servant with a short laugh, and walked away. The nurse had in

the meantime brought in the cold water and an empty tub. Without

another word, the stranger lifted the child from the bed, stripped off

its clothes, and telling the mother to hold it, he poured the icy cold

water over it. He then dried it quickly, laid it again in its bed, and

wrapped a wet towel round its head. The child which a moment ago had

struggled and screamed in his arms, now seemed relieved. The eyes

ceased to wander, and turned towards the mother with a wondering, but

calm look--then she closed them with a deep sigh.

"The child is dying!" the nurse screamed out, and burst into a fit of

crying. "I thought that would be the consequence of the cold water, and

the open windows. Ah, Madam, how could you suffer this?"

"Silence," said the stranger imperiously, "or you will have to leave

the room. I hope, Madam," he continued, in a gentler tone, "that you do

not expect a miracle from me. The illness we have to combat, cannot be

vanquished in one night. The child has a virulent typhus fever, and our

chief care must be to prevent the brain from being affected. But do not

let every new symptom alarm you. As far as I can judge, no aggravating

circumstances exist. You see the child has again opened its eyes.

Nature already feels that we are assisting it. How old is the child?"

"Seven years and a few weeks." "A fine child, so well developed; what

anguish you must now suffer."

Tears streamed from the poor mother's eyes; she pressed her face

against the little white hand which lay on the dark plaid. All the

agitation of the last weary hours, dissolved in these refreshing tears.

At last she arose, and with a grateful look at the doctor, she sank

into a chair which he had placed for her beside the bed. He too took a

seat at the foot of it, and gravely but calmly observed the little

girl. They were both silent. The nurse, ashamed of her thoughtless

outbreak, went to and fro to renew the cold compresses. Without, all

was still; the last clouds had disappeared and a ray of moonlight stole

in, and shone slanting through, the narrow casement, lighting up the

small white hand of the young mother who was softly stroking the little

hand of her child. The only sound which broke the silence proceeded

from the streamlets formed by the rain, which were now rushing past the

house, the regular dripping of the gutter, and the whistling of the

coachman who was bedding his horses.

Suddenly the child raised herself on the pillows, looked at the

stranger with widely opened eyes, and said: "Is this Papa? is he not

dead? I want to give him a kiss, Mamma; has he not brought something

for his little daughter? I want to sit on his knee. Where is Sophy? Oh!

my poor head! Papa please hold my head. I am thirsty." Then the small

fair head sank back on the pillow, and the eyes closed as if in pain.

Eberhard rose and held a glass of fresh water to her burning lips.

"Thank you, Papa," said the child. Then she became very quiet, only the

twitchings of the feverish half opened mouth betrayed her sufferings.

"I must explain to you," the lady began, turning to the silent doctor,

who had now resumed his seat, "how it comes that my poor darling has

those strange fancies. Unfortunately I must reproach myself with having

caused this violent shock: The father of my poor little girl was an

Austrian officer. A few months after our marriage, I had to part with

him; his regiment was ordered to Italy, where the war was commencing.

Shortly afterwards news reached me that he had been amongst the first

victims of the bloody battle of Solferino. Since that time I have

always felt the greatest longing to visit the spot where my dear

husband found repose after his short career, and though no cross marks

his grave, at least to inhale the air in which his brave heart breathed

its last. Even my little girl expressed the same wish as she grew

older, and understood me when I told her of her father's death. Many

things deterred me from realizing this plan, particularly the fear that

the long journey might overfatigue, and agitate the child, who always

had a very excitable imagination, and a tender heart: and now I have to

suffer severely for having indulged my desire. If you had seen how

eagerly she listened to the words which I translated to her from the

account of the old serjeant, whom I found watching the monument on the

field of battle. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes glistened; her emotion

was far beyond her years. When we turned back she shivered, and in the

following night, complained of headache, and did not sleep for an

instant. She did not mention her father again till this moment, when

she mistook you for him, and fancied he was sitting at her bedside.

Perhaps it would have been better, had I remained where I was, but I

dreaded the Italian doctors, and did not believe the danger to be so

imminent. In my own carriage, for I had taken post-horses on leaving

the railway, I thought we could easily arrange a comfortable bed for

the child. The weather too was warm, and she herself eagerly desired to

be taken home. The storm reached us just at the worst part of the road;

and we were most thankful when we reached this inn. But what would have

become of us without your help?"

She turned from the gloomy and taciturn man to dry her tears. Then they

again sat silently opposite each other. He felt tempted to entreat her

to go on speaking. Here was something in her voice which soothed him,

and was as cooling balm to his feverish soul, but he saw that her

thoughts were again occupied with the child, and he had nothing to tell

her. He only gazed more earnestly at the young woman by the dim light

of the candle and of the moon. He remarked that her brow, and the shape

of her eyes which had a distinguished melancholy and gentle expression

in them, resembled those of his adoptive mother, who had so often

looked at him with thoughtful affection. Her figure was round and

supple, and every turn of her head and of her slender throat was full

of grace.

The abundant auburn hair hung negligently over her shoulders. All about

her showed the habits of one accustomed to wealth. Wealth ennobled by a

cultivated mind, and refined taste, but which had lost all charms for

her, in the danger which threatened her most precious treasure.

The door was now cautiously opened, and the farm-servant dragged in a

large tub filled with ice; then wiping the perspiration from his

forehead, he triumphantly pointed to the clock which showed that ten

minutes were still wanting to the stipulated hour, pocketed his well

earned money, and officiously asked if anything else was wanted. "No,

he could go to bed now," the doctor answered. He then tore a piece of

oiled silk from the lining of his travelling pouch, made a bag of it to

hold the ice, and showed the nurse how to lay it on the forehead

of the child. Her mistress interfered--"No," she said, "you must now

lie down, and rest, Josephine; you have not slept for thirty-six

hours."--"Neither, Madam, have you," observed the maid, "and I do not

need it so much as your honour, for at least I have swallowed a few

morsels of food."

"Do as I tell you," resumed the mother; "I well know how useless it

would be for me to attempt to sleep. Perhaps I may be able to take some

rest in the morning, if the night passes well."

"Allow me to feel your pulse. Madam," said the doctor, and then without

another word he suddenly left the room.

The two women looked after him in astonishment, and the maid, an

elderly fat woman, with a round face, strongly marked by the smallpox,

and good natured brown eyes, availed herself of his absence, to sing

the praises of their unknown deliverer, quite as eagerly as she had

previously abused him. "He had something so peculiar about him," she

remarked; "he appeared to be ill and yet kind heartedness was written

on every feature--and how cleverly he managed everything; how well he

supported our child's head, just as if he had been a nurse all the days

of his life. And then he is so very handsome and quite young, only now

and then when a stern expression comes over his face, he looks so grave

and gloomy, as if he had never laughed; and at other times he shuts his

eyes, as if he were in great pain, and wished to conceal it."

At this moment the subject of her remarks returned, carrying a large

glass of milk in his hand. He gave it to the lady as one would offer

some medicine to a child. "Drink this, Madam," he said; "it is new milk

and will do you good." "You require strength to fulfill the task you

have undertaken, and here nothing else is to be had. It would be very

beneficial to the child, if she could be induced to swallow a few

drops. Approach the glass to her lips, and persuade her to try it; you

have succeeded. We must do all we can to keep up her strength, so that

another attack may not overcome her. Now follow my advice, and lie down

on that bed; I will watch the child, and the maid also can well spare a

few hours more of sleep. When midnight has passed, I will awake you and

then the maid can lie down." She still objected. "Do as I tell you," he

said passionately, "or I will think that you never really felt the

confidence you showed me."

She turned towards the bed where the child, relieved by the ice

compresses, lay apparently asleep and stooping over its delicate little

face kissed its closed eyes. "I will obey you," she said, with a faint

smile, "if you promise to awake me, in case my child should grow

worse."

He silently pressed her hand and took her seat by the bedside, while

her maid helped her to lie down on the second bed, which stood in a

corner, after having removed a load of coverings.

When a quarter of an hour had passed, the faithful creature, softly

approaching the doctor, who sat absorbed in his own thoughts, stooped,

seized one of his hands, and before he could prevent it had pressed it

to her lips, whispering: "God be praised, she sleeps! Oh sir, you can

work marvels! For four nights, my mistress had not closed her eyes.

First the grief, and agitation before we reached that unfortunate

battle-field; and then, anxiety about her child. If you but knew what

an angel my mistress is. If I were to tell you all...."

"Leave that for another time," he interrupted; "you have nothing else to

do now, but to lie down, and not to stir till I call you. To-night you

are useless, and to-morrow you must be up early. Here are pillows, and

coverlets enough. Arrange a bed for yourself beside the stove; and now

good night. Don't contradict me. Do you wish to awake your mistress by

uselessly arguing the matter?"

The good woman obeyed with a timid humble look, pulled a feather-bed

into a corner of the room, and in a few minutes her regular breathing,

proved that she too had needed rest after the hardships of the last few

days.

A short while afterwards, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and only

the faint reflex of the starry sky was to be seen, on that part of the

lake which could be overlooked from the room in which the lonely

watcher sat by the sick-bed. He now for the first time felt a desire to

take some food, and to quench his thirst. He drank the remainder of the

milk which still stood on the table. As he put down the glass he

fancied he saw the lady on the bed make a convulsive movement. He

approached her softly. In an uneasy dream, she had put both hands to

her eyes as if to wipe away tears; now she slept quietly, and her hands

slowly sank down again. Motionless he gazed on that fair face, on which

every dream was reflected as the shadows of dissolving clouds on the

calm surface of a lake; sorrow, anxiety, then hope! Now she smiled, and

the delicately chiselled lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly

teeth. The next moment her brow darkened, an imploring look appeared on

her face; she stretched out both her hands and clasped them together;

he then remarked on one of her fingers, two wedding rings, and wondered

whether the second one belonged to the father of her child, or if some

other man were now in possession of that small hand. He was roused from

these thoughts by a moan from the little girl. He only arranged the

coverlet which had fallen on the ground and wrapped it round the small

feet of the young woman who had not taken off her boots. Then he

returned to his occupation of changing, every quarter of an hour, the

ice that had melted and now and then refreshing the parched lips of the

child with a few drops of water.

Towards midnight a violent wind arose on the lake, and the young man

shivered as the window was still open. He seized the first wrap which

he found among the luggage, and covered himself up with it. It was a

long soft burnouss lined with silk which belonged to the young woman.

He pulled the hood over his head; and a sweet scent was wafted from it;

as the silk touched his face a peculiar feeling of languor came over

him; he closed his eyes, but a confused maze of ideas passed through

his mind, and he could not sleep.

Suddenly his eyes opened with an expression of terror in them. He

started from his chair, and trembling violently, he stared at the lake.

Conspicuous on the dark surface of the water, something white glided

slowly; it had the shape of a veiled figure, and seemed to move towards

the house. The moon had appeared again, and lit up a faint streak of

mist which had strayed from the mountain tops, and was swept across the

lake. When it reached the current of wind that blew from the ravine, it

dissolved, and the surface of the water was as clear as before; but the

only one who had seen this airy apparition still stood as if rooted to

the ground and stared at the spot where it had disappeared. A cold

perspiration bathed his brow, his breath came shortly and quickly, and

his eyes, which started from their sockets, remained fixed on that

spot, as if he expected to see the vision appear again the next moment.

A hot little hand touched the clammy ones of the horror-stricken man,

"Is it you, Papa?" asked the little girl; and sat up in her bed. Two

small thin arms were stretched up to him and before he was aware of it,

the child clung to his neck and hid its burning face on his breast.

"Don't leave us again, Papa," she said, "or Mamma will cry again, and I

must die."

In an instant the nightmare which oppressed him, vanished. He clasped

the slender little figure in his arms, as if it were a protection

against the malignant powers. He held her so for some time, and while

the child caressed him, he felt the blood flow more calmly through his

veins. He kissed her little face, stroking her damp curls, asked: "What

is your name, my child." "Are you my Papa," she said, "and do not even

know that I am your own little Fan? Ah, yes, I know that they have shot

you, that is why you have forgotten me. Did it hurt you much?"

"To-morrow I will tell you all about it," he said, and gently laid her

back on her bed; "now, you must keep quiet, and not awake your Mamma."

The child obediently lay down, and closed her eyes, but she held fast

the hand of her faithful guardian, and now and then looked up at him

with a wondering but wide awake expression. He too stedfastly gazed on

the innocent face, as if fearing that were he to turn round, the

terrifying vision would again appear.

So he watched by the sick-bed till day dawned. When the bare rocky

peaks which rose above the lake, blushed in the first morning light,

sounds of life, broke the stillness of the house.

The farm-servant crept shoeless along the passage, and cautiously

peeping into the sick-room, pointed to the now empty wooden tub and

asked if another supply of ice were wanted. The doctor nodded his head,

and he disappeared. Then came the landlady and offered her ready

services, but Everhard declined them. The generosity of the strange

gentleman had worked wonders with the inmates of the house. Only the

coachman, who had not got over his intoxication of the previous day,

stumbled, cursing, and growling, with heavy boots, down the stairs, and

through the passage; so that the lady asked still half asleep, if it

were time to start. "Not yet," answered Everhard, "you can sleep on for

another hour." Then he rose hastily, and went out to prevent the noisy

fellow from again approaching the sick-room. When he returned after a

few minutes, he found the young mother seated at the bedside of her

child.

"Why are you up already?" he asked reproachfully. "Already?" she

replied, "you wish to put me to confusion. Have you not succeeded in

deceiving me, and taken my place through the whole of the night. Why

did you not let me share the night-watch with you?"

"Because I could easily dispense with sleep, which was most needful for

you. And then there was nothing to be done which required help. Be of

good cheer; we have every reason to be satisfied with this night."

"Then the danger is over! thanks be to heaven!"

"I cannot give you that certainty," he answered; "you have promised to

trust me, and can only do so, if I conceal nothing from you. But I can

give you the assurance that all the symptoms are as favourable as can

be expected in this illness. The inmates of the house are well disposed

towards us, and will do their best to help us."

A ray of pleasure brightened her pale face. "Oh! my friend," she

exclaimed, "if it were but possible!" She held out her hand to him, and

tears stood in her eyes.

He stooped to kiss her hand, but in reality to hide his emotion. "Could

you have believed me capable of forsaking you, before the child's life

was saved?" he asked. "Do not thank me, not imagine that I am

sacrificing anything by remaining here. I have already brought you the

greatest sacrifice I could offer, all the rest is a relief to me."

She looked up inquiringly. "I am keeping you from other duties?" she

asked.

"No," he answered gloomily; "ever since last year I have been an idle,

and restless man. Led by motives, which cannot interest you, I once

gave myself my word of honour, never to exercise my profession as a

doctor again. Yesterday, I broke this word for your sake. If you will

permit me to continue my attendance, you will free me from reproach,

and so we shall be of mutual service to each other."

After a pause during which he had felt the pulse of the child, he

resumed, "She now sleeps quietly; if you wish to apprize your friends

of your present abode, you have time to do so. The coachman, who is

meanwhile getting ready, will post your letter at the next station."

"I have no one, who would feel anxious at my non-appearance," said the

lady, and blushed slightly; "I live so very retired!"

"No one?" he repeated, with surprise, and involuntarily his eyes

fastened on the two rings.

She remarked his glance, and understood it instantly. "The second

ring," she said unconstrainedly, "is not the sign of a second marriage.

It belonged to my husband, who feeling death approaching, drew it from

his finger and begged a comrade of his to bring it to me. Since that

day, I have refused all solicitations to change my condition, and have

only withdrawn from my dear husband's family, because a near relation

of his, imagines that he has some claim to my hand. I have vowed to

live only for my child, and to the memory of the dead, and this vow is

sacred to me."

The nurse now awoke, and reluctantly sat up on her couch, but she

jumped up briskly, when she saw her mistress and the doctor already

actively employed, and hastened with great zeal to relieve them;

protesting that it was all the doctor's fault, as he had strictly

forbidden her to watch.

"Bathe the child," said Everhard; "I will now leave you for half an

hour; bathe the child as we did yesterday, and let it drink some milk

which you can now get fresh from the cow. And here comes a fresh supply

of ice. You see the attendance could nowhere be better than it is in

this desolate nook of the world. Fortunately an apothecary's shop is

not needed in this case. Good-bye; we shall soon meet again." He bowed

slightly and left the room. Then he walked down to the shore, loosened

one of the boats which were chained up in the shed, and with a few

powerful strokes launched the light bark into the open lake. The sun

had not yet risen above the surrounding heights, overgrown with dark

pines, and the calm and sultry air lay heavily on the dark surface of

the water, and oppressed the chest of the young man who was fatigued by

the sleepless night. He looked down into the depths below him and

noticed that close to the boat the water seemed transparent as crystal,

and nearly white, while the lake beyond, though the sky was bright and

clear, appeared like a black unfathomable chasm. He recollected what a

woodcutter had once told him, that the lake was bottomless--that its

waters sank deeper and deeper till at last they reached hell; and so

when the evil spirits there found their abode too hot for them, they

went to bathe in them.

He pulled in his oars and looked up at the nearly perpendicular shores

which were covered with dark fir-woods up to their very peaks. These

had exchanged the glow of early morning for a dull greyish tint. And

now the sun had burst forth with great power, and tried to gild the

ravine, which looked like a cauldron of dark iron. But only a dazzling

white light was reflected on the smooth surface of the lake. The dense

woods which surrounded it absorbed every ray of sunshine. No cheerful

light coloured and enlivened the dreary landscape. A small patch of

green grass, near the inn, on which a red-brown cow grazed, and the

blue smoke which curled up from the chimney were the only objects that

awakened the consoling thought, that even in this wilderness human

beings had found a home. An islet, covered with birch-trees, lay near

the opposite shore. Everhard rowed up to it, tied the bark to a post,

and stripped off his clothes to enjoy an early bath.

Suddenly the thought struck him, with what intention he had arrived

yesterday. He shuddered. It seemed to him as if his resolve would be

fulfilled, even against his will; as if he had pledged himself to that

perfidious depth, which would claim him for its own. One moment he felt

tempted to put on his clothes again, and to row back as fast as he

could, but ashamed of his weakness, he shook off these fancies and

boldly jumped into the water.

The cold Alpine waves closed round him like ice just melted by the sun,

and he had to exert all his knowledge of swimming, to keep his blood,

by continual movement, from congealing. When he stepped out of the

water, and leaning against the stem of a young birch, his feet buried

in the soft moss, dried himself briskly, he felt happier than he had

done for many a day. He looked towards the house. In the room, where

the child lay he could see some one moving near the window. The

distance was too great to distinguish the figure, still less the

features, yet it pleased to him to think that among the inmates of that

house, there were some who needed him, and had placed their hopes in

him.

Meanwhile the child in the sick-room raised herself in her bed, looked

searchingly round the room, and said: "Has Papa gone away? is he again

dead? I want him to sit beside me." Her mother kissed the child's

forehead and begged her to remain quiet. "That good gentleman is not

your Papa," she said; "you must not call him so. He is the doctor, who

will make you well again, if you are a good child, and do all he tells

you." "Not my Papa," repeated the little girl meditatively. She seemed

to relinquish her first idea with difficulty. "What is his name?" she

resumed. "Will he leave me?"

"Here he comes," said the fat nurse, who had tears in her eyes, on

hearing her darling speak calmly and sensibly, for the first time for

several days. "Just look Ma'am, how fast he rows, as if he were

impatient to get back to our child. Well, I call that a doctor! To-day

he looks even handsomer, than he did yesterday, with his fine black

beard and pale face. Only his eyes have a stern expression, that would

frighten one if he were not so kind."

They now saw him leap from the boat but he did not speak to them, as he

passed the door, and they heard him give some orders to the landlady. A

few minutes later he entered the sick-room, at once approached the bed

of the child, and talked kindly to it. This presence seemed to exercise

a sort of charm on the little girl. She breathed with more ease, and

closed her eyes at his persuasion.

The stillness in the sick-room was so great that they heard the splash

of the fish leaping in the water. After some time he rose, and

whispered, "She sleeps; the fever has abated. I hope she may be able to

rest for a few hours, and I will take care that no one disturbs her. I

will now lie down for a short while, till the chicken broth I have

ordered for our little patient, is ready.

"How can I ever express my thanks to you for all your kindness, and

solicitude," observed the child's mother with much emotion.

By not thanking me at all he replied almost gruffly, and left them.

When he entered his room, he found the letter he had written the night

before still lying on the table. The large red seal now, seemed

offensive to his eyes, yet he could not make up his mind to destroy it,

so he put it by, in his portfolio. He then threw himself on his bed,

and tried to sleep, but the thick coming thoughts, beset him like

buzzing flies. He fancied he heard the child's voice, and that of its

lovely mother, and raised himself on his bed to listen. At length after

much musing and reflection, he fell into an uneasy sleep disturbed by

dreams.

At noon, the landlady entered his room, and seeing him asleep, tried to

creep away noiselessly. But he was up in a moment, and inquiring if the

soup were ready, followed her into the kitchen. "Where is the broth?"

he asked, and approached the hearth whence a tempting odour arose from

the different pots and pans. The stupid maid who was stirring something

in one of them, let fall her wooden ladle in amazement, and stared

open-mouthed at the stranger as he lifted the lid of one of the pots,

and examined its contents with a critical eye. Then he asked for a

plate poured some of the chicken broth into it, and carefully took out

the herbs which floated on it.

When he turned to carry away the soup, he saw the young mother standing

at the entrance. "Is this right?" she asked with a charming smile,

"instead of sleeping I see you have turned cook."

"I only cook for my patients," he replied, "the care of preparing

dinner for the healthy, I leave to our hostess, who will do honour to

our confidence in her, and needs no help of mine. Is our patient still

asleep?"

"She awoke a moment since, and has just asked for you."

When he entered the sick-room, the child sat upright in her bed, and

greeted the doctor with a smile. Then she willingly swallowed a few

spoonfuls of the soup which he offered her. She did not appear to be

hungry however, but only to do it because he wished it. She listened

eagerly to all the doctor said. He told her that in the morning he had

watched the fish disport themselves in the lake, and promised her that

they would go and catch some of them when she could leave her bed.

After a while she again seemed to lose consciousness. Her blue eyes

partially closed, and the small head sank back on her pillows.

"Be of good cheer," said the doctor; "the progress is slow but sure.

Your maid must continue to change the ice frequently. Meanwhile we will

go and have dinner. It is ready."

"Leave me here with my child," she whispered. "No," he replied, curtly.

"You must breathe the fresh air. We do not want another patient, and

your pulse is much agitated. When we have dined, we will relieve the

nurse."

He walked on without another word, and she dared not oppose him. In the

shade before the house, close to the window of the sick-room, the cover

had been laid for two. Just as they came out, the landlady brought a

dish of fish, and placed them on the table, these were followed by a

roasted fowl. During the repast they hardly spoke a word to each other.

Both were lost in thought. Now and then, he would persuade her, not

only to take a few mouthfuls on her plate, but to eat them. "I shall be

offended," he said, gaily, "if you eat nothing. We doctors enjoy the

reputation of being great gourmands. I hope I have not disgraced my

profession in this instance?"

"Pardon me, if I cannot yet bear the brightness around me," she said.

"My heart has been too deeply troubled. I have passed through such

heavy storms, that the ground still trembles beneath me. To-morrow I

will behave better." Then they both relapsed into silence, and gazed at

the lake, over which the mid-day heat was brooding. A cricket chirped

in the quiet little garden; and within the landlord snored on his bench

by the stove. From the shed by the lake, the gurgle of the waves

against the softly rocking boats was heard, and from the sick-room the

nurse humming a nursery rhyme, the same with which years ago she had

lulled the child in her cradle to sleep.

* * * * *

The quiet day was followed by a restless night. The fever increased in

violence; the child moaned continually, and could hardly be kept in her

bed. At midnight she grew calmer.

The doctor hardly stirred from the house; only in the evening, he

refreshed himself with a cigar out of doors. Then he took a turn round

the house, and every time he passed the window of the sick-room,

stopped for a moment, and spoke a few words of encouragement to the

mother who would not quit the bed-side. In the night, while watching

with her--the nurse had been sent to bed--he suddenly said: "How much

your child resembles you. Just now, in this dim light, when you stooped

over her and the little girl looked up to you with that peculiarly

spiritual and precocious expression which illness gives, I could almost

have fancied that you were sisters. Ten years hence, she will be your

very image." "Perhaps you are right," answered the young mother, "but

the resemblance is only outward: all her mental qualities she inherits

from her father. I often wonder at so great a likeness in such a young

child, and _that_ too a girl. Her truthfulness her self-denial, her

courage often make me feel as if my lost husband had been given back to

me in this child."

"You are mentioning qualities, which during our short acquaintance, I

have remarked that you possess in a high degree."

She shook her head, "If I seem courageous, it is only owing to my

natural cowardice. When you first saw me I was quite broken-hearted

with misery, and anxiety, but I dared not give vent to my feelings, for

I knew that I should break down utterly at the sound of my own voice.

My husband could look the most fearful events calmly in the face; and

so it is with the child. He could make any sacrifice without thinking

of himself."

"And you; I should think, you did not spare yourself in the first days

of this trial."

"A mother's heart feels no sacrifice," she answered, "but before my

child was born I often had to strive with myself, and force myself to

do what was distasteful to me for the sake of others. It is not so with

the child, though youth generally is, and well may be, the season for

egotism. I could tell you a hundred traits of her excellent

disposition. I have often felt anxious about her, for so precocious a

tenderness of feeling is said to be the presage of a short life. Who

can tell whether it may not be realized."

Everhard looked out on the lake, and seemed not to have heard her last

words. Suddenly he said; "you have probably a portrait of your husband:

Will you show it to me?"

She took off a delicately worked Venetian chain, which she wore round

her neck, opened the locket which was fastened to it, and handed it to

him.

He gazed at it for several minutes, and then silently gave it back to

her. After a long pause he said, "Was it a youthful attachment?"

"Not quite what is generally so called. I was, certainly very young

when I made his acquaintance. Before I saw him no man had ever made any

impression on me; but I hardly knew how dearly I loved him till a month

after our marriage took place. I only learnt to appreciate him fully

during the short period of our union, and my love grew into a passion

when I had lost him for ever. Had you known him, you would have become

friends; he never had an enemy."

Everhard had risen and was pacing the room with noiseless steps. He

stopped before the table and took up a volume which projected from a

travelling bag. They were Lenau's poems. On the fly leaf was inscribed

the name of Lucille.

"Does this poet please you?" asked the doctor.--

"I hardly know whether he repels, or attracts me; and although I

generally have a clear perception in such things, yet I cannot quite

discover in his thoughts, what is genuine and what is artificial. He

suffered much, yet it often appears to me, as if by continually

irritating them, he purposely re-opened his wounds. I hardly know why I

took this book on my journey; perhaps as a sort of consolation."

"You seek consolation with a poet so weary of life?"

"Why not? _He_ died mad. When I think of that death, the grief for my

husband's seems easier to bear, for what a glorious death was granted

to _him_! Young, loved by all, he died heroically for his country! I

carry his image undefaced in my heart, not distorted by illness, and

the last agony, nor estranged from me by insanity. How dreadful must it

not be to see one dear to us deprived of his senses. Do you not feel

the same?"

He was silent for a moment, and then replied by another question: "So

you would have thought the death of your husband desirable, if he had

been doomed to life long insanity?"

"Spare me the answer. I cannot give you one truthfully, without pain."

"So much the better," he said. She did not understand him. A few

minutes later he left the room.

He returned an hour after midnight, and insisted on relieving the

mother from her watch by the sickbed. She could not resist his

imperative manner, and only begged him to let her, and the nurse,

relieve him alternately. He promised to do so; and this time kept his

promise. In the morning when Lucille awoke, she found the nurse alone,

and heard that the doctor lay on a straw mattress in the tap-room to be

near at hand in case of need.

* * * * *

A week had passed since these events, and Everhard again sat in his

little room at the crazy table, and the candle cast the same dim

flickering light, as on that first occasion, only the moon shone so

brightly through the casement, that one could easily have dispensed

with any other light. Everhard had just perused the letter written on

that dark and gloomy night, and was now adding a postscript on the

blank page.

"A week older, Charles; and yet a week younger! When I look at my face,

and compare it with the aged features which appear to me in these

pages, then I find that I have made the most retrograde movement, and

hare again arrived at an age, at which even you did not know me; at a

time when I never thought of death, though I touched it daily with my

dissecting knife; _then_ I had no more thought of it, than a child's

doctor has of catching the measles. I have now studied the morbid

symptoms in my letter, as coolly as I once did the strange countenance

of number So and so in the hospital.

"You will be glad to hear that I have surmounted my last crisis, but I,

when I search my thoughts, can only deplore this.

"Everything was ready for my departure, my trunks so nicely packed, the

last leave takings exchanged; I heard the shrill whistle of the

engine,--suddenly I am told that I have missed the train; and so I

remain, not at home, nor abroad, but sitting at the railway station in

a most provoking position. It seems ridiculous to have to stay and

unpack, after all these preparations for departure. How it all happened

I will tell you in a few words, lest you should think that cowardice

overcame me at the last moment, that I regretted to leave this life,

and persuaded myself that after all it was the best. No it was not that

which played me this trick, it was my old passion, my profession! I

found it of more importance to save a young life, than to despatch my

own, so prematurely old. The child in question was well worth the

trouble, that I can tell you. And as for the mother! don't fancy that I

have fallen in love; you would be mistaken. Or do you call love, the

feelings of a poor devil of a miner who after having been buried in a

coal-pit, is brought to life again and rejoices in the first breath of

fresh air. Do not be afraid that I shall give you a description of this

young woman's charms. Whether she be handsome, amiable--what is usually

so called; clever, or whether she possess all those qualities the

description of which generally fills columns, I know not. All I

know, is that in her presence, I forget my existence; the past, the

future--all I feel is that she is there beside me and that I would

desire nothing more to all eternity, than that she should remain so. Do

you recollect how strange it once seemed to us, that the same

passionate poet, from whose brain proceeded 'Werther' should have

expressed such tame feelings as these--

"'Gaze at the moon,

Or think of thee,

I fancy 'tis the same.

All in a holy light, I see,

And know not how it came.'

"And now to my shame be it spoken, I experience the same feelings in

myself. This lunacy, as we jestingly called it, has taken such

possession of me, that my only desire at present is, that through all

the future years of my life, I might live as in one long night,

surrounded by the pale veiled halo which now calms my soul.

"This is but a dream. Ere long I must insist on my little patient's

departure to more civilised regions, where she will be better provided

for during her convalescence, than she can be here, where chicken-broth

is the landlady's sole culinary achievement. Then I shall become

unnecessary, and can bid farewell to the Dead Lake, and once more try

to live in a world which after these events will seem doubly desolate

to me. Was I not right in deploring the departure of the train? By this

time I should have reached my destination. But why should not the

journey be only postponed for a fortnight; especially as the one I had

intended to take does in no wise depend on the weather, or the company.

I can tell you the reason, Charles; I know that you will not despise me

for it. My courage is gone! Is it so very despicable that I now dread

that gloomy depth, into which a week ago I was willing to plunge; now

that I have found a place of rest up here in the daylight? And though

in a few days I shall be again roaming about, like the wandering

unsettled savage I was, up to this last week, yet nothing can ever

efface from my heart the feeling that somewhere between heaven and

earth there is a corner where I could live in repose; where, like that

Matricide, in Sophocles, I had found a sanctuary from which, awed by

the holiness of the refuge even the furies keep aloof, and dare not

sully the threshold.

"Unfortunately, it is perfectly clear to me that from her, I also must

keep aloof. This woman even if I ventured to offer her my unamiable

society for the remainder of hear life, could but politely decline. She

has made a vow to remain faithful to the memory of her dead husband.

What is a vow? Ought it to be a chain to bind and check our very

existence, after we have outgrown our former selves. In the course of

seven years the physical part of man is completely renewed, and is our

spiritual part, surrounded by new flesh and blood to remain the same,

because some misanthrope doubted his own power of revival. Have I not

also broken my vow never again to approach a sick-bed. And I even deem

this to be rather to my credit than my shame. But the vow of this woman

is raised far above the fickleness of human wishes and resolves. She

wishes me well; I could find no truer friend in need than she would

prove. She would make any sacrifice but this for me, who have saved her

child; but her whole existence, her heart, and soul are rivetted to the

memory of her own passed happiness, and to the future happiness of her

child--and for me, to whom the present alone is of importance.... I

have carefully avoided the question as to where she lives, in what

town, under what circumstances in what neighbourhood. I will part from

her without knowing anything of this, lest I should be tempted to seek

her, and endeavour to make the impossible possible.

"A few days more of the happiness of this singular position--in this

solitary wilderness among the mountains, far from all the littlenesses

and miseries of the world, and as if we were in heaven, where there is

neither giving in marriage, nor parting--then come what may; what must!

"In truth it is a strange and cruel remedy which fate has employed,

making a deep incision in my heart, in order to convince me how little

I was ripe for death; how much strength and feeling there was still in

me, how much I could yet endure!

"Enough of this for to-day. We live here totally deprived of all postal

communication. When, and where, I shall close this letter and forward

it, the Gods only know, if indeed they concern themselves with our

correspondence.

"Farewell!"

He laid down the pen and listened. From the sick room, the child's soft

prattle was heard and though free from the restless and rambling tone

of fever, yet it was an unusually late hour for the child to be awake.

He also heard the soft voice of the mother calming it by a few soothing

words. When Everhard entered the room the child was already fast

asleep.

"She has just been dreaming of you;" turning towards him with one of

her charming smiles; "she told me, she dreamt that you had given her a

white lamb, with a red ribbon round its neck, which took food from her

hand. She had possessed it for some time when it suddenly occurred to

her that she had not thanked you for it; so she begged me to call you

that she might repair this neglect."

"And why did you not call me?" asked the doctor.

"I told her that her uncle Everhard would never listen to any thanks.

That Mamma too had received a gift from him for which she never, never

could thank him sufficiently. The best way to thank him, was to be a

good child and go to sleep again. You should have seen how earnestly

the dear child tried, after this, to go to sleep. You see she is asleep

already and her forehead is moist. You have more influence, over her

than any other person has."

He thoughtfully contemplated the childish face.

"I regret that I am not a princess," Lucille continued with a slight

blush; "for then I could offer you a place at my court, and beg you to

accompany me on my travels in the capacity of Court Physician. I cannot

imagine what we shall do without you--at every cold little Fanny

catches, we shall miss you sadly. And yet I am content with my station

in life. A princess would perhaps presume that she could repay you for

your devotion to her child by offering you an establishment. I cannot

regret the feeling that I can never repay you for all your generosity."

She stretched out her hand to him, which he pressed, strangely moved,

to his lips.

"Madame Lucille," he said, without continuing the subject, "it is now

eleven o'clock; it is my turn to watch, and you are relieved."

"No," she answered gaily, I am not quite so obedient as our little Fan,

or rather, sleep does not so readily obey my call. You must allow me to

remain awake for another hour, and if you are not tired, you shall read

aloud to me. I have seen a volume of Goethe's works in your hands. I

admire him above all other poets, and wish to get more fully acquainted

with him, for I must confess to my shame, that on looking through your

volume the other day, I remarked that most of its contents were unknown

to me.

"As you please," he said, "but most of its contents will remain for

ever new to you, were you to hear them ever so often. At least that is

my experience of them."

He fetched the book, the first volume of the poems, and without

selecting any particular poem began at the first page. He lowered his

voice but read without any studied art of delivery. Never had he so

keenly and clearly felt the charm of the everlasting spring which

emanates from the blossoms of the poet's youthful ardour.

He dared not look at her whilst he read fearing to meet the mute

enquiry in the eyes of the young woman; but when he came to "the

hunter's evening song," he with difficulty faltered out the words,

'Gaze at the moon,

Or think of thee,

I fancy 'tis the same.

All in a holy light, I see,

And know not how it came!'

Suddenly he stopped, let the book glide on to the bed of the child, and

rose hastily.

"What has happened?" she asked, startled. "Go and rest," he replied

with averted face. "Wake the nurse; she can take my watch for this

night. The atmosphere here oppresses me, I must breathe the fresh air,

I already feel better, since I have risen. I will go and take a row on

the lake."

So saying he disappeared, leaving her with all her feelings in a state

of tumultuous disturbance at the enigma she dared not solve.

* * * * *

The next day at their early meeting, they succeeded in assuming the

gay and unconstrained tone which had hitherto existed between them. The

child assisted them in their efforts. The night had been quiet and

refreshing, and a bath which had been prepared for her, under

Everhard's superintendence; in an old washing tub of the landlady's had

greatly revived her, and had sent her off into another long sleep.

Towards evening the doctor brought home from his walk different kinds

of ferns, gentians, and also gaily coloured pebbles which he had found

near the rocks. He sat down by Fanny's bed-side, and told her all about

the birds, and other small animals which he had met in his wanderings

over the heights. He was pleased at the intelligent questions the child

put to him, as she sat up in bed and admired with wide opened eyes the

treasures he had laid on her coverlet. The mother sat beside them

working at a piece of embroidery. From the kitchen without was heard

the crackling of the fire on the hearth, over which the child's soup

was being prepared. Everhard did not relinquish his night watch this

time, but no more was said of reading aloud. Neither was there any

mention made of it during the following nights, and indeed no occasion

for it presented itself. The night watching had now become almost

unnecessary, so the doctor could, without further apprehension, remain

a good deal in his room. Even in the day-time, now that the child was

allowed to be up for several hours, he seldom appeared. But often under

pretext of fishing he would row over to the islet from whence he did

not return till late in the evening, or he would roam through the pine

woods and the ravine, and climb up to the ice cavern.

The farm-servant who hearing that the lady wished for the last

strawberries of the season had climbed up there, to look for some,

reported on his return that he had met the doctor seated on a rock, and

looking like a man in a dream. He had bidden him good day, and the

doctor had started up, and with a silent nod of recognition, had

disappeared in the wood. He was evidently touched in the head, the

farm-servant continued; I always said so from the moment I saw him

sitting quite crazed like in the tap-room, and refusing all

refreshment.

This continued during several days. In proportion to the progress of

the child's recovery did the doctor's melancholy, from which the sudden

call of duty had roused him, appear to increase. Those days were full

of gloom; he felt how necessary it was to abridge them. One forenoon he

started without waiting for dinner, not caring to meet the sad

inquiring look in Lucille's eyes. He climbed up the steep ravine with

the firm resolve to arrive at a final decision. In spite of the fierce

noon-day heat, he pursued a road which he had recently discovered, and

which led towards the south across the rocky ridge of the mountains. He

knew that if he continued his walk he would reach before night fall a

Romanic[2] village which was separated from the dead lake by nearly

impassable tracts of ice and snow. Once there, and he had achieved all

that now seemed impossible to him, all leave taking was spared him and

he was as one dead to those to whom he had now become useless.

This seemed to him the best plan, and he relied on his strength of will

to carry it out. But when the last glimpse of the lake had disappeared

and he found himself surrounded only by the sterile wilderness of

rocks, he felt so wretched that he could not proceed, but flung himself

on the ground, in the shade of a projecting rock, and buried his face

amidst the moss and heather. He eagerly sought for all the reasons

which should prevent his departure, and make his return necessary, his

papers, his diary which he had left in his room; the anxiety his sudden

disappearance would cause Lucille. Then he reflected that he was in

duty bound to provide for their departure, and for their safe journey

to the next town. He made a solemn vow that all should be done that

very day. He would send down the farm-servant to order a carriage as

soon as he had returned to the inn. In twenty-four hours everything

would be accomplished, and the separation irrevocable. After that he

did not care what happened. When he had firmly settled this in his

mind, he felt relieved, and hastily arose to reach the inn without

further delay. He resolved to be cheerful and to enjoy the few hours

that remained to him of her society as if they were to last for ever.

He regretted having embittered many a day by the thought of the

approaching end. He plucked a bunch of scentless Alpine flowers and

ferns--it should be his farewell token to little Fanny. So thinking he

rapidly descended the steep mountain, and reached the last firs in the

ravine when the greatest heat of the day was over. Below him lay the

lake. Not the slightest breeze ruffled its calm surface which clearly

reflected the small meadow on the opposite shore; the firs on the steep

slope above it, and beyond these, the bare grey rocks and crags. Then

he looked towards the fisherman's house. His quick eye discerned every

shingle on its stone laden roof--in the yard, the old hen followed by

her yellow brood, and the linen hung out on ropes to dry. Those who

lived beneath that lowly roof were nowhere to be seen. Generally at

this time of the day, everyone dozed over some slight work, so Everhard

was much surprised when he saw the door of the house open, and a

perfect stranger step out into the bright sunshine. He was a tall young

man dressed in a light summer costume. His face was partly shaded by a

broad brimmed straw-hat, and only a fair moustache of a military cut

was visible underneath it.

The newcomer stood still for a few minutes, looked around him as if to

examine the weather, and then eagerly talked through the open door to

some one who had not yet appeared. A few minutes later Lucille joined

him, without a hat, only holding a large parasol to protect her

delicate complexion from the sun. She accompanied the stranger to the

shed on the lake, and a moment after Everhard saw them both issue from

it, in one of the boats, and take the direction across the smooth lake

towards the islet. The stranger wielded the oars so dextrously that

they soon reached their destination. Then leaping on shore he assisted

Lucille to get out. They walked along the shore wending their way

between the birches and the high bulrushes, apparently with the

intention of making, the circuit of the small island. Everhard's heart

throbbed so wildly that he had to lean against the stem of a fir-tree

till the first giddiness had passed.

Who was the new comer who seemed so intimate with her, that she

followed him on his boating excursions, and thus granted him what she

had ever refused to Everhard her friend and helper? Who was this

stranger that she leant on his arm, and while walking by his side, and

gaily conversing with him seemed even to forget her child, and

abandoned it to the care of the nurse? Well whoever it was, he had

arrived just in time to wake them all out of the dream into which the

solitary stillness of the place had lulled them.

Doubtless the sight of this old acquaintance brought back to Lucille's

remembrance all that she had forgotten at the bed-side of her child;

her intercourse with the outer world; her friends, and admirers,

recollections to which Everhard would ever remain a stranger, and which

summoned her back to a life in which he could have no share. So much

the better! It could but facilitate the execution of his resolves, and

confirm the urgency of a separation.

He felt it was impossible to share her presence with a third. He strode

down the precipitous path, and reached the house greatly exhausted, and

his knees knocking under him. He remarked a travelling carriage which

stood beside the shed, and in the stables in which a cow was kept

during the winter, two horses were tied to the manger. Without heeding

the landlady who was dying to tell him the news, he walked straight

into the room where the child sat at the table playing with a new doll.

"Uncle Max is here," she cried out to him, her face beaming with joy.

"He has brought me a doll that can move its eyes; then he dined with

Mamma, and now they are both on the island. They will soon return

however, as Uncle Max means to take us away in his large travelling

carriage, but Mamma said that she would not move a step without your

special consent."

"Fanny," he said, and took the child's curly head between his hands,

"you won't forget me, though I cannot offer you a beautiful doll, but

only a simple bunch of flowers?"

The child locked up surprised; "Mamma said that after the good God, I

should love you best, because you have saved my life. I love you better

than all other people; but Mamma I love best of all."

He stooped over the fair face, and kissed the child's truthful loving

eyes, and her pale lips.

"You are right, little Fan," said he, speaking with difficulty, "she

deserves your love. Here is my bouquet, and give her my compliments."

He turned towards the door.

"What are you going away! the child called after him; won't you come,

and tell me some nice story."

"Another time," was all he could say. The nurse who just then came in,

tried to detain him, and wondered at his disturbed appearance, but he

passed her by, and hastening to his own room locked the door behind

him.

Once more alone, he was so overcome by the agony of his feelings that

he dropped into a chair and his strong frame shook with convulsive

though tearless sobs. But he promptly recovered himself, pressed his

hand to his heart as if to still its throbbings and proceeded to stuff

his few possessions into his travelling bag. Only his portfolio he kept

back; then he sat down at the table, and mechanically took out the

letter to his friend as if to add another postscript, but he vainly

sought for words and he finally laid it down, took up another sheet and

began to write a short account of the child's illness, with the

intention of leaving it to Lucille in case she should find another

consultation necessary.

He found a certain satisfaction in clearly wording his statement, and

in perceiving how steadily his hand wielded the pen. "At least I have

not yet lost my senses," he said aloud.

He had just finished this writing when a man's quick step was heard

approaching his room, and then came a knock at the door. He rose with

an angry feeling. He could not deny his presence, and yet this meeting

was intensely distasteful to him. He unlocked the door with a

countenance which was anything but inviting. The moustachied stranger

however entered with the most amiable air. Apparently he did not expect

a very gracious reception, but seemed fully determined not to let

himself be put out by anything.

"My dear doctor," he exclaimed in an engaging manner, and with a

friendly shake of the hand. "Pray excuse my intruding on you; Lucille

has told me that you refuse to listen to any thanks, but I am not to be

daunted; I am a soldier and would think it dishonourable to be afraid

of anything; even of the glum face of a benefactor; and so I boldly

express my thanks, at the risk of being challenged by you afterwards,

and tell you that I shall always feel indebted to you, and that you can

command my services at any time as you would those of your oldest

friend.--You have worked wonders, you best of doctors! Not only with

the little one, whose welfare I have at heart as though it were my own

child, but above all with the mother--I can assure you that I hardly

recognized her. From the time when her husband my dear brother was

buried with his comrades in one common grave on the field of battle,

her widowed grief, up to a few weeks ago, had always remained the same.

All the efforts of her friends to restore her to her former

cheerfulness were vain. Seven years! In truth, I should say that the

most legitimate grief might be overcome in that time. Between

ourselves, be it said, though I sincerely loved my brother, yet I have

found these seven years unconscionably long. Lucille was my lady love

as well as my brother's, but then I was only a good for nothing

lieutenant, and so I had to yield the precedence to my brother Victor.

Now it seems to me that I have every right to assert my claim

considering that it is of such long standing. Don't you think so,

doctor? But in spite of my perseverance through all these years, not

the slightest ray of hope was ever granted to me. I wished to accompany

her on this visit to the grave; but no, my request was mercilessly

refused. Wait till she has returned, I said to myself; who knows but

this visit may be the last stage of her conjugal grief. So I waited for

her return, or at least for a letter, but when three weeks had passed

without any tidings of her, fearing that some misfortune had happened,

I took leave of absence from my regiment, and traced her steps till I

found her here at the Dead Lake; not the cold and reserved Lucille of

old, but a totally changed being. The gratitude she feels for the

preservation of her child, seems to have reconciled her to life, and

consequently it will be to you alone that I shall owe my thanks, should

I one day be allowed to give her a far dearer name than that of sister.

She owns that it is you who have broken the ice, and talks of you with

so much enthusiasm that if I did not know that it overflowed from the

abundant thankfulness of her maternal heart, I should feel jealous of

you."

A short silence followed this artless avowal, during which the young

officer paced the room; then walked to the casement, and rapped his

fingers against the low ceiling.

"Well," he exclaimed, with his good-humoured laugh, "you doctors are

certainly not more fastidious than we soldiers! How did you manage to

hold out in this dismal hole? We will now try to make you as

comfortable as possible, for of course you are coming with us. Lucille

would never reconcile herself to the thought of losing her court

physician."

"I much regret," answered Everhard in a calm voice, "that Madam Lucille

is mistaken in this case. The child can travel without the least

danger; it is even necessary that she should leave this place, where

the food is not adapted to her delicate state of health. I had

determined to order a travelling carriage for tomorrow, when I

perceived your carriage. I could not place the ladies under better

protection than yours, so you must pardon me if I leave you to-day."

"Impossible!" cried the young officer in a tone of the most sincere

dismay. "What a desperate clamour the women would set up at your

leaving us so suddenly. Lucille, little Fan, even the nurse would cling

to your coat tails; I should have to arrest you by barring the way with

my sword."

"Possibly they may augment the difficulties of this inevitable and

necessary step," remarked the doctor with a grave face, "so the best

plan will be, not to mention my resolve and at nightfall I can easily

depart without any leave taking. Here is a report of the child's

illness, take the paper with you, but I trust it will not be required.

If you go only short day's journies, the drive at this season will

probably be beneficial to the health of the little patient. And so

permit me to bid you good-bye. I beg you to present my compliments to

your sister-in-law."

"Doctor, this cannot be your final decision; I hope you will yet change

your mind; meanwhile I will take this statement and leave you, for I

fear I have disturbed you whilst writing. Au revoir."

"Do not betray me." Everhard called after him. The young officer put

his finger to his lips, and hastened through the tap-room whistling a

merry tune.

Everhard had hardly been alone for ten minutes pacing his room like a

prisoner who is meditating how he can escape from his bare and narrow

cell, when he suddenly heard the outer door again open, and a step,

which sent the blood to his heart, approach his room.

"Is my cup of bitterness not yet full," he murmured to himself.

The door opened and Lucille stood before him with an expression in her

eyes which utterly disconcerted him and forced him to cast his down.

"Pardon me my friend," she said in an agitated voice, "if once more I

intrude on your solitude, though you so evidently avoid me. You even

intend to leave us without a word of farewell. My brother-in-law did

not admit this; but I was aware of it from his manner when he left your

room, and as I have long suspected this to be your intention, I was not

much astonished, though greatly grieved. I owe you so much that it

would be useless again to repeat my thanks before we part; but it is

not generous in you to deprive me of all opportunity of rendering you

any service, or of showing you the deep interest I feel in you. I am

persuaded that my friendship is not incapable of giving you relief if

you would but return the confidence with which I have always treated

you from the first hour we met. A secret grief consumes you. What would

I not give to be able to aid you in bearing the load which oppresses

you! Now could I leave you, perhaps never to meet you again, and have

to reproach myself with the thought, that although knowing, that you,

dearest and most devoted of friends, were suffering deeply, I yet

allowed a miserable fear of appearing curious and importunate to deter

me from making any attempt to assuage those sufferings or to learn

their cause!"

"No," she continued with heightened colour, "I know that you are not

selfish enough to burden me with this unbearable grief and remorse,

only because it humbles your pride to acknowledge your sufferings to a

woman."

He did not once interrupt her, but stood with his eyes fixed on the

ground. When she had ceased speaking, he made an effort to answer her

but he did not look up. "Thank you," he said, "I know that your

questions proceed from the kindness and benevolence of your heart; and

be assured that if the weight which oppresses me could be lightened by

human means, I would apply to you for help--I was enabled to come to

your aid, why therefore should I not accept succour from you? But there

are certain circumstances in life which cannot be altered, and in such

cases, I think it is foolish weakness, and even culpable to give vent

to useless complaints, and to importune one's friends with them. Let us

part. When the health of your child is completely restored to its

former bloom, the sad impressions connected with the remembrance of the

Dead Lake will vanish from your mind, and with them the image of a man

who"----

Feeling that emotion was overpowering him, he suddenly stopped, and

walked to the window to regain his composure. When after a moment he

again turned towards Lucille, he saw her leaning against the door post,

pale as death and with the same pained expression on her countenance

that he had noticed the first day of her arrival.

"Good heavens, what ails you?" exclaimed he; "Know then, if you cannot

bear the feeling of being indebted to me, that we are quits. If I have

succeeded in saving the life of your child, you have fully acquitted

this debt by preserving my own life."

She looked up with surprise.

"Yes," he continued; "on that very table, on the night I first met you,

I wrote a farewell letter to life. The letter still lies there, so you

see that I have changed my resolution. I do not say that I feel

grateful to you for it. Possibly non-existence has its dark side too,

but it cannot be worse than remaining between life and death neither

suited to the one, nor prepared for the other--enough of this! Is it

your fault if the life which you saved was not worth the trouble? Do

not let us prolong so painful a meeting. Our paths now diverge--You

return to your home, I----go where fate leads me. I am driven on by my

destiny like a stone which a boy rolls before him. I thank you for the

happy days I have spent in this wilderness; they have been the first,

for a long time, in which I felt that I lived. It is a pity that they

must pass away like every thing else in this perishable world."

"And why must they pass, away?" she asked looking up with anxious and

imploring eyes. "Why will you not accompany us?"

"Why? because"--he suddenly stopped. His eyes whilst wandering round

the room had fastened on the letter to his friend which lay on the

table, beside the travelling bag. A sudden thought flashed through

his mind. "You wish to test the value I set on your friendship, and

that it is not pride which prevents me from availing myself of your

kindness; well then take this letter, but promise not to read it before

to-morrow. Will you promise this?"

She only bowed without looking at him.

"This letter contains every explanation which I could not bring myself

to utter. When you have read it, you will understand that I can no

longer remain here, and that you ought not to detain me. And now give

me your hand once more. Let me also thank you again for the happiness

of knowing you! He pressed her hand to his lips with much emotion.

Embrace your child to-morrow when you have read the letter, and

then--but I need not ask you for this; then in spite of all, think

kindly of me. I know that you will do so, have you not the heart and

soul of an angel!"

He hastened from the room and passed through the empty passage. He

heard Fanny's voice in the sitting-room. She talked with the nurse and

mentioned his name. This accelerated his steps. He had just presence of

mind enough left him to throw a handful of money to the landlady, and

to bid her good-bye, then he followed the cart track which led into the

valley, and hastily turned round the first corner without looking back.

After he had walked for a quarter of an hour unconscious of all around

him, only blindly driven on by the dim feeling that if he once looked

back his strength would fail him; it suddenly occurred to him that he

was walking northward in the direction of Germany, instead of turning

towards the lakes of Lombardy as he had at first intended. "What does

it matter," he said to himself; "what is home to me, am I not

everywhere a stranger?" He descended to the bed of the mountain stream

which flowed by the roadside. There he rested for a while, bathed his

feverish brow with the cold water, and listened to its gurgle as it

flowed over the pebbly bed. The sound reminded him of Fanny's clear

voice when she laughed for the first time after her illness. This

recollection so overpowered him that the tears streamed from his eyes,

and he let his grief take its course without trying to check it.

A cart which passed him in its slow progress up the hill, roused him

from his painful thoughts. It occurred to him, that the carter would

stop at the inn and there probably see Lucille and her child. That

happiness would never be his again! However he remained firm to his

resolve, and wandered on till he felt, in his trembling knees and

exhausted frame, how deeply the last few hours had affected him.

He had now reached a more expanded part of the valley; he sat down

beside a small shed which had formerly served as shelter to the workmen

of a quarry. His head sank on his chest, and he was soon absorbed in

gloomy thoughts and reveries.

An hour passed and found him still sitting there half stupified;

neither feeling pain nor wishing for any thing. He only heard the

rushing of the water and stared vacantly at the stones and mosses at

his feet. Suddenly he started up, the tread of horses was heard, and

the grating sound of the heavy drag as a carriage proceeded slowly down

the hill. A secret presentiment thrilled through him, he looked up with

a feeling of terror, and to his dismay recognized the carriage of the

young officer.

On the box beside the coachman was seated the nurse, her fat

good-humoured face shaded by a large straw hat and a blue veil, though

the sun had now sunk low, and only a few slanting rays reached the deep

glen. His first thought was to spring up, and fly before them. But even

if he could have got in advance of them here on this steep road, once

in the plain they would speedily overtake him; so he had no chance of

escaping. He stealthily rose and approached the door of the hut. "They

have not yet seen me," he murmured; "they will drive past, and then

this last pain will have been overcome; but why could they not have

spared me this?"

He entered the shed half ashamed of slinking away, and hiding like an

outlaw.

Through all those days of inward strife he had never felt so thoroughly

wretched and unhappy as he did at that moment. Now when his last

strength was exhausted, he had to witness the triumphant progress of

one to whom he bitterly grudged the prize that was denied him.

Cautiously he pressed against the wooden partition of the hut he could

not refrain from looking through the small aperture which stood in lieu

of a window, and once more gaze on those dear faces.

They were now so close to him that he could examine the inside of the

carriage. On the further side lay the child asleep, wrapped up in

blankets, and cloaks. Lucille sat beside her, and held her hand, but

her eyes searchingly scanned the road. Where was her young protector?

"He will follow on foot," thought Everhard. "Thank heaven they have

passed; now all is over!"

Suddenly the carriage stopped. The coachman jumped off his seat, and

opened the door. Lucille hastily descended and walked towards the hut.

A few moments later and she stood with a bright flush on her check

before the bewildered young man.

"You see that all your resistance is vain may dear friend," she said in

a trembling voice. "You wished to escape, but we follow you; we

discover your hiding-place, and now hold you fast in spite of your

resistance. We cannot do without you, you must....

"For heaven' sake," he cried, greatly agitated, "what has happened. Has

the child had another attack?"

"Our child sleeps," said the charming woman, and her voice sank low;

"but still we want you my dear friend. This time ... this time, it is

the mother who entrusts her life to you."

"Lucille!" he exclaimed, well-night distracted, and seizing the hand

which she offered him, drew her into the hut. "Can I?--may I

hope?--Will you indeed ..."

"I must ask you to pardon me," she replied blushing still more deeply:

"I could not wait till to-morrow, but read your letter the moment you

were gone. Then, I may as well confess all,--I had to sustain a severe

conflict within me, but I soon felt that I never could again arrive at

a clear understanding of my own heart, if I let you depart. You have

broken your vow, and have resolved to bear life for my sake, I can only

return this by surrendering myself to you. He to whom I pledged my

faith, never had another wish during his life than to see me happy. I

am convinced that if I could now explain to him how all this has

happened, he would release me from my word. When I had clearly

perceived this, I could find no rest. I have confided everything to my

brother-in-law. He has remained behind with a heavy heart; but he told

me to shake hands with you in his name. 'If he can make you happy

Lucille,' these were his last words, 'I will try not to hate him.' Will

you make the trial my dear friend?"

Unable to contain himself any longer he fell on his knees at her feet,

clung to her hands, and buried his face in the folds of her dress. He

could not utter a word except her name, which he stammered out

repeatedly in faltering accents.

"How is this?" she whispered. "Overcome this emotion, and be a man. You

ought to be my support; I must look up to you. Have I not done so,

during all these days?"

He rose slowly. "Pardon me darling," he said, pressing her to his

heart, and ratifying on her lips a mute vow. "My knees could no longer

support me. This day has brought me too much misery and bliss. Now I am

strong again, now my heart can once more sustain hope and happiness.

Let us walk to the carriage, I am impatient to embrace our child."

DOOMED.

DOOMED.

Meran, 5th October 1860.

A week has passed since my arrival and I have not written a line! I was

too much exhausted and agitated by the long journey. When I sat down to

write, gazing on the white blank pages, it seemed to me as if I were

looking into a camera obscura. All the scenes which had greeted me on

my journey appeared so clearly and vividly before me and chased each

other as in a feverish dream till my eyes filled with tears.

More than once during the journey I had felt the tears ready to start,

but I was not alone, and I had no desire to be pitied, and questioned

by the strangers who occupied the carriage with me.

Here it is different--I am alone and free. Already I have learnt by

experience that solitude only can bring freedom. Why am I, even now,

ashamed to weep? have I not a full right to do so? Is it not sad that

my first glimpse of the beauties of this world should also be my last?

Truly it were better that I closed this book, and left the blank pages

as they are. With what can I fill them but with useless complaints. I

had imagined that it would be pleasant and consoling to write down

every thought that crossed my mind, every event in this my last winter.

I wished to bequeath this book to my dear brother, my little Ernest,

who is as yet too young to understand life and death; but some day or

other he would prize it, when, asking about his sister, he found no one

to answer him. Now, however, I see it was a foolish thought. How could

I wish to live in the memory of those dear to me, in the image of my

last illness. Better that he should forget me, than have impressed on

his mind these pale features which frighten even me when I look at them

in the mirror.

Evening.--

--The atmosphere heavy and lowering.--

For several hours I have been sitting at the open casement. From thence

one can overlook the beautiful country of the Adige. And far beyond the

walls of the town and the wide-spreading[3] poplars which border the

stone-dike beside the rushing Passer, the view extends over the lower

pasture-lands, intersected with a hundred rivulets, where the cattle

feed, to the distant chain of mountains which bounds the horizon. The

air was so still that I could hear the voices of the promenaders on the

_Wassermauer_[4]--or was it a fancy of mine?

The children of my landlord, a tailor, peeped in curiously through the

door till I at last gave them the remainder of the chocolate in my

travelling bag. How joyfully they ran down with it to their mother!

Soon I became more calm and cheerful. I found that I had been wrong in

dreading my own soliloquies. Why, even considering these leaves as a

legacy, should they only contain sorrow? Did I not leave home, where I

was tied down by a hundred fetters with the full determination for

once, to enjoy life and liberty? And shall I now bear witness against

myself that I am unworthy of that freedom?

Certainly it will be but a brief enjoyment, but all the more firmly

will I grasp it and not embitter it by weakness and absorbing

self-pity.

The landlady told me that this morning a burgher of Meran, who had

never suffered from illness in his life, had died suddenly in his

prime. They had all expected that he would attain to a good old age,

and, probably, he had thought so himself. Comparing my fate with his,

is not mine preferable? Probably, like the generality of men, he had

spent his days in toil and labour, looking forward to a time when

having earned a sufficiency, he would be able to rest, and enjoy the

remainder of his life. His end was unexpected, whilst I know mine. And

is not this difference all in my favour? Is not spring yet distant, and

should I so fully enjoy this reprieve, were its short duration

concealed from me? Oh, truly it is a blessing not to be overtaken, and

surprised by death; to watch his slow approach, and only then, face to

face with him, learn to live. I can never sufficiently express my

thanks to our doctor, my dear fatherly friend, for not keeping the

truth from me--thus has he fully redeemed the promise he gave to my

dying mother, always to stand by me as a friend.

The night has now set in. I can hardly see what I write. In my whole

life, I have never felt so thoroughly at peace as here, in this

beautiful forecourt to the grave.--Father! that I could but waft one

breath of it to your depressed and sorrowful soul. Good night! Good

night, my little Ernest. Who has put you to bed to-night? Who shall now

tell you fairy tales to send you to sleep?

The 6th Afternoon.

To-day as Frau Meisterin brought up my dinner, she eagerly tried to

persuade me to take a walk and not to sit so much at home. It was so

fine on the Wassermauer. So many people were to be seen there; she was

sure it would divert me. I could not make her understand that all I

wished was to collect my thoughts, and not to divert them; and that I

did not feel the slightest desire for the company of strangers. At

last, I convinced her by declaring that I was still so weak and so

tired with the journey that the two steep stairs were as yet too much

for me. Then she left me, and I continued to write.

I have been obliged to put aside my embroidery; it now hurts my chest.

I had even to send away my landlord's little girls to whom I had

intended to give sewing-lessons.

To-day a doubt weighs on my mind. It seized me suddenly for the first

time on waking this morning, and came upon me with great force and

persistence. I want to solve it now. Strange, that it should not have

struck me sooner. I was so fully convinced that I was doing right! I

knew that no one would miss me at home, that my father felt pained at

every unkind look my step-mother gave me, that I could no longer be of

use even to Ernest, since my step-mother had insisted, in spite of his

tender age, on sending him to school, only to avoid seeing him, and

having to take care of him.

My father shed tears when he clasped me for the last time in his arms;

still my departure relieved him. He wished what is best for me, but

what can he do?

This morning, however, the question suddenly occurred to me, whether I

had not left other duties; whether any human being, not utterly

disabled, has a right to sit down idly or go holiday making for a whole

winter. Only since I have felt happy; since the littlenesses of the

empty commonplace provincial life have ceased to oppress me, have I

begun to question myself as to what right I had to enjoyment, more than

all those thousands to whom death is not more distant, than it is to

me, and who are forced to strive and wrestle to their last breath, and

here am I closing a truce with the enemy, and celebrating a festival as

if I had been victorious.--

7th October.

That question for which my poor head could find no answer, I have

solved to-day when I came home as shattered from my first walk as if I

had laboured for a day in chains. No, I am fit for nothing but rest,

and if it taste sweeter to me than to many, that cannot be a cause for

self-reproach. Am I not more easily contented than others? If I am of

no use, am I a burden to any one? Even if I did not avail myself of the

small inheritance left me by my mother, but kept it intact for my

brother Ernest, would it exempt him from the necessity of supporting

himself by his own exertions? Part of it will probably remain for him,

for as I experienced to-day, my strength is already scantier than I had

imagined. Who can tell how short my winter in the South may be? I shall

not frequent the walk under the poplars. To-day I felt uneasy among

those poor, coughing, dressed up people, who tottered about with their

baskets full of grapes, and seemed eagerly to imbibe new hope with each

berry. By those whose faces expressed hopelessness, I felt still less

attracted. It may sometimes be soothing to frequent the society of

fellow-sufferers; but when the same fate creates totally different

feelings, then that which could otherwise unite only separates, and one

feels all the more forcibly the difference of character. Not to one of

them, would I have ventured to speak of the peaceful and grateful mood

I enjoyed. They would either have looked upon me as an eccentric

enthusiast, or thought me a hypocrite.

Can they be blamed for it? Possibly I too might have feared death had I

loved life more. And why was my life so little loveable?

Only a few can understand the deep feeling of immensity, and peace with

which nature fills my soul. For two and twenty years I never set foot

beyond the walls of a small uninteresting commonplace town. In these

days people travel much. But for the long illness of my mother, and

after her death, the care of my little brother, I too would probably

have wandered forth from that desolate little place. This beautiful

valley already seems to me like the world to come, like a true Garden

of God. The first time I inhaled this air, I felt as if I already

glided over the earth, borne on the wings of my soul. It was certainly

a pity that they did not support me better as I toiled up the steep

narrow stairs, but what business had I to descend them, when every

glance through my windows is an excursion into Paradise.

The people with whom I lodge are very poor. The man works till late at

night, and his wife has enough to do, attending to the wants of her

large family. The inside of the house looks dusky and gloomy. When the

porter of the hotel who from the simplicity of my dress inferred great

meagreness of purse, first took me through the long dark passages, and

the gloomy courts, and we scrambled up the delapidated staircase, over

the landing where dusty furniture, old spinning-wheels, beds, earthen

ware and provisions of maize lay in confused heaps, and the spiders,

undisturbed for many years, spun their webs, I felt oppressed and my

heart beat so that I had to rest at every third step. But the first

glance at my small low room reconciled me quickly to the thought

that this was to be my last earthly habitation. That old fashioned

writing-table with the brass mountings looks like the twin-brother of

the one which stood in my dear mother's room. That arm-chair is just as

high and heavy, and as brown with age, as the one she used. A few bad

prints on the wall, which disturbed me, I immediately took down, and

hung up the portraits of my parents instead. It now seems to me as if I

had been at home here for years. In one of the comers on a black wooden

console stands a crucifix which though I have not been brought up to

it, causes me deep reflection. I have received all my books. My father

sent them after me and now I want nothing more. At the same time he

wrote me just such a letter as I expected from him. That trait of

conforming oneself to what is unalterable without further struggle, I

have inherited from him. Six lines from Ernest to tell me that he is

very happy at school with his little comrades, and a greeting from my

stepmother; at least, the letter contains one, but probably my father

has added it without asking. Now I will write home. How much more

freely could I do so, if I knew that my letters reached my father's

hands only.

The 10th--Evening.

What strange people one meets with! An hour ago I was sitting, quite

unsuspicious of any interruption, at my window reading, and enjoying

the mild evening breeze--the sun now sets at five o'clock behind the

Marlinger mountain, yet the air retains the mildness of a summer

evening, and the tips of the high mountains to the East, a ruddy glow,

for many hours longer--when there came a knock at the door, and a short

stout lady, quite unknown to me, entered coolly, and introduced herself

to me, expressing a most cordial desire to make my acquaintance. She

had seen me on the Wassermauer the only time I had walked there, and

had immediately taken a great interest in me, for I was evidently very

ill and very lonely, and she had resolved to speak to me the next time

we met, hoping to be of some use to me.

"For you must know, my dear child, that I, as I stand before you, am

fifty-nine years old, and have not been ill for one day, except during

my confinements. My two sons, and three daughters are also, thank

heaven, perfectly healthy, and are all of them married and settled in

life. But you see I have always had a passion from my earliest youth

for helping those people who were not so well off as I am, for nursing

the sick, and for rendering the last offices to the dying. My late

husband used to call me the privileged life preserver; you cannot

imagine a better nurse than I am, for you see I am of a generation when

professional ones were as yet unknown. I can easily do without sleep,

and can even assist at any operation without the least show of

weakness. I have come here with a friend of mine who cannot last much

longer. When the poor thing is released from her sufferings, I shall

have more time at my disposal than now; she has always to entreat me to

leave her and take some exercise--and so my dear child if you want

support, advice, or help, apply to no one but me; you must solemnly

promise me this. Of course I will no longer allow you to spend your

days all alone. I will often come to see you. I never stand on ceremony

with my friends, and so you must take it kindly if I tyrannize over

you--it will be all for your good. I understand nervous complaints as

well as the best of doctors--amusements, air, excitement, are the

remedies I prescribe. _A propos_, which doctor have you consulted

here?" I answered that I had not applied to any, neither intended to do

so as I knew that my malady was incurable. She shook her head

incredulously, so I took from my portfolio a sheet of paper on which

our doctor had drawn a sort of representation, to shew how far the

disease in my lungs had spread. She examined it with experienced eyes.

"My dear child," she at last said, "this is all nonsense, the doctors

are all the same, the more they talk, the less they know. I could lay

any wager that your interior has a totally different aspect from this."

I told her that she had every prospect of being able to ascertain this,

but that I declined the wager, as unfortunately I could not win it

whilst alive. She only partly listened to what I said, and she

continued in so loud a voice that it pierced to my very marrow, to give

me an account of different illnesses which tended to shew how little

doctors were to be relied on, accompanying it with so many details,

that it would have made me sick, if I had not had courage and presence

of mind enough to cry for mercy. At length she rose, and in taking

leave she made a movement as if to embrace me, and was evidently

surprised when I coldly and stiffly gave her my finger tips. She

rustled out of the room in great haste, and with many promises to

return soon. I had to sit for half an hour with closed eyes to calm my

nerves. A sharp odour of acetic ether which surrounded her and which

she strongly recommended to me as a powerful neurotic, is still

prevalent in the room, and those sharp peering eyes, and the determined

expression of philanthropy in her broad face still haunt me. Only the

thought, that for some days at least, I was safe from another invasion,

gave me some consolation. But my former _tete-a-tete_ with destiny;

that which gave a peculiar charm to this place are now lost to me,

unless I speak to her yet more intelligibly; and that, even in a case

of self-defence, would be most painful to me.

And is this human sympathy! The few who love us pain us by it, because

we see that they suffer with us--and those who do not love us--can they

please us? "Only beggars know, what beggars feel" I once read in

Lessing. But can beggars give alms?--

The next Morning.

I have had a restless night. I am so little in the habit of speaking,

and being spoken to that the shrill voice of the charitable lady still

resounds in my ears. In my dreams I had a fierce quarrel with her, till

at last she took off her fair front and threw it in my face--I woke up

with a shudder and bathed in perspiration. What rude things I had said

to her, among others that I would bequeath to her my lungs, preserved

in spirits of wine. How exceedingly impolite we are in our dreams!

I dressed myself hastily, but even now I am in terror of another

invasion--my humble little corner, where I had hoped to die

peacefully--this too has been disturbed. Even here I cannot find quiet!

I really must go out and try to find some safer hiding-place.

In the Afternoon.

To-day I have met with great events and have boldly surmounted

them--first a high mountain then an adventure with a savage--finally I

have revelled in nature, and solitude to intoxication. And although I

am so tired that I have to summon all my energy every time. I raise my

hand to dip my pen in the ink, yet I have renewed my inward strength,

and have got over the effect of last night's encounter. Now I could

boldly confront a whole company of coffee drinking sisters with false

fronts.

How beautiful is my burial place, how marvellous the light that streams

on it. I fancied that I had already remarked the magical effects of

this light, but find that only to-day the scales have really dropped

from my eyes. Seriously I believe that what we in the north call

_sunshine_ is only an imitation of it, a cheap mixture of light and

air, a sort of gilded bronze in comparison with the real solid

priceless gold which is lavished here.

I moved slowly up the cool and gloomy Laubengasse[5] where a shiver

always seizes me and a peculiar oppression stops my breath. Then I

reached the small Platz with the fine old church. The Platz appeared

all black and red with the costumes of the peasants of the

neighbourhood, and of the valley of the Passer. Their trim holiday

dress consists of a short dark jacket with red facings, red waistcoats,

and broad brimmed hats. Most of the people are fine-looking and

stately, the men however, much handsomer than the women. Of the latter,

I have only remarked since I came, two pretty faces with regular

features.

As it was a peasant's holiday, they stood about in dense groups and

none of them took the least notice of the suffering stranger who glided

past their clumsy elbows. Over the whole Platz hung a thick cloud of

acrid tobacco smoke, which gave me a fit of coughing, so I preferred to

go round the church rather than endeavour to push my way through the

uncivil crowd.

In the buttresses of the church, old tomb stones were immured. On one

of them I read an inscription so full of meek resignation that I was

greatly touched by it. One, Ludovica, was buried underneath it in the

year 1836. I will write down the inscription, I learnt it by heart:

"Separate they lived, and lonely,

Father, mother, and only child

Till death had them together bound.

In blessedness themselves they found,

For aye and ever now united.

So the early fading of the rose,

Is to be envied; it is repose."

The quiet and fervent tone of these verses accompanied me for many

hours. I walked pensively along the narrow streets up to an old gateway

which leads through a weather-beaten tower, scarred with French

bullets, into the valley of the Passeier. The view which from thence

suddenly opened before me filled me with awe, by its strangeness,

beauty, and grandeur. I sat down for half an hour on a large stone

beside the gateway, from whence a steep path leads to the Kuechelberg,

and up to an old tower, formerly a powder-magazine, which now

peacefully keeps watch over the vineyards like a pensioned veteran.

Just before me on a rock which projects from the Kuechelberg, I

perceived the ruins of Zenoburg, and considered whether my strength

would carry me thus far on the broad and uncared for road, or if I

should content myself with crossing the stone bridge from whence I

could see the cheerful village of Obermais. A woman approached me with

a basket of grapes and peaches on her head. I bought some fruit and

after eating it felt invigorated. So I set off, pausing at every step

to look down on the Passer whose water now dark blue, now flaked with

white foam, flowed through the arch of the bridge. How boldly yet

lightly the vines hang from the rugged rocks on the banks of the river;

among them grows the wild fig-tree covered with purple fruit. Running

water conducted in canals refreshes the leaves, and now and then turns

a wheel. Large chesnut-trees rise from the depths. Everywhere luxuriant

growth and rejoicing nature meets the eye. Mine rested with especial

pleasure on the varied colouring of the rocks; here of a warm brownish

tint, there of a silvery grey. How picturesque those peasants, in their

bright costumes look, coming down from the Kuechelberg, and that cart or

rather two wheeled sledge, drawn by strong whitish grey oxen, and laden

with vine-leaves, descending the Zenoburg. And above all a sky the

colour of which, I had held till now, to be a fiction of poets, and

painters. While I so walked on and wondered, I said to myself this is

all mine this is my joy and no one can take it from me. Could it be

more mine if instead of, for one moment, I had looked on it for

centuries? Who can say if the best part of every pleasure does not

consist in its transientness; how otherwise could the happy ever grow

tired of their bliss....

I had probably walked on too fast while thinking of all this, so that

when I reached the top of the hill, I had to rest on a bench which

stood before a pretty house. My eyes closed in involuntary slumber. All

was still around me, only the Meran church bells which deafened me

below sounded softly up here and lulled me to sleep. How pleasantly we

dream in the mid-day sunshine, when the light penetrates our closed

eyelids, and blends in our fancy with the marvellous colours and rays

which have nothing tangible or earthly in them. Sitting quite still for

some time, I probably went to sleep, but suddenly I started up as I

felt something cold and moist touch my hand; it was nothing worse than

the nose of a large dog, who standing beside his master, watched me

curiously. But the appearance of the latter was so horrible, that I

would willingly have believed it to be a dream, to be got rid of by

speaking and moving. It was a tall bearded man whose age I could not

define. His hair hung over his forehead, he wore a heavy and enormous

hat, covered by a wilderness of cock's feathers, fox tails, and strange

furs, casting a fierce shade over his eyes, which however as I remarked

afterwards, had a most innocent and harmless expression. Probably I

plainly showed my terror, for the mysterious apparition, which seemed

to have risen from one of the old tombs of the Zenoburg, laughed

good-naturedly, holding a very small pipe between his even white teeth,

he told me not to be frightened. He was only a Saltner, who watched the

vineyards, and as I had entered his district he requested a penny for

tobacco. In my consternation, I gave him half a florin in silver, and

hastily turned away, as I did not feel quite secure in the close

proximity of his bright spear. But the piece of silver which is scarce

here, or perhaps a holiday humour made the giant quite tame and

officious. He walked without ceremony by my side, and noticing that I

climbed with difficulty, he energetically supported my arm with his

great paw. I had to put a good face on the matter, and indeed; ended by

being thankful for his help, as I could hardly have managed to ascend

alone the last steep bit on which the ruins of the castle stand. It

struck me how reserved he was in his questions, and how communicative

about his own affairs. Comparing this charitable brother with the

uncharitable sister, who had visited me yesterday, how much more

elevated was the natural feeling of this peasant, than the obtrusive

refinement of the so-called higher classes.--On the top of the hill it

was indeed beautiful. With the exception of a small chapel and a

solitary tower which remain intact, the castle is in ruins; only a few

fragments of walls, thickly covered with ivy, are standing. Luxuriant

grass grows beneath them, tribes of lizards rustle over the sunny

stones. Tangled creepers of every description hang over the walls, and

far below, so that a falling stone would dash perpendicularly into the

water, the unruly Passer flows underneath the shelving rocks at the

foot of the hill.

My armour bearer pointed out to me, on the opposite heights towards the

south, many old castles and small villages, where the vine cultivators

live, and told me the names of the different mountains, as I

comfortably sat on the grass with his dog lying beside me.

At noon the church bells rang; he ceased talking took the three

cornered hat off his head and the pipe from his mouth, and crossing

himself devoutly, he prayed in silence. When the sounds had died away,

he put his hat on again, puffed at his pipe, and asked me if I were

hungry.

I answered in the affirmative, but said I was still too much exhausted

to undertake my homeward journey. Without a word he descended the hill

with stalwart strides, and disappeared.

Ten minutes later a little girl carrying a basin of milk, some bread

and a piece of the fete-day roast, hurried up the hill and looked about

for me, then silently and timidly placed the very welcome refreshment

before me. After many vain attempts, I at last coaxed the child to

speak to me. She told me that the Saltner had ordered it all for me in

the house below; he himself was busy in the vineyards, and would not

come again. The child then ran away and left me alone to feast in this

delightful solitude. Never had I eaten a more delicious meal. I was

quite ashamed of having consumed all, and having to carry back the

empty dishes.

With difficulty I persuaded the good people to accept some money;

probably the Saltner had forbidden them to take any. In vain I looked

for him on my back. I do not even know his name.

Is this not quite an adventure? and have I not reason to note this day.

October the 12th--Morning.

This morning on waking, I thought how strange it is, that each

different class should envy the supposed freedom of the other, although

no true freedom can be found where the sense of this difference of

classes exists. Perhaps while I am casting a longing glance at the life

of these poor peasants who pass their days among vines, fields of

maize, and mulberry-trees, and who know as little of the hundred narrow

conventional considerations of propriety which rule the so-called

refined classes than the silk worm knows of the glittering misery which

may one day be covered by his web; to them the life of a town lady who

if she chose might spend her days in waltzing may seem a life of

supreme happiness and freedom. They are tied to their labour hour after

hour, and when they rest on Sundays they can as little free themselves

from the tedious customs which confine their enjoyments, as they can in

the heat of a summer-day, exchange the heavy woollen skirt with the

hundreds of plaits, for a lighter dress.

The educated classes certainly have this advantage that they _can_

emancipate themselves when they will, but still would such a one not be

blamed by his equals, just as peasant is blamed when he goes out

shooting in the harvest time? Altogether....

1 _o'clock_.

No I will not bear this any longer, if I had to challenge the whole

world for it. The dying surely need not lie, need not submit to be

tormented, and smile complacently all the while. I am so revolted and

harassed--my nerves are so bruised, that I wish for a speaking trumpet

to be able to declare through it at the open window, my most solemn

renunciation of all society; unfortunately my tormentors are dining at

this moment, but this must happen sooner or later.

I will have an iron bolt to my door of an hundred pounds weight, and an

iron mask for my face when I take a step out of my room.

The landlady has just brought up my dinner; well it may get cold, I

have no appetite for it. My heart is beating fast with anger and

agitation.

I am sick to death of all the talking that has been buzzing in my ears,

and could no more be stopped than the stream which turns that wheel

beside the bridge. That at least legitimates its noise by its useful

activity.

Among all the good things I had to say of yesterday, I forgot to

mention the vain attempt of "the life-preserver" to see me. Now I

thought she will have at all events remarked that I do not wait for her

permission to breathe the fresh air and for the future will let the

light of her charity shine on more grateful beings. I little knew her.

Whilst I was writing I heard her step coming up the stairs, and laying

aside my diary, I quickly took a letter which I had begun from my

portfolio, and intrenched myself behind it, determined to defend myself

to the last drop of ink.

My poor forces were overthrown by her at the first assault. Letter

writing! tired! what nonsense; it was for my health I was here, and my

nerves required amusement and rest. No, as I had run up the Kuechelberg

yesterday like an unreasonable child, she had come to-day to prevent

the repetition of such suicide and to show me what it was to take the

air in a healthful way. Oh, yes she had found me out, I was not pleased

to see her again so soon! but a young lady who lived by herself was on

no account to be neglected. I was only to submit to her authority, and

would certainly be grateful to her afterwards.

I put on my hat silently and resignedly. I could not even feel angry at

her clumsy and good natured tone, though it made me suffer bodily pain.

Chattering incessantly she dragged me towards the winter grounds, as

the most sheltered part of the Wassermauer is called, for there an old

cloister and its high garden-wall keep off all cold winds, evergreen

shrubs flourish and the rose-bushes are still covered with roses. This

place is always crowded, the band plays and the whole society of

strangers walk there or sit basking in the sunshine. My protectress

seemed purposely to have brought me here with the intention of

introducing me to this beau monde. I had to run the gauntlet of a

curious, but to me quite indifferent crowd of ladies and gentlemen. I

saw not one face that pleased me, heard not one word that reached my

heart. Then the heat under those arbours, the noise of the importunate

brass band, and the rebellion which was chafing within me against this

soft tyranny, nearly drove me distracted.

Still more revolting to me than the dull unfeelingness of the healthy,

was the behaviour of many of my fellow sufferers. There sat a young

countess who as I heard had been parted from her husband, in order to

avoid all excitement, but she was not too ill to notice my simple

old-fashioned dress, which she scanned from head to foot, and then with

a crushing look, she wrapped herself up in her cashemere burnouss, as I

sat on the bench beside her.

And that young girl who treated me as an old acquaintance in the first

five minutes, and told me all the scandal of Meran, though death was

written in her face, and her cough went to my heart. Are those figures

of wax, dressed up automatons, who exhibit all their old minauderies,

though when spring comes they will have to lie in their coffins.

It seemed to me quite a deliverance when the dinner-bell of the hotel

de la poste rang, and most of the company departed and my protectress

had to go to her sick friend. I hardly bid her good-bye. I could no

longer speak, or listen to a word, for I felt quite paralized; so she

has at last obtained her object and tried her cure on me, and the

result is, that both in mind and body I am more dead than alive.

Certainly that is a sort of recovery.

The 13th--Evening.

I have at last succeeded, and cannot sufficiently express my joy at

this achievement. I reflected that it was only just, that if I wished

for freedom, I should purchase it by the exertion of some courage and

determination. Armed with a book, I calmly walked through the winter

grounds without recognizing any one, sat down in the midst of the whole

society and read for several hours without once looking up.

Of course the life-preserver made her appearance and at once approached

my bench, but I coolly told her that talking hurt me; she looked

astonished, shrugged her shoulders, and left me to myself.

I saw very well that she was offended. So much the better! If I find no

better occupation I will do this every day; I feel a certain

satisfaction in it. Whilst I sat surrounded by all those tiresome

people, I triumphed in my courage and the victory I had gained in not

having allowed myself to be daunted. Certainly the conflict had made my

heart beat faster, but even courage is not to be learnt in a day. And

then is it not doubly refreshing to read the grave and beautiful words

of our greatest poets, when from the different conversations around,

one picks up words which show what inferior spiritual nourishment

society puts up with.

Possibly this may be a proud and over vain thought. But some pride

surely is pardonable in one so isolated. Is it not most presumptuous to

retire within oneself, and be contented with one's own society? Surely

he who prepares for death has a right to think of his soul above all

things, and how is this possible, in the midst of the thoughtless,

soulless noise, commonly called conversation?

Already they show me plainly that I am not to their taste. To-day when

I appeared on the Wassermauer, with my book, all the benches were

occupied except one, on which sat only a pale and melancholy looking

young man, who is daily partly led, partly followed by a servant to a

sunny corner of the wintergarden and there sits covered up with costly

furs. Had the ladies, who were talking, and embroidering in the arbours

deigned to move, they certainly could have made room for my slight

person, whose crinoline never molested any one.

I saw however that they had resolved to cause me embarrassment. Oh, how

sharp, unamiable, cold, and even inhuman our faces become, when we are

determined to show our dislike to some one of our fellow creatures! I

felt quite frightened at the stony features, dark looks, and drawn down

lips of the company. But soon I was ashamed of my cowardice, and of

having allowed it to be perceived. So I looked as if I saw no hostility

in their countenances and quietly sat down beside the young man,

leaving space enough between us, even for the wide robes of the

countess. I was deeply absorbed in my book, but though I never looked

up, I knew exactly what were the glances they cast at me, and could

have written down the benevolent remarks that were whispered beneath

those arbours. The sick young man hardly moved, only from time to time

he sighed--I pitied him; he appears to be one of the most suffering of

the invalids here, and to bear his illness with difficulty. He must be

rich for I saw a costly ring glittering on his finger.

We sat side by side for several hours, and I was on the point of making

some observation to him about the book I was reading merely for the

sake of rousing him from the melancholy thoughts which seemed to

oppress him. Where would have been the harm? But now a days, care is

taken to make us feel ashamed of every natural impulse. So I remained

silent and read on. Suddenly he let a silver pencil-case fall from his

hands, as he was going to write down something in his pocketbook; he

made an effort to stoop, breathing with difficulty and I, without much

hesitation, anticipated him, and picked up the neat little pencil-case.

He thanked me with rather a surprised look: I myself blushed deeply,

and hearing a derisive titter from the ladies' bower, I lost my

composure for a few minutes. I thought with most tormenting

perspicacity of all that would be said of the crime committed by a

young lady in being of use to a young man. What would he think of me? I

had slightly glanced at him and remarked no smile on his melancholy

face. If after this proof of how little worldly knowledge I possess, he

thinks me very countrified, why should that annoy me? If I am contented

to be so, why should I be angry with him for perceiving it? He bowed

very politely, as half an hour later I rose to go. By this time I had

come to an understanding with myself, and felt so composed, that I

returned his salutation without the least embarrassment. Even the black

looks of my protectress, who had been immediately taken possession of,

by the other ladies, could not spoil my appetite for dinner.

Here comes the soup unfortunately, it is of a lighter colour even than

the fair curls of the charitable lady. What a pity it is, that with the

dying, taste is not the first thing to depart. How I wish for one good

home cooked dish.--

Evening. The first autumnal winds

carrying with it some poplar leaves.