WALTER AN ARTIST.
"In diligent toil, thy master is the bee;
In craft mechanical, the worm, that creeps
Through earth its dexterous way, may tutor thee;
In knowledge (couldst thou fathom all the deeps),
All to the seraph are already known;
But thine, O man, is Art,--thine wholly and alone!"
Christina sat in her full Sunday attire upon her cushioned chair; she
looked very much excited, and a restlessness, quite unwonted in her
usually calm face, exhibited itself in her whole demeanor. Her small
hands were folded together, and the tears which trembled upon her
eyelashes, and found their way down her sweet face, showed that, though
her prayers were offered up in silence, they came notwithstanding from
the very depths of her heart. A tall boy, with a joyous face, now
broke suddenly into her room: it was the twelve-year-old Walter.
"My darling mother, have I dressed myself as you would like me to do?"
he asked, as he placed himself immediately before Christina, whom he
had already outgrown.
"Kneel down here upon my footstool, my son," said Christina to him,
"that I may see if your shirt-collar fits neatly."
Walter, humming a song, instantly obeyed. Christina arranged his dark
and shining locks, pulled the fine, dazzlingly white shirt-collar quite
straight, and shook off a little dust which had just settled upon his
new suit of fine cloth. She then gazed lovingly at him, threw her arms
round his neck, kissed his brow tenderly, and, in a tone quivering with
emotion, said,--
"May God be with you, my dear boy! May his blessing rest upon the
events of this evening!"
Burg now entered the room with his hat in his hand, and announced that
the carriage was at the door. He too gazed upon his adopted son with
tender emotion; he embraced him in silence, then, helping his sister
to put on her cloak, he led them both to the carriage, which stood at
the gate of the pretty garden.
That the secluded brother and sister should have driven to the town in
a carriage, and in full dress, would have excited the astonishment of
all their neighbors, had it not been generally known that Walter was
to make his first appearance before the public, that he was to play
at a concert which was to take place that very evening. How willingly
would all the good people of the neighborhood have crowded into the
brilliantly lighted hall, to have heard the boy whom they all loved
show his skill in his beloved art! That, however, could not be; but
they thought it very natural that Christina, who never left the house
except to go to church, should in this case make an exception to the
general rule.
The concert-room was crowded to overflowing. After the last notes of
the overture had died away, Walter stepped forward, and bowed calmly
and gracefully to the throng. Struck with the agreeable expression
and bearing of the boy, a light murmur of approbation pervaded the
whole assembly. He played one of the concertos of Beethoven. His tone
was pure and sweet, his execution full of power and energy. Overcoming
every difficulty with apparent ease, he stormed through the allegro,
exciting a feeling of astonishment in his countless hearers; while
in the adagio his melting tones pressed into the depths of every
heart, appealing to the feelings as music only can. Such repeated
acclamations, such noisy applauses, broke from the dense mass before
him when he had finished, that the boy was actually frightened, and,
without making the usual bows and acknowledgments, sprang back and
hid himself among the musicians of the orchestra. But the cries did
not cease, for the audience were determined to greet again the little
artist. Then the chapel-master took the blushing boy by the hand, led
him again in front of the orchestra, and showed with proud joy to the
excited public his favorite and cherished pupil. Again rang the clamor
of applauses loud and long; repeated and enthusiastic cries of Encore!
encore! Bravo! bravo! seemed to rend the very air.
Happy,--yet abashed and half-frightened Walter!
The tears ceased not to flow from the streaming eyes of Christina.
When she heard the darling of her soul play, as she had never heard
him play before, he seemed to her almost strange and wonderful, and
her heart trembled within her; while her breast heaved anxiously and
almost shudderingly at the loud, stormy, and never-ending applauses
which were offered to the child of her love. She scarcely understood
their full import, for she had never attended a concert before; she
looked anxiously into the face of her brother, who was standing near
her seat. He was deeply moved; he grasped and pressed her hand, tears
trembled in his large, protruding eyes, the corners of his mouth were
twitching with excitement, and the strange contortions of face which he
made to try to conceal his emotion, had an almost comic effect. This
was remarked by some of the young people in his neighborhood; they
whispered to each other, pointed him out to others who were near, and
lorgnettes and opera-glasses were instantly directed upon the strange
appearance of the deformed clock-maker. As soon as he observed this,
he immediately withdrew himself from observation. He left his place,
pressed towards the door, escaped from the concert-hall, and the sea of
tones whose waves were now rising, now falling, in their stormful play.
He felt that he must be alone with God, under the holy arch of the
starlit heavens, in order to pour out unobserved the thronging emotions
of his excited heart.
The concert was over. Burg returned to the hall to seek Christina and
Walter. He was detained sometime in the door-way by the press of the
hurrying throng. At last, however, he reached his sister, who told
him that the chapel-master had taken Walter away to introduce him to
a noble family, who loved and patronized art, who gave a party this
evening particularly to the artists and the friends of music; and as
Walter had been particularly invited by the cultivated Countess W----,
whose patronage might be of the greatest service to him, it would not
be advisable or courteous to refuse the kind invitation.
"It is really painful to my heart to be obliged to give up Walter,
upon this evening particularly!" said Christina. "But I did not know
what to do; I could not see you anywhere, and the chapel-master was so
pressing, and in such a hurry! I strongly recommended to our dear son,
however, to be very prudent, and not to suffer himself to be made vain,
or to be spoiled!"
"I am very sorry!" said Burg. "But it cannot be helped. Come,
Christina!"
He led his sister to the carriage, and was silent and serious during
the whole drive home, as he was in the habit of being when immersed in
thought. A few words of deep and highly excited feeling were exchanged
by the brother and sister upon the subject of Walter's brilliant
success on his first appearance before the public, and hopes and fears
alternated in their loving, simple hearts. Wearied by the unwonted
excitement of the day, Christina went early to rest; while Burg opened
a large book, and lighted another lamp, to await the arrival of Walter
home.
Twelve strokes slowly sounded upon the various clocks in the house,
telling Burg it was already midnight. He rose, as he shut the book
of Chronicles in which he had been reading, opened his window, and
looked anxiously out into the dark night. After a considerable time
had elapsed, he thought he heard the distant rolling of a carriage; it
drew nearer,--it stopped before the garden gate. "At last!" said Burg,
heaving a deep sigh, as he closed the window. Almost immediately after,
the door opened, and Walter entered.
"Good evening, my dear son! At last, at last I see you again," said
Burg, as he rapidly advanced to meet him.
"O my father!" cried Walter, as he threw himself into his arms, "what
an evening I have spent! how happy I am!"
Burg gazed inquiringly into the glowing face of the boy; it shone with
intense excitement and proud joy.
"You are still very much excited, my child. You will find it quite
impossible to go to sleep in such a state. Come, then, sit down beside
me, and tell me all that has happened."
"O father, if you had only seen how much they have all honored me! I
was dreadfully frightened, at first, with the terrible noise they made
in the concert-room; but the chapel-master says that was very stupid in
me, and that one soon grows accustomed to all that. The Count laughed
at me for running away, very much, at first, and said I must learn
to bear still higher marks of honor; that I must learn to wear the
immortal crown of laurels, for that, young as I am, I could already
take my place with the true artists; that in a few years I would
surpass them all, and that my name would be sounded with honor through
the whole civilized world. Father! my father! is not that glorious?
Everything was beautiful in the Count's house; such immense rooms I
never saw before. We were soon seated round a table covered with the
most exquisite food. They drank a kind of wine that banged when they
took the corks out, as if a pistol had been shot off, close to your
ears. It foams and foams; it is quite sweet, and tastes excellently."
"Have you taken more than one glass of it, my son?" said Burg, as he
anxiously laid his hand on the glowing brow of the excited boy.
"No, father, I have not. The beautiful Countess ordered me to take the
seat next to her own. Only think, father: the chapel-master says that
was the seat of honor! But the Countess would not let them refill my
glass. She said it was possible I was not accustomed to it; that my
good mother, Christina, would not be pleased if I should be spoiled
by drinking too much of it. But only think,--just try to guess what
happened next!--No, that is not it. Ah! father, you would never,
never guess it! Only think of it! they all drank my health, making
their glasses rattle as they did so; and then they all congratulated
the chapel-master upon having found such a pupil as I am. They drank
his health, too. Ah! there can be no greater happiness in this life
than to be an artist! And I am certainly one already, for they all
declared I was. When I look at the other scholars of my own age in the
institution, I cannot help pitying them; for they are really stupid in
comparison with me, and I do not believe that they will ever receive
such honors as have been rendered to me to-night."
"And whom have you to thank for this distinction?" asked Burg.
"Myself and you!" answered Walter, rashly. "You sent me to a most
skilful teacher; but he has many pupils who have been studying a great
deal longer, yet play much worse than I do."
"Then you have no one but yourself to thank for your talent for art?"
asked Burg.
"Yes, I owe it to my own industry. The chapel-master himself says so."
"Procure me still another joy, my dear Walter! Write me a finished
poem!"
"But, father, how can I do it?" said Walter, quite astonished.
"I will give you plenty of time to do it," said Burg. "I will take you
to-morrow to a most skilful master in the art of poetry; to please me,
you will again be very studious and industrious, and thus you will be a
great poet!"
"My dear father, I am sorry for it, but I think it would be
impossible!" answered Walter. "You know that at school I never wrote
with any ease; indeed, I always found it very difficult, for I have no
talent at all for it!"
"But through your own industry you will certainly learn to compose as
well in words as you have done in tones."
"O that is entirely different!" said the boy, quickly. "I have a great
deal of talent for music, and none at all for poetry."
"Ah, indeed!" answered the father, earnestly. "I thought, because you
had attributed all the honor of the day to _yourself alone_, that you
would be able to make as rapid progress in any other art. But if that
is not the case, it seems to me that you cannot claim all the honor
for yourself alone, for you have just admitted that success in any
art requires, in the first place, talent. Now how have you been able
to create this internal talent, which you confess to be the first
requisite?"
Walter blushed crimson; he looked confusedly upon the floor; then he
murmured: "No man on earth can create that,--that is a gift of the good
God!"
"Then," said Burg, very seriously, "without any merit, any assistance,
on your part, out of pure love, God has endowed you with the beautiful
and glorious gift of a genius for music. You are only fulfilling a
duty, when you cultivate to the utmost of your power the high talent
which you have received from God. Would you not be guilty of the
blackest ingratitude if you would suffer the capabilities with which
he has gifted you to remain uncultured in your soul? And yet you think
that you have done something very extraordinary, and that the honor and
praise which thoughtless men have so freely lavished upon you belong of
right to you alone; whereas all the distinction which has been offered
to you is justly and solely due to God. Because you have done in music
only what it was your duty to do, would you wish to claim merit for a
thing so simple, and would you, in the excess of an idle vanity, forget
your Maker, from whose bountiful hand you have received all?
"The sweet and foaming wine which you drank to-night is called
Champagne. Its taste is very pleasant, yet it is sometimes a poison.
One or two glasses, however, is not injurious. But it is often
forgotten that a bad spirit lies concealed in the pearly drops which
foam and dance upon its surface. He who drinks too much of it loses his
force and his senses, and in his drunkenness resembles the madman who
forgets his God. Such excess often leads to the commission of great
crimes. The applauses of the crowd, the reverence paid to genius, the
sweet flattery always offered to the artist in the most intoxicating
manner, resemble champagne. The bad spirit which is concealed in the
froth of popular applause, to ruin and destroy the artist, is Vanity.
Woe to him if he does more than simply taste the sweet draught! If he
eagerly gulps it down, he draws in Vanity at the same time, which must
lead him to certain destruction; for it entices him away from God, to
whom alone all the fame, all the honor, which men so lavishly expend
upon the artist is justly due. Vanity is constantly hovering over the
robe of light in which all Art is clothed; she skilfully throws her
own spotted veil over the glittering raiment, drawing Art gradually
down to the service of hell. True, divine Art, however, soon discovers
the toils of vanity, and, throwing them off for ever, passes on to
that heaven from which she springs. A demon of darkness unfortunately
too often borrows her form of light, and assists the work of Vanity
in the soul of the artist, which she has subjected to her power. All
that he creates gives evidence of the demoniac source from which his
works spring, and that love and faith no longer make their home in his
spirit. He grows gradually dizzy; he falls from sin to sin, and dies
in wretchedness. An early grave, and the speedy forgetfulness of the
masses who once caressed and flattered him, is sure to be the fate of
the unhappy artist who, in the indulgence of his own vanity, forgets
his God. My dear son, pray that you may be protected from demoniac
pride, from artistic vanity!"
Walter, who had listened to his father with ever increasing emotion,
while his handsome face grew pale with varying feelings, now threw
himself weeping into his arms, while he cried: "Father, forgive me!
I also have been both proud and vain. O, aid me to contend with these
wicked spirits! Suffer me not to be conquered by them!"
"Pray! pray constantly, my son! In the midst of the intoxicating
flatteries which will be offered to you, never forget that it is God
alone who has gifted you with a genius for art; that you are nothing
more than a miserable worm in his hands, and that it behooves you to
bow low before his power, and give to him alone all honor! Never forget
that it is your duty to cultivate the talents he has condescended to
give you to the utmost extent, that you must one day give an account of
the use you have made of them; and when they try to make you believe
that you have reached the highest possible point, remember that it is
impossible to stand still; that you must go on, or fall backward, and
that only in the most constant and unremitted efforts to progress can
your duty be fulfilled! Go now to bed, to sleep, my dear, dear son! May
God be ever with you!"
The preceding conversation, held by Walter with Burg after the
intoxication of his first exciting and brilliant success, made a deep
impression upon his young soul, and exercised a decisive influence
upon the whole course of his life. The growth of vanity was for ever
stifled in its first germ. He struggled restlessly forward upon the
path of Art, but he gave at the same time the rare example of a young,
handsome, and brilliant artist, in the possession of true modesty. He
soon grew accustomed to the applauses of the masses; they reached his
ear, but the poisoned arrows pressed not into his soul.
When Walter had attained his seventeenth year, his master, whom he had
long since surpassed, wished that he should make his name known through
the civilized world, by extensive travels as an artist. Burg determined
to accompany his beloved son, upon his first entrance into the great
world. The parting from Christina was very painful; her tears flowed
long and fast; she believed she would never see her darling again. Only
reiterated promises to write to her constantly, could in any degree
calm her distressed heart.
The young artist had already earned fame and gold in many of the larger
towns, and had made the name of Walter Burg widely and honorably
known, when he came into the neighborhood of the scenes of his sad and
deserted childhood. Certainly no one there would recognize the poor
foundling in the brilliant artist, and he felt the most vivid wish to
give a concert in the immediate vicinity of the tailor musician Bopp,
and to see him and Maggie again. Burg willingly acceded to his natural
request, and the news soon pervaded Geremberg, that the celebrated
young artist, Burg, on his journey to Hamburg, would give a concert in
the town-hall.
The musicians of the town tuned their instruments, and looked at the
music placed before them on their desks. No rehearsal had been given,
because Walter Burg had only arrived the very evening upon which the
concert was to take place. The town musicians determined to play as
well as they could, and if the notes came too thick and fast, young
Burg might himself provide for getting on as well as possible without
them. No person divined that the celebrated artist whom they were
momentarily expecting, and little Walter, whose early efforts they had
often admired, were one and the same person.
Father Bopp sat bent almost double, and held his instrument loosely
in his hand; he had grown much thinner, and looked very sad; for with
increasing age and poverty his termagant wife burdened him every day
more deeply.
The hall was soon full; many people were even standing in the open
door, who had no money to take seats within, among whom was Maggie.
Walter entered, and the concert began. The good people of Geremberg,
even the mayor himself not excepted, had never heard such music before.
The enchantment and delight was universally felt; yet we must confess
that no slight degree of the enthusiasm manifested was to be attributed
as much to the exceeding beauty of the young artist, as to his complete
mastery of art.
Walter played a long time alone; the musicians had all quietly put
down their own instruments, and listened attentively to him. Father
Bopp wept in the excess of his musical excitement.
The concert at last ended. The mayor hastened to congratulate the young
man, to tell him of his astonishment and delight, to ask him to stay
as long in Geremberg as he possibly could, and also to try to learn
something of his life and connections, for it is always esteemed very
interesting to know everything about the destiny of a young artist. To
his great astonishment, he found the young man standing beside Father
Bopp, and putting into his shabby hat the whole sum taken in at the
doors, to which he added a small roll of gold.
"That is too much, sir!" said Bopp; "the expenses for the whole of us
together do not amount to as much as that; besides, the truth is, we
have scarcely played at all."
"But that is all for yourself, alone," answered the young man. "Father
Bopp! can it be possible that you do not recognize me? Yet you yourself
gave me my first lessons upon the violin! Open your eyes a little
wider, and look at me full in the face. I am your own little Walter!"
Father Bopp continued to gaze at him, without being able to articulate
a single word; his mouth was wide open, his hat fell from his limber
hands, while his trembling arms, deprived of all power to move,
anxiously sought to stretch themselves towards the noble form of the
young artist.
"Indeed, it is true! I am really Walter!" cried Burg, as he threw his
arms round the astonished tailor. "Dear, good, kind old Father Bopp! I
remember all the pieces which we used to play together, and have become
what you always said I would be,--an artist!"
The bewildered astonishment of the old man gave place to the strangest
manifestations of the wildest joy. He danced about, he stood on one
leg, he laughed, he cried, he threw his arms round Walter, then bounded
off to gaze in his face, and again returned to embrace him. Burg was
standing in the neighborhood, and witnessed the comic manifestations
of the excited tailor's joy with heartfelt sympathy.
The news that the accomplished young artist was no other than the poor
little foundling, who had lived so many years among them, ran through
the hall like lightning; it soon reached the outer steps, and the
throng who were making their way down them. They all turned back; they
crowded round Walter; they renewed their acquaintance with him, and
declared they had always known he would make an extraordinary man.
At last Walter was free from their noisy demonstrations. He hastened
into his own room, where he found Burg and Father Bopp with Maggie,
whom Walter really longed to see. She was quite grown up, looked fresh
and healthy, and was delighted to meet her early and loved playmate
once more.
While the two old men talked together, the confidence of their childish
years was soon re-established between the young people. Walter gently
asked Maggie how all went on now at home; to which she answered,
sighing, "Just as it used to do in old times."
Conrad was no student, but had become a lazy, useless, worthless
fellow, who gave them all a great deal of trouble; but he was still the
mother's favorite. Poverty had very much increased upon them; with all
her labor, she could scarcely earn enough to support herself; if she
could only gain a little spare money to pay the necessary expenses,
she would like to be married to their neighbor Peter, whom Walter
must remember. Walter consoled her with the hope that he would be
able to send her sufficient money to carry out her matrimonial views,
as soon as he had earned some more. He was able afterwards to do so;
he established Maggie and Peter in a comfortable house, and always
supported old Father Bopp. When Bopp and Maggie used to speak of the
famous artist, and recounted all the benefits he had showered upon
them, then would Mother Bopp cry: "You and he have only me to thank for
all these great things; for if I had never driven the boy out of the
house, he never could have become what he now is. So you have all a
great deal to be grateful to me about!"
[Illustration: MAGGIE AND PETER.
The first dawning of Love.]
After Burg had received from the mayor the clothes which Walter had on
when he was first taken from the basket, as well as the clasped locket
which had been carefully preserved by the squire, he and Walter sat
out on their way to Hamburg. But the interesting events which occurred
there will be best learned from a letter which the clock-maker wrote to
his affectionate sister Christina.
THE CLOCK-MAKER BURG TO HIS SISTER CHRISTINA.
Hamburg.
MY DEAR CHRISTINA:--
You write to me that you have awaited the arrival of each of our
letters with anxiety and impatience, but that after their reception
you have always been happy and joyous. I fully believe you, my
true-hearted sister; for all the details I have given you of the
development of Walter's character have shown him to be kind and good.
His own letters have expressed to you the childlike love which he
feels for you, and he has written to you in what manner he has been
everywhere received, what applause has been showered upon him; and
yet you must have seen, from the simple language of his trusting
heart, that he has not fallen a prey to vanity, but that he is still
the modest and unspoiled youth he was when he parted from you. He has
only a proper sense of his own worth; he loves his art, and practises
it because he loves it; but his great talents have not made him
haughty, presumptuous, or vain; he does not worship himself because
he possesses marvellous faculties, the free gifts of his gracious
Creator. Yes, my dear Christina! I can truly say, with a joyful heart,
that the general and enthusiastic wonder and admiration of applauding
throngs have not puffed up our Walter in a vain conceit of himself,
but that he gives to God alone the glory!
The letters of recommendation and introduction, which were given to
us by the Count, Countess, and the chapel-master, have procured for
us everywhere a good reception. Especially do we find this to be the
case here in Hamburg. But I have already written about this to you,
for I now remember that I asked you, in my last letter, to present
our grateful thanks to the Count, particularly for his introduction
to the Russian Minister, Count Arnoldi. He is a most accomplished
person, and we have been received in his house as if we had been
his own relatives. Walter feels himself strangely attracted to this
lovely family. The minister is an excellent man, and knows perfectly
how to make the best use of his great wealth. Weighty matters of
necessary business keep him closely chained to his writing-desk during
the greater part of the day; but at his late dinner, and during the
evening hours, he is an intellectual and cheerful host. His wife was
born in Livonia, and is a refined, cultivated, and lovely lady. As
a lover and protector of Art, she not only collects together in her
house the most distinguished artists, but has also dedicated it to
the encouragement and preservation of their most masterly works. The
central point of all her love and care is her daughter, the beautiful
Sophie, now twelve years old. The little girl has a remarkable talent
for music, and much pains has already been taken with its cultivation.
Our Walter, still an innocent child in his pure soul, soon won the
sympathy of the beautiful girl, and they are truly attached to each
other. When she plays upon the piano, he often accompanies her upon
the violin; and, in spite of the little time which he has at his own
command after the fulfilment of his various duties, he has already
composed several pieces for his little friend. Her parents are so
attracted by the elegant manners and unblemished character of our dear
son, so much won by his marvellous genius and his youthful beauty,
that they willingly encourage the friendship of the two innocent
children for each other.
We visit every day the house of the Russian Minister, and the ties
between the old and the young become hourly stronger. The son and
heir of the house--about the same age with our son, and also called
"Walter"--makes a remarkable exception to the friendship and love
which his parents and his sister have evinced to Walter. Indeed, he
seems actually to hate him; and as his manners are exceedingly rough
and rude, he has made him feel his dislike in the most wounding
manner, upon more than one occasion. His step-mother (for he is a
son of the first marriage of the Minister) made the remark, one day,
that Walter, our son, and their daughter Sophie, resembled each other
very much. The young man laughed, and maliciously remarked: "The love
which my mother cherishes for music could alone induce her to see such
a likeness; for how is it possible that the only daughter of the rich
Minister should resemble a travelling artist, who is only the son of a
common clock-maker?"
"Why not?" answered the lady, quickly. "Beauty and refinement resemble
each other, in whomsoever they may be found, as well as coarseness
and vulgarity; therefore, I would not be at all astonished if some
one should remark a strong resemblance between the only son of the
Minister and the boy of one of his peasants!"
The young man blushed crimson; and, looking most maliciously at his
step-mother and Walter, left the apartment, with a threatening gesture
at our darling, who had heard nothing of all this, as he was talking
quite unconcernedly with Sophie in the deep embrasure of one of the
large windows.
The lady of the house made the most graceful apologies to me about
what had just occurred, and, with tears in her large eyes, said: "The
invincible roughness and vulgar pride of this unendurable boy embitter
my whole life, and are preparing a coffin for the noble form of my
excellent husband. They seem to be an ineradicable consequence of his
early education. How happy are you in the possession of such a son!
Let us be candid: we envy you the possession of such a treasure!"
You will probably think, my dear sister, that it would be far better
for me to relate all this to you, if I were quietly seated by your
side, in our own sweet home; and that it would be far more agreeable
if I were to write to you only of our own dear Walter, and of his
brilliant musical triumphs, than of the malicious and unpolished son
of the Minister. You would be right in this decision, and I would
not have written all this to you, if I did not think it was all
necessary as an introduction to the weighty events which I am forced
to impart to you. Yes, my dear, my true-hearted sister! your tender
heart will be filled with joy, and yet your soft blue eyes may shed
many tears. Hear, then, my pure-hearted one, all that has occurred.
May God himself stand by you with his precious grace, and enable you
to bear the heavy hours in which all selfishness, even of the highest
and noblest kind, must be subjected to a fearful proof! May your
self-sacrificing love for Walter enable you to endure all!
I had appointed the next day for our departure. Walter did not object
to it, although he confessed to me that the separation from the
Arnoldi family would be very painful to him, because he loved them--he
knew not why--from the very bottom of his heart. I pointed him to the
brilliancy of his prospects in the future. He acknowledged that his
career was full of hope; yet but slightly consoled he accompanied me,
towards evening, to the house of the Minister, who had invited all the
friends of the young artist together, to spend the last evening with
him at a parting festival in his own house. I hoped that the younger
Arnoldi, who greatly prefers card-playing to the most excellent music,
would be, as usual, not at home. But it was not so. He was there upon
our arrival, and seemed to me to be in a worse humor than ever with
our innocent son. He took his place in the deep recess of one of
the windows, and I soon remarked that, from behind the half-veiling
curtain, he watched every movement made by Walter with a malicious
and suspicious air. We were received with the greatest cordiality and
affection by all the invited guests, and the different members of the
family of the Minister. When the Minister himself asked his daughter
to open the piano, and play for the last time with the young artist,
tears rushed to the bright eyes and rolled down the rosy cheeks of
the beautiful child. At the very moment that Walter and she commenced
their duet, a violent and stormy verbal discussion began at the door
of the music-room. The loud and shrill tones of a woman's voice were
heard far above the instruments, fiercely demanding entrance. After
a moment's delay, the door was thrown open; and, in spite of the
servants, who were struggling to hold her back, a tall and powerful
woman forced herself into the parlor. The Minister moved forward to
meet her, and said sternly: "What is the meaning of this strange
insolence? If you have really urgent business with me,--if it is
necessary that you should yourself have an interview with me,--come to
me early to-morrow morning, at a more suitable time. If your business,
however, is very pressing, you may follow me now into another
apartment."
The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, and looked half-confused
round the room; but, rapidly regaining her self-possession, she said,
defiantly: "They will no more admit me to your presence to-morrow
than they did yesterday and the day before! The command of the young
lord, as the people call him, that your servants should set the dogs
upon me to drive me away,--should beat me from your door,--has made me
raging mad. He needn't think that I am so much afraid of their blows!
He had better not threaten me too far! Now I am determined to speak
out the whole truth! Have you quite forgotten me, Minister Arnoldi?
I am Martha Meyer. I am the daughter of the Meyer to whose care you
intrusted your son, nearly eighteen years ago."
"Very well! very well, my good woman!" said the Minister, considerably
mollified; "it is very natural and very kind in you to come sometimes
to visit your old charge. To-morrow morning I will be disengaged,
and I will then see what I can do to help you. Go down now into the
servant's hall. I will give orders that you shall be well taken care
of. Walter, lead the foster-sister of your childhood out, and see that
she is supplied with all she needs!"
The young man looked very much agitated, and, as he stepped from
behind his sheltering curtain, he seized the woman by the arm, and was
about to hurry her out. But she loosened her arm from his rough grasp,
and screamed out with her whole force: "This is not your own son,
Minister Arnoldi, but my brother, Peter Meyer, who has been thrust
upon you! He knows it himself well enough, but he has no compassion
upon us at all; he leaves us in want and poverty, and when I came
just now to beg him for assistance, he pretended not to recognize me,
threatened to complain of me to the police, and have me driven from
the city. He ordered the servants to set the dogs upon me, and to lash
me out of the house if I ever suffered myself to be seen here again!"
"Cursed liar!" cried the young man, who had in vain tried to hold his
hands before the mouth of the angry woman, and thus arrest the stormy
flow of her injurious words.
She succeeded, however, in holding him at arm's length from her
person, while she continued to shriek: "So, so; I am a liar, am I? Now
that you have openly defied me, I will tell the whole story. Minister
Arnoldi, my own blessed mother, may God forgive her! imposed this
beggar upon you as your child! He is, however, her own son! Your boy
Walter she exposed at night to be taken care of as a foundling! I can
bring certain proof of all I assert!--Set the dogs upon me, indeed!
My own brother, too!"
These words fell like a stroke of thunder upon all who were present.
The astonished guests gathered together in the background; Madame
Arnoldi clasped her daughter anxiously in her arms, as if she feared
some one would tear her away from her; and the Minister exclaimed,
in a tone stifled by emotion: "Proofs! proofs! I must have full and
certain proofs of this horrible story."
My dear, dearest sister! I know your tender heart is beating fast;
that your eyes are too full of tears to see clearly, and that,
trembling with fear and excitement, you are striving to read on!
I, too, suffered intensely. I grasped my Walter's hand as if I was
determined never to give him up. Alas! My throbbing heart rapidly
divined the truth, but it was no time for me to speak, for the angry
woman rapidly proceeded in her strange narration.
"My mother, seduced by your wealth, determined that her darling little
Peter should be your heir. In order to carry out this scheme, she
commanded me one day, shortly after the death of my father, to get
little Walter ready, for that she intended to take him to another
town at a considerable distance, and place him with her aunt as her
own Peter, while she intended to make the real Peter pass as your
Walter. She concluded, however, afterwards to alter her plan. She made
me write a letter, recommending the child to the compassion of all
men. As I saw her sew this paper tight upon the dress of the little
boy, I thought it more than probable that she would not take him as
far as her aunt's. I pitied the beautiful child sorely, for I could
not help loving him; but I was dreadfully afraid of my mother, and I
did not dare to refuse to do as she told me. I fastened securely and
secretly around Walter the locket which you had hung on his neck when
you parted from him; and when my mother asked for it, I told her that
Peter had had it to play with, and had thrown it into the well. Every
word I have spoken is true. I can tell you where your own son is,--for
I soon found out what my mother had done with him, and have always,
without exciting any suspicion, kept myself fully informed about
the fate of your forsaken boy. The well-known clock-maker Burg, now
residing in D----, has adopted him as his own son!"
You must have already divined, my poor Christina, that this
announcement was coming: imagine what an impression these words must
have made on all the by-standers! "Burg! Walter Burg!" was echoed and
reechoed from every quarter of the room.
"Walter Burg is here!" cried Madame Arnoldi, suddenly, as she seized
the cold hand of our almost benumbed darling. "Father, here,--here is
indeed your son!"
"If he is," cried the woman, "he must produce the locket."
Walter trembled from head to foot as he produced that dear possession,
which you know he has worn upon his heart ever since he left Geremberg.
Arnoldi recognized it instantly!
"It is a false imitation, only made to ruin me!" said the unhappy
young man, whom the events of the last five minutes had transformed
to a beggar.
The Minister touched the spring, which was only known to himself, the
locket sprang open, and suffered the picture of a beautiful woman to
be seen. It was Walter's mother! Doubt was no longer possible.
"My son! my forsaken son!" cried the Minister.
"Our son! our artist son!" said his wife.
"My brother! my own dear brother!" exclaimed Sophie.
Six loving arms embraced the bewildered, happy, rich, and noble Walter!
And I? Ah, Christina! my dear sister! I drew back into a quiet corner,
buried my face in my hands, while the hot tears coursed their rapid
way down my cheeks, and tried to reprove my weak, selfish, foolish
heart, which whispered ever to me: "Poor, poor father! you have no
longer a son! For the rich son of the Minister you can do nothing
more! He is yours no longer!"
I must confess, my heart, that this was very selfish! It was human,
indeed, but not Christian. Did we bring up Walter so carefully only
for ourselves? Have we loved him solely because he made us happy, and
not for his own sweet sake? Who should rejoice over his present good
fortune more than we? For although we love him so very dearly, yet
nothing in this world can possibly replace the love of tender parents,
the affection of brothers and sisters! Therefore, Christina, we will
rejoice with our dear Walter from the very depths of our hearts!
We will humbly thank the Merciful One that he chose us to shelter
his early life, to keep him pure from evil, and to turn his young
and grateful soul to the worship of his God! This happiness we have
enjoyed in its purity; it will accompany us to our latest hour; its
memory will never cease to refresh and console us.
My good, my pious, my beloved sister! I call upon you in this hour to
make with me this heavy yet righteous sacrifice; for it is our duty to
give back the blessed names, which make the heart happy, of father and
mother, into the hands of those who claim them by the divine right of
nature.
After the first intense excitement had subsided, after Walter, in the
arms of his parents and amid the tender caresses of his lovely sister,
had somewhat regained his bewildered consciousness, the first thought
of his true heart was for me! He tore himself free from their clasping
arms; he hastened to me, threw himself upon my heart, and said, as he
wept: "Father Burg! O, say you will still be my father! O, what would
have become of me if you had not taken pity upon me? Happy, happy man
that I am! I have now two fathers and two mothers!"
"Yes, and a sister that loves you too!" said little Sophie.
Now you see, my dear Christina, that Walter will still remain our son!
I am very much tired, for these scenes have been full of excitement
for my heart. This long letter has also wearied me, and the fear of
distressing you, my dear, true sister, has so exhausted me, that I
do not feel able to write to you a description of the never-ending
joy-festivals of the family of Arnoldi. I will relate all this better
to you by word of mouth, for I will follow this letter almost
immediately, and I will bring you as many guests as your little house
can well hold,--the Minister, his wife, his daughter, and his and our
son.
Yes, my Christina! you shall soon again clasp the happy Walter to
your true heart; you shall soon learn to know the dear ones to whom
he now justly belongs; you shall receive the earnest thanks of his
grateful father for your holy care of the forsaken orphan; while the
beings with whom it has been the pleasure of God to place us in such
relations shall learn to esteem and honor your gentle virtues!
Will you not, after a few natural tears, my Christina, rejoice with us
all in Walter's good fortune?
I will come the day before the arrival of our guests, so that I soon
hope to hold you to my heart!
God be ever with you, my beloved sister!
Your loving brother,
CHRISTIAN BURG.
The Minister Arnoldi lived in St. Petersburg, where he had inherited
a handsome property. As his young wife became quite sickly there, by
the advice of her physician he took her to Germany. But it was only
for a short time that he was allowed to cherish a hope of her ultimate
recovery there. The young wife was seized with a most depressing
attack of home-sickness; he was forced to yield to her wishes, and,
notwithstanding the advanced season of the year, to commence with the
poor sufferer their trying journey home. When they had arrived at one
of the little towns in the North of Germany, her situation became so
critical that it was found impossible to continue their homeward route,
and soon after he wept beside the coffin of his young spouse. After she
had presented him with a son, she slumbered softly on, until her sleep
became the long and dreamless one of death. The poor widower, with his
helpless orphan in his arms, stood, without counsel or friends, by the
early grave of his wife. It was late in the autumn; the weather was
cold and stormy; how could he venture to undertake such an unpleasant
journey with his new-born and delicate infant. No choice remained to
him but to adopt the means often taken in large cities for the nursing
and bringing up of little children; he trusted his greatest treasure,
his only and darling son, to the wife of a peasant. She was to be his
wet-nurse, and to assume the whole charge of the infant. The pastor of
the parish promised to keep an attentive eye upon the child, and the
woman was to receive through him a rich reward for her trouble. Before
Arnoldi parted from his little Walter, he hung a locket containing a
picture of his mother round his neck, and, oppressed with anxiety and
pain, he set out on his lonely journey home.
The deception and cruel desertion of the woman are already known to the
reader. If it had not been for the sudden death of the worthy pastor,
it would have been impossible for her to have carried such a wicked
scheme into execution. She passed off Peter as Walter Arnoldi, and told
the neighbors that she had taken her own child to her sister, because
the boys disliked each other, and were constantly quarrelling.
Years passed on. Arnoldi was constantly occupied in the most important
business, and, as he feared the effect of a change of climate upon the
constitution of his son, he thought it best for the boy to be permitted
to remain with his nurse, who constantly gave the most encouraging
accounts of his increasing strength and of his unbroken good health.
Besides, Arnoldi had married again, and was very happy in his second
union, while the birth of a daughter placed the memory of the son whom
he had never known still more in the background. After he had taken
a house and settled himself finally in Hamburg, he sent a faithful
servant to bring home his only son. He was almost frightened when the
ugly, awkward, rough, little boy was presented to him as his child. He
reproached himself bitterly with having left him so long in such rough
hands, and sought through redoubled love and attention to compensate
for the time he had permitted him to be with entire strangers. But all
his care and trouble availed but little; his son assumed, indeed, the
outward form of refined society, but his mind continued rough and
unformed. Lazy and idle for all mental effort, he was very cunning
and skilful in reaching his own low aims. His sister had told him on
his departure who he really was, and that it was his duty to send her
plenty of money as a reward for keeping his secret. He thought it
proper to do this at first, but he soon gave it up. Thereupon, she
threatened him to disclose all, and he again sent her money. At last,
she received nothing but the advice to trouble him no more. This seemed
to awaken Martha's long slumbering conscience. Being once on a visit
at D----, she heard accidentally that the clock-maker Burg had adopted
a child who had been exposed and deserted at Geremburg. She now knew
where the little boy, whom she had left in possession of the locket,
was to be found. She visited Hamburg with the intention of getting
money from her brother, by constantly threatening to betray his secret
to the Minister. She did not know that Walter was then in Hamburg.
The harsh reception given her by her brother irritated her almost to
madness, so that she betrayed more than she had any intention of
doing. But that beneficent God, from whom no secrets are hidden, had
arranged it in such a manner that all who were concerned were to meet
at the proper time and place.
The Minister was so overjoyed at the turn things had taken, that
he never thought of inflicting any punishment. He rewarded Martha
liberally for her late confession, and promised to Peter Meyer (who
devoutly persisted in saying that he had not believed a single word of
Martha's story, and that, until he saw the miniature inclosed in the
locket, he thought that he was truly Walter Arnoldi) a considerable
capital, which was to be paid out to him as soon as he should have
mastered any available business, or was willing to commence any
reputable occupation.
Peter, who now plainly saw that he was forced to relinquish all his
hopes as heir, promised to be more industrious; and as he evinced
an inclination to go to sea, he was intrusted with a situation on a
trading-vessel which had once belonged to the Minister.
Walter became, as was to be expected, an artist of the highest fame,
and many celebrated performers were formed in his school. He preserved
his childlike love and reverence for his adopted parents to the hour
of their death; he passed a certain portion of every year in the neat
little house in which he had spent the happiest days of his childhood.
The pious brother and sister gave their property at their death to
the poor; but Walter had purchased, during their lifetime, the house
and garden, with all the clocks and pieces of exquisite mechanism,
and founded an institution, of which it was one of the conditions
that everything within the beloved inclosure of Christina's garden,
everything within the walls of her quiet home, should remain for ever
undisturbed,--consecrated to the honor and sacred to the memory of
Christina and Christian Burg!
CONCLUSION.
THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC AND THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
"Knowledge by suffering entereth;
And Life is perfected by Death!"
After a long life full of honor and blessings, the great maestro,
Walter Arnoldi, was called from this earth to the better land. The pale
Angel of Death, the Spirit of Music, and his own Guardian Angel, stood
at his bedside.
The starry light again glittered round and through the aerial form of
the fair Spirit of Music; the tones of her strange voice were sad, but
soothing. She held a glossy wreath, made of the undying leaves of the
consecrated laurel; and as she bent to twine it round the pale but calm
brow of the artist, she kissed again his broad forehead, and said:
"Thou wert a true priest in the service to which I consecrated thee.
Lo! I have made thy name immortal. My early kiss did not lead thee to
destruction, but kept thy noble soul ever pure from the stains which
pollute the common mass of men."
"That was because I led him where he could learn to know the Light of
Life,--the Son of the Virgin!" said the Guardian Angel. "Without such
knowledge, he would have been ruined; for Vanity and Pride, Falsehood
and Selfishness, stand continually around the gifted, to seduce them
from their duty, to lead the undying soul into the snares of hell. But
he humbly bowed before the greatness of his Creator, because he had
learned to know the Victim Lamb; he loved him, and believed on his
name, to the last hour of his life. He did not claim the glory of his
genius as a distinction for himself alone; he used it for the honor
of his God! Therefore am I sent to bear the faithful soul home to the
throne of God, where, in the tones of heaven, he shall sing eternal
praises!"
"And high and earnest song shall accompany him on his upward way!" said
the Spirit of Music, fondly.
The hymn of praise, in the unearthly glory of its heavenly tones, broke
from the inspired lips of the glittering and radiant spirit.
A smile of strange rapture transfigured the face of the noble artist,
as the music of heaven mingled with the memories of his kindred labors
upon earth. At that moment the pale Angel of Death kissed his quivering
lips, and the three happy spirits, full of joy, bore the redeemed soul
to the throne of God!
In the morning, the scholars found their beloved master dead, and his
head already crowned with a glittering wreath of deep-green laurel.
Vain were all their efforts to ascertain what unknown hand had twined
it there. Unfaded and unfading, it still lies upon the quiet grave of
the true and faithful artist!
BENEVOLENCE AND GRATITUDE,
OR
THE RUSSIAN OFFICER.
CHAPTER I.
The reign of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, was disturbed by a
series of bloody wars, and numerous were the enemies whom his brave
people encountered upon all sides. These struggles were illustrated by
many deeds worthy of undying renown, and the number of those who proved
their love to their king and country, by the sacrifice of life itself,
was fearful. Blooming striplings, the sole hope of their aged parents,
stout men, the stay and comfort of their families, and noble leaders,
whose worth and abilities were universally acknowledged, all fell in
the bloody battles, and apparently in vain, for peace seemed as distant
as ever.
The Russians, under Count Fermor, invaded East Prussia, which Frederick
could not defend, owing to its distance from the main body of his
states. This province yielded, and the Count crossed Poland and
Pomerania with his eighty thousand men, prepared to carry the war
into the very heart of the country. He attacked the city of Küstrin,
which he reduced in a few hours to a heap of ashes. The citadel alone
remained standing, and the Prussian commandant determined to perish
with it, rather than yield.
Information was speedily brought that Frederick himself was
approaching, and this news saved the fortress; for the Russians quitted
Küstrin, and, marching northward, encamped at Zorndorf, between the
Wartha and the Oder. A most bloody battle was soon after fought in this
place. Frederick advanced upon the enemy, who were formidable, not only
from their vast superiority in numbers, but also from their incredible
hardihood.
The Prussians must be victorious, or their very capital would soon be
in the power of the enemy, and their whole country lie at the mercy of
the Russians. Frederick knew this well, and determined not only to
defeat, but to annihilate, his foe. He commanded his men to give no
quarter, and to destroy all who fell in their way.
The battle was long and desperate. The right wing of the Russian army
was finally driven into a swamp, surrounded, and hewn down by the
Prussians, scarcely a man escaping; while the left, eager to avenge
their slaughtered brethren, made a most furious onslaught. But,
notwithstanding their desperate courage, they were driven back, and
obliged to quit the field.
The ammunition was all exhausted upon both sides, and the fight was
hand to hand, with sword and bayonet, when the night came on and put an
end to the bloody strife. The Prussians awaited its renewal with the
coming dawn, for Count Fermor had drawn up his men in order beyond the
swamp; but, after lingering in the neighborhood during the whole of the
next day, he finally withdrew with his army towards Poland, leaving
twenty thousand dead upon the field of battle.
A few days after the occurrences just related, a lively scene was
passing in a little town not far from Berlin. The streets were crowded
with people, especially the market-place, with its tall, neat houses,
whose polished window-panes shone clearly in the bright sunlight. It
was Sunday. Well-dressed dames and young maidens, with their hymn-books
in their folded hands, and their eyes cast modestly upon the ground,
were hastening to the open churches, while their husbands and brothers
gathered in groups before the doors to enjoy a little neighborly
conversation. The deeds of the great king were upon every tongue; the
last battle was variously discussed, and many an honest burgher, who
had never passed the limits of his own little town, thought himself
quite wise and experienced enough to play the critic.
"Ah, good morning to you, brother!" cried the stout grocer Bolt to his
brother-in-law, Doctor Heller, who at this moment came down the street,
accompanied by two other citizens of the town. "Whither away so fast?
Won't you step in and breakfast with me? I will give you a glass of
beer that can't be matched. I never drank better in my whole life; and
that is saying a great deal, for many and many's the brewing that I
have tasted!"
"Thank you, my good friend," replied the doctor, as he heartily shook
his brother's hand; "thank you, but I must accompany these gentlemen
immediately, notwithstanding your enticing offer of beer. But, my old
friend, you will keep it until evening, when I can come in and share
it with you, will you not? You see I am bound to the hospital. The
last battle cost many a poor fellow a broken head, and several of the
wounded soldiers are to be brought here, because the nearer hospitals
are all filled to overflowing. If I am not mistaken, we are to have a
Russian, too, upon our hands, to be taken care of."
"Thunder and lightning!" blustered the grocer. "A Russian! Are we to
entertain and nurse our worst enemies? That is too bad. I would rather
let a whole regiment of Austrians, Frenchmen, Saxons, or whatever
names the rascals may be called by, range at will through my house,
than harbor a single Russian. They are worse than savages, and more
cruel than the fiercest wild beasts. Yes, indeed, my good brother, you
had better keep your Russian far enough away from my clutches!"
"Come, come!" said the doctor, soothingly, "I too hate the Russians
with all my heart, but we must feel as human beings, even towards
our enemies; and the poor fellow they will send us here can do us no
harm. He may have lost a leg or an arm, and even if his wounds be not
severe--"
"What! the Devil!" interrupted Bolt. "If my leg or my arm had been shot
off, that would have been the end of me. But surely these Russians are
not made of the same flesh and blood as we Germans! I will lay you
a wager now, whatever you please, that without either arms or legs
they would burn the houses over our heads. But look! How lively the
burgomaster's granddaughter is to-day! Your servant, Miss Ella!"
This greeting was addressed to a little girl, who had just thrust her
curly head through the half-opened doorway of the opposite house.
"Good morning, neighbor!" replied the child, friendlily, as she skipped
up and down the steps to tease her playmate, a large brown spaniel. The
men watched the little one's wild bounds for a moment, when the fat
grocer broke the silence by muttering, half angrily: "The old man over
there lets that child do whatever she pleases."
"Who can wonder at that?" replied Doctor Heller, as he shook his
brother-in-law's hand previous to parting from him. "The little maiden
is so very lovely! and we should do no better if she belonged to
either of us. But now farewell, old friend! I have already wasted too
much time in gossiping; and do not forget the beer I am to have this
evening."
After this last remembrance, he hastened away with his two companions.
The little girl had meanwhile seated herself upon the uppermost step of
the portico. "Atlas!" she cried to the dog, which had now run into the
street, "my Atlas, will you not come to me?"
The animal ran swiftly towards her, and seated himself lovingly by her
side. She threw her arms around his shaggy neck, and leaned her tender
chin upon his great head. Doctor Heller had spoken truly when he said,
"The little maiden is so very lovely!" for Ella was indeed a beautiful
child. Her dark hair fell in long ringlets upon her white neck, her
forehead was broad and smooth, her cheeks faintly tinged with red, her
large brown eyes, shaded by the long lashes which hung over them as a
mourning veil, were filled with the light beaming from a tender and
loving soul, and her fresh young mouth, with its smiling lips, was so
charming, that the grocer, who was now seated upon the green-painted
bench before his shop-door, could not take his eyes from her lovely
face.
The old burgomaster soon opened the window. "Ella, my dear Ella!" he
cried, "do not go into the street. Had you not better come in, my
child?"
[Illustration: ELLA AND ATLAS.]
But Ella threw up her beseeching eyes, and said to the old man: "Indeed
I will not go down, grandfather; I will sit here quite quietly: but do,
pray, let me stay out a little longer. I would so like to see all those
wagons pass which have just turned into our street."
The burgomaster could not resist her gentle entreaty, and nodded a
kindly yes, saying: "Well, then, you may stay, you little coaxing
pussy; but do not forget that to-day is Sunday, and that mother and I
are waiting for you to come and read the Gospel to us."
He then closed the window slowly, while his eyes rested full of love
and kindness upon the joy of his heart, his little grandchild. She
certainly did not hear her grandfather's last words, for her whole
attention was fixed upon a long train of vehicles, which were moving
along as slowly as if they formed part of a funeral procession. Ella
sat and gazed upon them. The front wagon finally came quite near, and
she then discovered the cause of the slow pace at which they proceeded.
Upon the straw which covered the bottoms of the vehicles human forms,
clothed in torn uniforms, were lying, and every jolt upon the rough
stone pavement seemed to send a thrill of agony through their sensitive
frames.
Little Ella's tender heart was deeply touched by the sight of this
mournful train; bright tears hung upon her long lashes, and her slender
arms involuntarily closed still more tightly around the dog's neck. She
pressed him to her bosom, as if she would thus quiet the throbbing of
her compassionate heart.
The last wagon at length passed before the door. Within it was a young
man, who half sat and half reclined upon the straw, and whose uniform,
differing entirely from that of the others, showed him to be an
officer. He had evidently been severely wounded. His left arm was in a
sling, and he supported his head, enveloped in a rude bandage, upon his
right hand. Both the bandage and the tattered uniform were covered with
dark-red blood-stains.
As the wagon was passing the burgomaster's house, a trace broke, and
the driver left his seat to fasten it. The wounded man looked up, and,
observing the child sitting upon the steps, he raised himself with
considerable difficulty, and drew his hand slowly across his aching
brow. A single look, imploring pity, fell upon Ella; and he then sank
back motionless and unconscious upon the straw. The wagon moved on, and
the driver seemed to pay more heed to his horses than to his wounded
passenger. The little girl's tears fell thick and fast; she watched him
until he had disappeared with the others around a corner. She then made
a sign to the dog, rose quickly, and, as if inspired by some sudden
resolution, hastily entered the house.
Still deeply moved, and her eyes filled with tears, she opened the door
which led to her mother's apartment. The room was richly and carefully
furnished, and bespoke the wealth and taste of its inmates. The long,
flowing window-curtains prevented the sun from shining in too brightly;
and only here and there could a few beams pierce through a crevice,
and as they fell on the floor, they seemed to sport among the roses
adorning the cheerful carpet. Ella's mother sat in a high-backed
red-velvet arm-chair. She was the widow of an officer,--Major von
Herbart. Still in the prime of life, she bore on her countenance, which
had once been very beautiful, the traces of a deep sorrow. A dress of
pearl-gray merino fell in soft folds around her graceful figure, and
her luxuriant dark hair was covered by a simple lace cap. She leaned
against the crimson covering of the chair-back, which rose high above
her head, and her delicate hand held a Bible, in which she seemed to
have been reading. Her eyes were fixed upon the portrait of a young
officer, which hung against the wall opposite to her; and hence she did
not remark her daughter's entrance, until Ella had seated herself upon
a little stool at her mother's feet, and pressed a soft kiss upon the
beloved hand.
"Naughty child!" said the mother, as she stroked the hair back from
the fair young forehead with her white fingers, "how you startled me!
And how long you have delayed to-day to read your Bible to your dear
grandfather and myself!"
Before Ella could respond to this gentle reproach, the old burgomaster
entered the room, and seated himself silently in his accustomed place,
near his daughter. Ella took the Bible from her mother's lap, and, with
a faint and trembling voice, began to read the parable of the good
Samaritan, upon which she had accidentally opened. She had often before
heard this simple history,--indeed, she almost knew it by heart; but
never before had its meaning appeared so clear to her, or penetrated so
deeply into her soul. Her voice became firmer, and the words resounded
more and more significantly from her lips, until, steadfastly fixing
her gaze upon her grandfather's face, she gave utterance to this
sentence: "And he went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil
and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and
took care of him."
But here she suddenly ceased reading, sprang up, and, throwing her arms
around the old man's neck, said: "My dear, my good grandfather! will
you not grant your Ella one prayer,--only one? It is something you can
do, if you only will; indeed, it will not be hard for you,--only please
say 'Yes,' before I tell it to you!"
"Another prayer already, my little darling?" replied the burgomaster,
smiling. "Have you so soon found out that your old grandfather is too
weak and fond to deny you anything? But, be it what it may, I promise
you beforehand, that, if I can fulfil your wish, I will do so; but
out with it, and do not be hiding behind the bushes, for you know how
little that pleases me."
"No, no," said Ella, quickly, "I have nothing to hide; you shall know
all. You surely saw the wounded men who were brought here to-day, and
who, as you told us yesterday, are to be taken to the hospital. Their
necessities will I know be there supplied, but still I am certain many
things will be wanting which would render their sad fate easier to
bear."
"You are right, my Ella; they cannot find there all they may require,
for our town is not large, and very few are the benevolent hearts
willing to make a voluntary offering, after the many heavy taxes we
have all been forced to pay. But you must not forget, my child,
that the men who have thus excited your compassion are soldiers, and
consequently not so spoiled as you are. They can easily do without a
thousand comforts which long custom has rendered necessary to your
well-being. A soldier, who has passed many a night upon the open field,
without other couch than the cold, damp earth, a stone for his pillow,
and a cloak his only covering, has no need of a soft feather-bed to
rest quietly and soundly; a good bunch of straw is all he requires."
The child sighed deeply. The image of the wounded officer who had
fallen back fainting upon the straw, the pleading look which his
mournful eyes had cast upon her, would not quit her excited fancy, and
the desire of assisting him became ever stronger and deeper. "Ah!"
said she, after a short pause, "I would not lie in that hospital for
anything in the world! I was once there when our coachman's wife had a
fever, but I was soon obliged to leave the room; the dreadful heat and
poisoned air nearly stifled me, and I certainly should have died, had
I been forced to remain there long. The common soldiers may indeed
be accustomed to bear much greater hardships; but I saw some officers
lying upon the wagons, and they must suffer a great deal. You have
promised, dear grandfather, to grant my request: take then one, only
one, of those poor fellows into your own house. Others will follow
your example, and thus may at least some of them be well cared for. O,
do not look so doubtingly!" continued Ella, in her gentlest and most
persuasive accents; "I am sure your heart assents to my wish, even if
your lips be silent."
The little girl did not wait for an answer, but left the room, and in
a few moments returned with her grandfather's hat and cane. She placed
them both in his hands, tied on her bonnet, threw a light shawl round
her shoulders; and, having pressed a warm kiss upon her mother's lips,
she led out the half-reluctant old man, who scarcely yet comprehended
what he was expected to do. The widow gazed with tearful eyes upon her
little daughter's retreating figure.
Ella's cheeks soon glowed from the effects of her rapid pace; her
dark locks floated in the wind, and her eyes sparkled with joy. She
hastened onwards faster and faster, greeting with a gracious smile all
the acquaintances whom she met, while from time to time she turned
her head back towards the old man, who in vain signed to her that she
must moderate her steps. The hospital was soon reached. It was an old
building, whose gray walls had already seen many centuries; its lofty
windows were filled with numerous little panes, a portion of which were
broken out; and the whole aspect of the sombre edifice was such, that
no one could wonder at its gloomy effect upon a child's susceptible
imagination. Ella shuddered as her foot crossed the threshold. She
remembered the dismal scenes she had once before witnessed within these
melancholy walls; and, starting back, she covered her face with both
hands. But they were not long suffered to remain in this position, for
her grandfather soon clasped them in his own, and said, laughing, "Aha,
little deer! have I caught you at last? But now you are my prisoner,
and I shall not let you escape, or you will run away from me again,
and I am already out of breath."
"O no!" cried Ella, shuddering, "I could have gone no farther alone.
This great old building fills me with dread. Hold me tight, dear
grandfather, or I shall be so afraid!"