CHAPTER XIV.

Meantime Lorinser had only crept down one flight of stairs and stopped

before the door on the second story. He read the name on the small

sign, listened a few minutes, and then gently pulled the bell.

Christiane opened the door and gazed in surprise at the stranger, whom

she had just seen with Edwin. His penetrating gaze rested on her a

moment, then he raised his eyes toward the ceiling of the entry, as if

solely interested in the spiders' webs.

"Fraeulein Christiane Falk?" said he.

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

"Will you allow me to come in a moment, the errand that brings me to

you can hardly be discussed here--"

She drew back a step from the threshold to admit him. In an instant he

had crossed the ante-room and entered the half sitting room half

bedroom, to which we were introduced the night that this story opened.

Its appearance in the broad daylight was not much more cheerful, than

by the feeble rays of the little lamp. The walls were hung with faded

tapestry, but destitute of pictures. The floor was uncarpeted, there

were no flowers, none of the hundred trifles with which lonely women

adorn their rooms and endeavor to supply the lack of human

companionship; nothing but a quantity of books on the bureau, the

volume of Schopenhauer on the table before the sofa, and numerous

sheets of music scattered in disorder over the piano. The whole

produced the impression that there were no bright eyes here, to whom

life was pleasant for the sake of its charms.

The face of the occupant only too plainly confirmed the testimony of

the mute objects around her.

The features were unlovely, harsh, and no longer youthful, the brows

almost met over the light grey eyes, the hair, thick but not soft, hung

over the pale brow like a heavy shadow. The only charm in this stern

visage, the full mouth with its dazzlingly white teeth, had a decided

approach to a mustache, and by its habitual expression of gloomy

defiance seemed to contradict the idea that this face could ever wish

to please. The same avoidance of all desire for comeliness was visible

in the dress. But even the most clumsy folds could not wholly conceal

the fact that the masculine head was placed on a most exquisite female

figure.

She stood quietly by the table, opposite to Lorinser, who without

waiting for her invitation, had thrown himself upon the little sofa and

was scanning the apartment with his lightning like side glance. With a

careless gesture of the hand he invited her to sit down beside him, but

she remained standing motionless, with folded arms.

"Honored Fraeulein," said he, "I have heard so much of your talent, my

friend Doctor Edwin, your fellow lodger, has just confirmed it so

warmly, that it seems to me like a direct interposition of Providence

that I have now found my way to you. My business can be stated in two

words. Some friends who were not satisfied with the public worship of

the church, have for some time arranged a quiet service of their own,

in which music occupies an important part. The lady who formerly played

the harmonium, has gone away. There is no one among us who could take

her place, so I undertook to provide a substitute. I thought of you,

Fraeulein. That you are no virtuoso of the common stamp, but a person to

whom the mysterious nature of true, genuine music is revealed, I see by

a single glance at that book, in which I read the names of Bach and

Glueck, and--allow me to speak frankly--one look into your eyes, which

beam with a deeper radiance than those of ordinary women. Those eyes

bear witness that your music is your religion. I will not conceal from

you that this point of view does not yet seem to me the highest one. To

me, music is only a stepping stone to divine happiness, though

certainly one of the nearest to the throne of the Eternal. However, I

am not here to preach to you. Besides, no one in our circle will annoy

you by the supposition that you will share our devotions. But for what

you give us, you will in every sense be richly rewarded. I only beg to

tell you on what conditions--"

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

interrupted.

He seized the book that lay on the table before him, turned the leaves

without apparently taking any notice of their contents, and after a

short pause replied:

"You will perhaps think differently, Fraeulein, when I tell you that you

need not attend these religious exercises in person. The instrument

stands in a room, which is divided from the hall where we assemble by a

tolerably large apartment. You will play as if to yourself, and not a

whisper of what takes place in the little congregation outside, will

reach your ears. In this way both you and we will be spared any mutual

annoyance, and only share what is alike to all."

He looked at her with a keen, searching glance. She was gazing into

vacancy, and seemed to be considering how far she should reveal her

most secret feelings to this stranger. A bitter expression suddenly

flitted over her lips, and her brows contracted.

"Pardon me," she said hastily, "if I must decline under any

circumstances, to take part in what is called divine service. My

reasons for so doing I may be permitted to keep to myself. I doubt

whether they would be understood, far less appreciated by you, and I am

not accustomed to be faithless to my convictions, even for the large

fee you intimate I should receive."

"Your reasons?" he said smiling, as he rose and approached her. "Will

you permit me to read these reasons, or rather this one motive from

your brow?"

"Sir--"

She looked at him in astonishment and retreated a step, as if to

protect her personal freedom. He stood still and again gazed steadily

at the ceiling.

"The one reason that you will take no part in any religious service,

is: that you have no God whom you desire to serve," he said in the

frankest possible tone, as if he were speaking of something that was

quite a matter of course.

She did not answer immediately. The man's amazing assurance seemed to

intimidate her. She was forced to arm herself with her old defiance ere

she could reply.

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

table?"

"My dear Fraeulein," he answered kindly, "if I had had the honor of a

longer acquaintance with you, you would expect me to be able to solve

so easy an enigma without such aid. The author of that book, believe

me, with all his atheism, knew more of God than you do--at least at

this time, for he knew that which alone leads to Him, and which so far

as I see, has hitherto remained unknown to you, and therefore renders

the natural estrangement from God you share with countless others, so

harsh and apparently necessary: _sin_. You need not answer yes or no.

I'm sure of it: whatever errors and weaknesses have entered your life,

you have never known sin, _that_ sin which alone arouses in the wilful

heart the need, the longing for redemption, the burning sense of our

own weakness and baseness, which makes us thirst for God and is at last

stilled by the dew of mercy. Do you smile, Fraeulein? This language

seems to exaggerated to express the naked truth. Some day you will

remember it, and no longer smile.

"No," he continued as if in sudden agitation, pacing up and down the

room with hasty strides. "I will not give you up. I have felt too

strongly attracted toward you, from the first words that fell from your

lips, to be able to go away now and say to myself: this strong,

beautiful soul will never find the way to the holy of holies. Even such

a powerful guide as music will only lead you to the threshold. Believe

me, my dear Fraeulein, I too have had similar experiences; I too once

said like you: the God who has created heaven and earth and myself, is

too great for my love, too distant for my longing, too silent for my

confidence. And why should I have desired to approach him? What did I

lack, so long as I had _myself_, my virtue, my worldly pleasure, my

good works? Not until the day when I first became familiar with sin,

when I had lost _myself_, did I learn how near this far off being can

come, how eloquently he can console, how lovingly he can draw you to

himself. Since that time all the sorrows of the world, of which that

bewildering book speaks, have seemed to me mere child's play in

comparison to the misfortune of being sufficient to ourselves and

attempting to fight our way through the unconquerable horrors of

existence, by means of common place honesty, courage, and innocence,

the trivial 'always practice truth and justice.'"

He remained standing before her and held out both hands, but she

continued to keep her arms folded over her breast.

"I don't understand you," she replied, "and moreover do not know why I

should take the trouble to understand you--above all, why _you_ should

take the trouble to attempt to aid me in your own way. I do not feel at

all sick, and what I need to make me _happy_ neither man nor God can

give. If the sense of your sinfulness has made you long for a

'Saviour,' I do not envy you this happiness. I am a lonely woman; I

have nothing but myself, my pride, my obstinacy, if you choose to call

it so. If I must lose this, must become a worm and wallow in the

mire--then to be sure I too might probably succeed in crawling to the

cross. But I do not desire a God, who must draw me to himself through

sin and disgrace! If he cannot clasp his honest, upright creatures to

his heart, I prefer to remain a step child."

"You _prefer_." said Lorinser in a low, but very impressive tone. "If

you always _can_ do so."

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

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

"I am too old for nursery tales."

"Oh! my dear child," he replied, "there are nursery tales which we

first experience, when our infant's socks are laid aside and we have

discarded the nurse's milk for sound human reason. Have you never

learned that some power is exerted over our wills by a sudden, as it

were magical influence? Has no eye ever bewitched you, no voice ever

set your blood on fire, no hand ever destroyed your defiant obstinacy

by a single touch?"

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

"How do you presume to play the part of an inquisitor toward a lady

whom you see for the first time?" she vehemently burst forth. "Be kind

enough to leave me, sir, our conversation has taken a turn--"

She drew back as if to leave the way to the door open. He smilingly

took his hat from the table, but remained standing in the middle of the

room, waving it carelessly to and fro, with his eyes fixed upon the

floor.

"You wrong me," said he. "I am not so indiscreet as to seek to force

myself into your confidence. What I said was aimed at people in

general. Inspired poets and sentimental children of the world talk of

the magic of love. As if these things were not perfectly natural, so

natural that the power exercised over the will has been very properly

compared to chemical processes. The word magic can only be used when

unnatural--supernatural things occur. If you follow the promptings of

your inclinations, your blood, your nature, even were it along the

worst paths, to the greatest injury of yourself and others--is there

any witchcraft in it? Error, weakness, perversity--I repeat it--are

very human evils, and do not lead to God. But to be urged on to what is

most foreign, hostile to your nature, to be forced, in dread and

horror, to do what you abhor, to be faithless to what is dearest--you

see, Fraeulein, that this only occurs under the influence of a powerful

spell, the only one that still remains in this enlightened world, and

whose consequences God scuds his pardoning mercy to destroy or efface:

_the magic of sin_. I beg your pardon for having troubled you so long.

Perhaps I shall frequently have the pleasure of conversing with you

about these mysteries."

He bowed with the look and smile of a man, who has tamed a fierce

lioness and can now venture to enter her cage alone. She stood

speechless, and made no motion to accompany him to the door. Her arms

hung loosely by her side, her chin drooped on her breast, her eyes were

closed as if she had given herself up to gloomy thoughts.

Mohr and Franzelius were just going up the narrow stairs, as Lorinser

closed Christiane's door behind him.

Coming from different directions, they had met at the outer door, and

unwelcome as the encounter was to both--for Mohr, who had his play in

his pocket, would also have liked to see the brothers alone--each was

too awkward or too proud to avoid the other.

They had bowed in silence, and Mohr had allowed the printer to precede

him. When they now met Lorinser on the stairs, Franzelius stepped aside

like a person who unexpectedly treads upon a toad. The incident even

made him forget his unfriendly relations with the eternal joker, and

pausing on the landing he looked after the rapidly retreating figure,

saying in a tone of the most intense abhorrence:

"Did you see that man, Mohr?"

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

his acquaintance, Gracchus?"

"He's the same malicious hypocrite who made that speech before our

society. It's a pity the thought occurred to me too late, I might have

thanked him for the information he gave the police."

"Or helped him down stairs a little faster; he seems to have scented

this _esprit de l'escalier_!" Mohr replied, essaying to jest, but

instantly added with a gloomy brow, "What did the pale rascal want

there? Couldn't she have shut the door on him, as well as better

people?"

"A bed-bug makes its way everywhere."

"You're right, Franzel!" replied Mohr with an angry laugh. Then

twisting his under lip awry, muttered: "Eternal Gods! I would not have

believed that a man could fall low enough to envy a bed-bug!"

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

He who undertakes to tell a "true story"--and ours is as fully attested

as any a novelist ever gathered from family archives--he who represents

life, as it is experienced, not imagined, must be prepared for all

sorts of objections and contradictions. The most improbable events, as

is well known, are those which most frequently happen, and on the other

hand nothing meets with less credence than that which nobody doubts;

though there are exceptions to the rule. Even on the stage we are not

accustomed to have a lover play a character part, any more than it will

be obvious to the readers of this entirely veracious history, when we

report the authentic fact that Edwin, faithful to his voluntary vow,

actually waited until the end of the week before he again entered the

dangerous house in Jaegerstrasse, nay that he even put his resolution to

a still harder test, by waiting until the afternoon and occupying

himself during the morning as usual. Our knowledge of the age he had

attained before being attacked by love, only renders the matter the

more incredible, as childish diseases are always more violent when

contracted in riper years. We have as yet seen too few tests of his

philosophy, of the influence of this stern science upon his character,

to be able to derive any explanation of his stoical abstinence. But

whatever share it may have had in his conduct, when on that Saturday

afternoon, he at last entered the memorable street, he found himself in

anything but a philosophical mood. The hand with which he stroked

Balder's hair trembled perceptibly; instead of the two little volumes

of Wilhelm Meister he intended to put in his pocket, he only took the

second, and the volume which with its mysterious beauties might almost

bear away the palm from her own Balzac. He answered Feyertag, who

endeavored to draw him into a learned conversation as he crossed the

courtyard, so confusedly, that the worthy man was greatly delighted and

told his wife the Herr Doctor, was beginning to feel a proper respect

for his intelligence; he had said things to him to-day so terribly

learned, that they were almost incomprehensible.

On the way, our by no means heroically disposed hero endeavored to be

prepared for an emergency, which he considered almost as a favor of

fortune--that he might not find her at home, or be refused admittance.

He resolved to bear this like a man and make no attempt to bribe or

learn anything from the striped waist-coat. But when the solemn boy

received him with the words: "The young lady is at home and begs the

gentleman to walk in"--it seemed as if it would have been utterly

impossible for him to go away without seeing her.

When he entered the little red parlor, she was standing before the

table at which she appeared to have been writing, and came forward to

receive him with the frankest cordiality, as if he were an old

acquaintance who had been long expected. The repellant coldness had

vanished from her face, only a certain look of abstraction frequently

recalled her former expression. She thanked him for having kept his

promise and even brought her something new again. "But," she added, "I

must not give you any farther trouble, especially if you continue to

act as you did the first time, and leave the books at the outer door.

You can surely make a better use of your time, than in running errands

for a stranger, and I cannot promise you that a closer acquaintance

will repay you for your trouble."

He answered with a few courteous words that betrayed none of the

thoughts passing in his mind. Her presence had again produced so

strange an impression, that he needed a short time to regain his

composure. To-day, in her simple dress of crimson silk, with her hair

wrapped in braids around her head and again utterly devoid of ornament,

she seemed even more bewitching than when he first saw her. Yet there

was a timidity almost bordering upon sadness in her voice and

movements, that was contagious and overawed him more than her former

careless ease.

"You would certainly have gone away to-day too, if I had not expressly

invited you in," said she. "But it would not have required so much

discretion to convince me that you are an exception to the usual rule.

I saw in the first fifteen minutes of our acquaintance, that you were

not like other men, from whose importunity it is difficult for a

solitary girl to protect herself. That is why I am glad to see you

again and thank you in person. I live so entirely alone, and although

it is my own wish, the days are long and the necessity of hearing some

voice except the twittering of the birds and the meaningless remarks of

the servants, soon forces itself upon one. Besides, we like to discuss

what we have read. To be sure--" she added hesitatingly, tapping the

book that lay beside her portfolio with her rosy finger--"to speak of

what you have lately brought me--"

"What have you read?"

"A great many of the poems; I was familiar with almost all from seeing

them in collections, some even when I was at school. But in reading

them together I now realize their beauty, at least so far as I

understand them. But--Werther--you will scarcely believe that although

I am twenty-one this is the first time I have read it."

"What an enviable person!"

"How so?"

"I devoured it at fifteen, when I was far too young and verdant to

enjoy that most beautiful and mature of all the works ever written for

young people."

"Perhaps I'm already too old," she said blushing, "or still too young.

For--it will seem very foolish and perhaps incomprehensible to you: I

had some difficulty in getting through it.

"That is," she hastily corrected herself, "I found certain things

wonderfully beautiful, the spirit, the clearness, the lofty, melancholy

thoughts, and what a living thing nature seems to become--I have copied

many passages to read again. But the whole, the work itself--you will

surely think me childish or heartless, if I confess that I was not in

the least affected when Werther shot himself."

He gazed into her black eyes with a quiet smile.

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

"No," she answered in an undertone. "I cannot help it, nothing makes

any impression upon me unless I can imagine it might happen to myself.

This good Pere Goriot, who is so ill repaid for all he does for his

daughters, the daughters themselves, who have an actual passion for

spending a great deal of money and living in fabulous luxury, I can

understand very well. I too had a father who would have sacrificed

himself for me if necessary, as I would have done for him, and it is by

no means strange to me that people can set their hearts on a thousand

beautiful things which only the rich should possess. But that a man can

no longer live, because he--because he is in love--with somebody's

wife--is a thing of which I have no idea. Why do you look at me so?

Don't you believe me? You can do so safely, I always say what I think."

"I'm only looking at you," he replied, "because I do not know how to

reconcile your words, which I do not doubt, with your face and your

twenty-one years."

"And why not?"

"Do not consider it a tasteless compliment: but with such a face, I

should hardly think a person could live twenty-one years in the world,

without at least perceiving in others, what mad follies a man

desperately in love may commit. And have you never been moved when you

made some one unhappy, even if your own heart remained untouched? You

have probably known nothing of hunger except from hearsay, and yet the

sight of misery touches you."

"Certainly," she answered thoughtfully; "but you're mistaken, if you

suppose I have never suffered want myself. There have been times--but

that's my own affair. On the contrary, the love that has been offered

me has either seemed untrue and ridiculous, or excited actual horror

and loathing, never compassion."

Edwin's surprise increased at every word, whose sincerity he could not

doubt. But if it were as she said and her grave innocent gaze

confirmed--how had she come to these suspicious lodgings in such more

than doubtful company? What, if she had nothing to repent, was the

cause of this avoidance of men, this mysterious love of solitude in one

so young and independent?

He noticed that she looked surprised at his silence, and in order to

make some remark, said:

"If you place so little value on the passion, which since the beginning

of creation has, with hunger, been the motive power of the world, your

purveyor of romances certainly has a difficult task. Or would you

prefer novels of the latest style, which only contain enough love not

to frighten the owners of circulating libraries?"

"No," she replied laughing, "I'm not quite so spoiled. Dear me, what I

read aloud to my dear father was always French literature, which often,

as I noticed by his making me skip a chapter, was by no means fit for a

young girl. But do you know what I don't understand? Why the authors

don't have a better appreciation of their advantages and write only

stories which contain very elegant, rich, brilliant scenes, handsome

parks, castles, numerous servants, and fireworks, concerts, and balls

every night. I should never weary of such books, as when a child I

could always read over and over again the fairy tales, in which a fairy

or magician builds in a single night a splendid palace of gold and

jewels, with the horses' mangers of silver, and their hoofs studded

with diamonds. Ought not poetry to describe a fairer world than this,

which with all its _petites miseres_, is only too familiar to us?

Instead of that, village tales have now become fashionable, and all the

fuss, is made about them. Who can be interested in reading how Christen

seeks a wife and obtains now a well-kept farm, and now a neglected one?

And the principal point is always about a few hundred thalers more or

less; when they are obtained, the story ends. That--you must not be

offended by my frankness--is what seemed so strange to me in Werther:

narrow commonplace surroundings, ordinary, provincial people, and the

heroine--I will say nothing about the bread and butter--but has she a

lofty, noble soul? Does she love Werther or not? And if she does--but

you're smiling. I'm probably saying very stupid things. Teach me, if it

seems worth while. It's so tiresome always to think for one's self, in

doing which of course one is always right."

"My dear Fraeulein," said he, "I have hitherto had very little

inclination to disturb people who were in perfect harmony with

themselves, even if I felt differently. Why should they not have the

right to devote their attention solely to the beautiful and brilliant?

I only wish you might belong to the favored few, who during their whole

lives never see the wrong side of the world. He who has once become

familiar with it, is certainly interested in finding even amid the

narrow, commonplace limits of this miserable existence treasures and

blessings, which fill his heart and make his life lovely. But you--"

"You are very much mistaken," she gravely interrupted. "I have already

told you that I too know what it is to sit in the shadow and feel no

ray of warmth from the sun that illumines the fairy castles of others.

But it is for that very reason, that I do not wish to be reminded in

books of what I have already had a sufficient experience of in my life,

and found by no means amusing or poetical. And however it maybe with

outward cares, their charms and pleasures; the inward poverty, the

miserable, half developed, embittered, starved feelings, the oppression

beneath which human souls drag out such a painful existence--will you

assert that these also are fitting themes for the poet's art?"

He was just beginning to reply, with a sense of secret surprise at the

gloomy, dismal feeling underlying her words, when the striped waistcoat

appeared at the door of the dining room. The dwarf had evidently just

brushed his tow colored wig, fastened his cravat tighter, and drawn on

a pair of white cotton gloves, which only made his short hands more

clumsy.

"Pardon me for not interrupting the regular routine of my day," said

the beautiful girl, suddenly adopting a gayer tone. "That is my tyrant.

Small as he is, and submissive as he pretends to be--if I'm not

punctual at my meals, I lose his favor. The young man can vie in good

sense and faithfulness with many grown persons, but his stomach is

still a child's and must have its dues every two or three hours, or he

gets very ill-natured. But I may venture to invite you to be my guest.

The restaurant provides me with such an abundant supply of food, that

even Jean sometimes gives up the task of attempting to eat the portion

I leave. You have already dined? But you will at least give me your

society; for my usual company, to which I will introduce you directly,

is only a make-shift."

She preceded him into the little dining room, where the boy nimbly

pushed a second chair up to the daintily spread table. But before the

young girl sat down, she went to the bird cage and opened the gilded

door. "There," said she, clapping her hands three times as if for a

signal, "there they come flying out. Some of them understand the order

of proceedings and will instruct the new comers--those shy ones at the

back that will not venture out. You must not suppose I take pleasure in

shutting up the poor things; I buy new ones almost every day, mere

native birds, as you see, just to feed them here a little while, and

then after they have given me their society at dinner, I let them fly

away again. Many, to be sure, will not go; but I am not to blame for

that. Whoever voluntarily resigns freedom for good food and care, must

accept imprisonment cheerfully. _Tu l'as voulu!_"

He listened to her quietly as a part of the gay feathered flock darted

out of the cage and fluttered around the table and corners of the room,

while the others remained timidly within. The window stood wide open;

some of the most insignificant in appearance, after hesitating a

moment, whetting their beaks on the sill and trying their wings, soared

out into the open air with loud chirps and twitterings. The remainder,

among which a beautiful gold-finch was the most attractive, crowded

about the side-board and covered dishes on the table, in eager

expectation of the good things they were to receive.

"I don't object to being alone all day," said the young mistress,

taking her seat and motioning Edwin, with a gesture of charming

authoritativeness, to sit down in the opposite chair, "but it is

horrible to eat alone. One never feels so inhuman, selfish, and hard

hearted, as when one is putting one piece of food after another into

one's mouth entirely by himself. I always begin to think of the

hundreds of thousands who have nothing to eat, and the thought disgusts

me with my favorite dishes, so that I can scarcely half satisfy my

hunger. But now look at this unruly rabble. How they quarrel and

scuffle over every little crumb, and the greatest eater there, the

little magpie, grudges the black bird every mouthful. Will you be

quiet, you ugly thing?"

She took a silver salt spoon and tapped the bird, that was giving

itself such airs, gently on the back, but without making any special

impression upon him, and then cut some little biscuits which had been

served with the dessert, into pieces, strewed sugared almonds over

them, and divided these dainties between half a dozen little plates,

which she placed in a circle on the table. The greedy birds instantly

assembled around their food; only a few timid ones that remained on the

side board preferred to take the crumbs she threw them, while the

boldest perched on the edge of the dish of fruit, and rioted

undisturbed on the magnificent pears and peaches.

Meantime she herself began to eat, after vainly urging Edwin to do so,

and finally insisted that he must at least try some of the sweet

Spanish wine, of which she only sipped a little from a slender crystal

glass to drink his health. She ate in the same manner, tiny morsels

which she took from her plate with the silver fork, and while busily

talking, partook a little more freely of four or five vegetables and

one sweet dish, but scarcely touched the meats. Edwin jestingly asked

if she were a vegetarian. She requested him to explain the word, which

she did not understand. "That's an excellent system," she said with a

thoughtful nod, "I'm really a born vegetarian, without knowing it until

to-day, and have often been laughed at in consequence. See that

partridge, how sadly it thrusts its roasted beak into its own larded

breast! I cannot look at it without reproaching myself for the happy

creature's early death. And I was not even personally acquainted with

the poor thing. But I could never have the heart to eat the chickens my

mother had fed herself. She called it affectation! Dear me, my appetite

in those days was far too healthy to allow me to be sentimental at the

expense of my stomach. Now I have little enough and believe I could

live upon bread and fruits."

As she said all this with a mixture of innocent gayety and womanly

consciousness, while her manner toward her guest was one of the most

perfect ease--he became more and more doubtful what to think of this

mysterious creature. He had had very little intercourse with ladies who

had seemed particularly worthy of notice. Face to face with this

problem, which even experienced connoisseurs of women had given up, all

his psychological wisdom was of no avail. But some secret feeling,

which would not be stifled, told him that whatever perverted, noxious,

or dangerous things there might be in this girl's character or fate,

the depths of her nature were pure and true, and even the open coquetry

with which she had entered into the role of a fairy among her enchanted

princes in the cage, had a tinge of innocent fancy, and suited her as

well as the ribbons and spangles of the child, who in play decks itself

to represent a princess.

"You have grown so quiet," she said, paring a peach and placing half of

it on his plate, "that I see there is something about me of which you

do not approve,--perhaps the frankness with which I treat you like an

old acquaintance. Say so openly; true, I shall not be able to change my

manner, but I don't wish to impose any constraint upon you."

"I am reflecting," said he, "upon the strange chance which has brought

me to this place. Is it not really like a fairy tale, that I am here in

your society, while you do not even know my name, and I nothing more of

you than yours?"

She raised the silver fruit knife she held in her hand, and with a

roguish, mysterious expression, pressed it to her laughing lips. "Let

that pass," said she, "it has all come about by natural means, without

any magic or sorcery. But for that very reason, it is better to enjoy

it so long as it lasts, and not spoil it by reflections and

investigations."

"Will it last?" he asked gravely.

"A little longer, a few weeks perhaps, who knows? Afterwards--what will

come afterwards nobody can tell. But if it seems like a fairy tale, be

kind and wise enough to let it remain so, do not seek to penetrate any

farther into my life, so that I shall be forced to explain the

connection. There's nothing very remarkable concealed in it, at least

nothing particularly pleasant or cheerful. I'm really glad that I have

made your acquaintance; I was too much alone, and in my situation I

must beware of all persons whom I cannot implicitly trust. Why I have

confided in you, I do not know; but so it is, and I should really be

grieved if you did not think well of me, or if you were deterred from

coming again in consequence of my frank expressions of opinion in

regard to the various things I read or experience. And you must not

come too often. I do not wish to cause gossip among the people in the

house; but two or three times a week about this hour, before it is time

to go to the theatre--only you must not first get your dinner at home.

Will you promise me that?"

She rose and held out her hand, which he hastily grasped and pressed

cordially in his own.

"May the meal be blessed to you!" she said smiling. "We always said

that in my parent's house, and I miss it here. Jean has too much

respect for me, and the birds cannot be taught to do it. So I shall see

you again soon, and you will bring Goethe's other works, of which you

have spoken?"

He bowed silently, involuntarily placing his hand on his heart, and in

a very puzzled mood left her.

Just as he emerged from the house, a light carriage drove up; the

gentleman, who had himself held the reins threw them to the servant

sitting behind and sprang out with the laughing exclamation: "Doctor,

are you mad?"

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

"Only one, who as I see, is making my efforts superfluous by taking the

cure into his own hands. Or have you not just come from _her_?"

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

"Hypocrite! As if I did not see the fire in your heart burning through

your vest" (Marquard was fond of quoting from Heine.) "My dear fellow,

you won't find it so easy to deceive an old diagnostician of my stamp.

But how the deuce did you get on her track again?"

"Let's walk a few steps down the street," said Edwin coloring. "The

windows are open, every word can be heard up stairs."

He seized the doctor by the arm and drew him away, relating in an

undertone the story of the lost book-mark, and leaving it in doubt

whether the accident had brought him here to-day for the first time.

"And you," he hastily concluded. "How did you discover that our

neighbor in the box at the theatre lived here?"

"By means of the vein I laudably struck," declaimed the doctor. "The

renewal of my acquaintance with this fair Sphinx is only two days old,

and I fear it will not long survive the third. Day before yesterday,

while visiting a patient in one of the opposite houses, I was suddenly

summoned from his bedside; a boy was dangerously ill; I must come as

soon as possible to the very house before which we just met. How I

scaled the staircase and entered the second story rooms on the wings of

my professional duty--a doctor is an enviable person, Edwin! All doors

open to him, while to you ordinary mortals they only unclose when you

knock as honest finders of property, or--rascally seekers. Imagine my

joyful surprise, when the fair enigma who had so icily dismissed me in

the box, now hastily approached and in the confusion of terror claimed

my assistance.

"Was she ill?"

"Not she herself But she has a lad in her service, a ridiculous little

fellow, who had already amused me greatly when he summoned me from the

other side of the street. The mysterious stranger--who at any rate

seems to have a kind heart, especially for minors--had allowed her

footman to invite a younger brother to dine with him, and the two

precocious men of the world had consumed a bottle of Cape wine and

smoked some horrible cigars. The striped waistcoat's stomach, already

hardened to such sins, endured the orgy without injury, while the

hopeful Jean junior lay like a broken lily on his brother's bed, and

had frightened the young lady, who had not the least suspicion of the

cause--the young tipplers had carefully put the bottle away--almost to

death. Now I could not possibly do Jean--who was leering significantly

at me, and had taken me into his confidence on the way--the injury of

making light of the case. Besides, successful cures of difficult cases

are a greater recommendation to a young physician, than the treatment

of the sickness that follows a drunken spree. So I took the pallid

scamp to his unsuspicious parents in my own carriage, and yesterday

reported his rapid progress toward convalescence. I'm now just in the

act of giving the second bulletin; but as, when I left him, the patient

was eating pears and dumplings with the best possible appetite, and his

noble patroness intends to visit him herself, you can understand that I

shall not be able to pay many more visits to the fairy castle; for

which I am very sorry--especially on your account, since according to

promise--"

"I have just told you--"

"That you're a Cato or a Plato, whichever you prefer. Meantime--even

without having felt your pulse--I see by your whole appearance, that

you're on the direct road to remain so no longer. My best blessing on

your conversion, old boy, and better luck than has fallen to me."

"To you?"

"Well, you may suppose that during my visit yesterday, I made every

effort to appear not only the experienced physician, but also the

profound connoisseur in female hearts and female beauty. _Oleum et

operam_, my dear fellow! A statue, I tell you, a marble Sphinx would

have been more moved by my engaging manners. This young glacier in

Brussels lace remained as unapproachable as on the first evening, and

will you believe it: even my secret ally, Jean the Little, who ought to

be grateful--is a _rocher de bronze_ in everything that concerns his

mistress. The maid, my last hope, did not appear. So I'm just as wise

to-day as I was before, or rather still more stupid, for all my

experience and psychology have not helped me to understand our solitary

beauty, or make up my mind whether she belongs to the great world, the

_demi monde_, or no world at all."

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

"Perhaps others know more," said the doctor, as he paused and cleaned

his spectacles. "Meantime, as I told you just now: I give her up. I

hereby relinquish her to you for the second time and forever, and swear

by yonder turrets, that it does not even cost me an effort. She's an

amphibious creature, a beautiful, faultless young serpent, just fit

to drive men mad. I prefer warm, red blood. I've discovered some

one--curiously enough in your house--a soubrette, who takes lessons

from your piano-playing young lady--not by any means so exquisite or

princess like as our sphinx, but to make amends--you know 'we don't cry

for the moon' unless we are incorrigible idealists and star gazers,

like certain people."

He laughingly shook hands with Edwin and entered the house before which

his carriage was waiting.

CHAPTER II.

Ever since the day mentioned in the last chapter, Edwin had become a

regular dinner guest at the house in Jaegerstrasse. He came every third

day, but could never be induced to encroach upon little Jean's share of

the remains of the meal any farther than he had done the first time. He

dined as it were symbolically, by dipping a biscuit in the dainty glass

which the young hostess filled with Spanish wine. If she asked him why

he would never gratify her by really eating, he pleaded his old

fashioned custom of dining at noon. In reality, his feelings rebelled

against being so luxuriously entertained in the fairy castle, after

having merely been a spectator at the scanty meal in the "tun."

Besides, he was now separated from Balder so often and so long, that he

wished at any cost to keep their cosy dinner hour, where jesting with

Reginchen roused him a short time from his reveries. Yet it happened

more and more frequently, that his evenings were not spent at home.

True, his fair friend always dismissed him just before she went to the

theatre, and neither invited him to accompany her nor gave him any hope

of seeing her afterwards. But the hour spent in talking with her,

during which he played the part of the calm, clever thinker, her "wise

friend," as she jestingly called him, left his soul in a state of

agitation, a fever of doubt, longing, gloom, and happiness, which he

was forced to calm by long, lonely walks, before he could associate

with others again.

He knew also that Balder was rarely alone at these times, Mohr came

almost every evening to chat, to play chess with him, or to sit at the

open window and listen to Christiane's piano. He declared that this

music and Balder's golden mane were the only domestic medicines that

afforded him any relief, when he had a particularly violent attack of

his chronic self-contempt. He often brought some of his verses with him

or a scene of his famous comedy: "I am I, and rely on myself," to get

the youth's opinion, but could never make up his mind to read them

aloud. Now and then Franzelius also appeared, but soon went away again

if he met Mohr. To be sure the latter, at Balder's request, made the

most earnest efforts to curb his mocking tongue and to spare the fiery

tribune of the people, who was so helpless when in a small company. But

his mere presence annoyed the irritable fellow, especially as he

imagined that since Mohr's return some secret barrier had arisen

between himself and Balder. He loved the youth more than any other

human being, and knew that no one understood him better. Now he was

jealous of every smile that Mohr's quaint manner won from his darling,

and in his stupidity and dullness, felt doubly at a disadvantage in the

presence of the cynical jester, who nevertheless was an object of scorn

to him, as a drone among the working bees.

Balder, with his delicate sensibility, would probably have been even

more careful than usual to soothe his wounded friend; but he was very

anxious, and his thoughts, even while the two young men were with him,

secretly followed his brother along the unknown paths, of which he had

such a superficial knowledge. Not that Edwin would have concealed where

he went, and that he was daily becoming more and more ensnared by the

magic of this singular relation, but he could not reconcile his mind to

confess the full extent of his weakness, for in so doing he would have

been obliged to have acknowledged it to himself, and against such an

acknowledgement all the pride and manliness in his nature struggled.

How contemptible he appeared to himself when at night, after he had

wandered about, long and aimlessly, he again turned his steps toward

the house in Jaegerstrasse, instead of going home, to stand on the

opposite side of the street pressed against the wall in some dark

corner, until her carriage brought her back from the theatre, and then

to wait hour after hour at his post, to see whether the door would not

open again and allow some more fortunate person admittance or egress,

until the light behind her curtain vanished, and every thing around him

was hushed to repose in the coolness of the autumnal night, except the

fever in his blood. How he cursed the hour which had first brought him

to her presence, and made the firmest resolutions to put an end to this

madness and never cross that fatal threshold again!

But the next, day would find him once more at the little table, envying

the birds that pecked their food in happy ignorance and in freedom from

suffering like his.

The young girl herself seemed to have no suspicion of how little

prudence her "wise friend" possessed. She treated him on the tenth day

exactly as she had done on the first, with the same frank cordiality,

the same careless confidence; as if it were impossible he could ever

become more distant or approach her nearer. When he came and went, she

gave him her hand like an old friend, scolded him if he kept her

waiting, questioned him, after she had once discovered that his nerves

were disordered, most sympathizingly about his health, and urged him to

use all sorts of remedies and medicines, of which she had read or

heard. More than once she acknowledged that she did not understand how

she had ever got through the long days before making his acquaintance,

and only dreaded the moment when he would grow weary of wasting his

time on such a foolish, ignorant girl, though to be sure the tone in

which she had expressed this fear was not very grave. But though she

must have been perfectly aware of her own powers of attraction, the

idea that any deeper feeling might bind him to her never seemed to

enter her head. The longer he watched her, the more he became convinced

that in speaking of love as she had, she had given utterance to her

real opinions. It actually appeared to her like a sort of madness, by

which weak minds were sometimes attacked. How a sensible man, who came

to see her every third day, brought her solid books and said very

clever things, could be seized by it, would evidently have been

incomprehensible to her.

He perceived all this, recognized the hopelessness of his concealed

longing, the improbability of ever thawing the ice that surrounded her

like a protecting wall. He had once asked what there was about him to

inspire her, usually so reserved to every one, with so much confidence

in him. She laughed, and shaking her head declared that that was a

secret she intended to keep to herself, and when, contrary to his usual

custom, he pressed her for an answer, she confessed that neither his

honest face, nor anything he had said, had given her the assurance that

he would not abuse her confidence, but--and here she looked at him with

a bewitchingly droll, half timid, half doubtful smile on her face, as

if wondering whether he would take it amiss--the fact that he wore no

gloves, and did not pay any more attention to his dress when he made

the second visit, than when he first called to return her the bookmark.

He laughed, but was obliged to exert considerable self control, to

treat as a jest a matter that was far from being one to him.

He distinctly perceived that she only preferred him because, as a being

belonging to a totally different sphere, she thought him perfectly

harmless. In the seclusion of her life, a visitor who, like him,

brought her amusement without making any special claims, was very

welcome, and the fact that he meantime remained as much a stranger to

her, as she to him, only increased the charm of this intercourse.

Besides, a man who always visited her in the same grey summer suit and

without gloves, was safe from the least suspicion of desiring any

closer relation.

There were moments when he could not help being grateful to her

honesty, for not leaving him in doubt about the impassable gulf between

her worldly desires and needs and his own, when he suddenly shrank from

the mere thought that she could ever return his passion, as if such a

return would be a terrible misfortune. Aside from all the mystery that

surrounded her, how could he ever hope to harmonize his fate and

Balder's, their cheerfully endured poverty, his duties to his

profession, with the life she led, and which alone could be

satisfactory to her, since she expressed no wish to change it. He only

needed to imagine her in the place of Reginchen, who brought them their

dinner, and to transport to the "tun" the form of his enchantress, with

the striped waistcoat and his silver dish behind her, to measure the

abyss of impossibility that yearned between them.

Thus weeks elapsed, without any change, either for the better or worse,

having taken place in their intercourse. To be sure he did not always

find her in the same mood; oftentimes he even thought he perceived that

she had been weeping, or she greeted him with a look of surprise, as if

it were difficult for her to recall her thoughts from some distant

scene to him and what he brought. But a few words from Edwin were

sufficient to clear her brow and transform her once more into the

frank, friendly child that, with all her pampering and the strange

independence of her life, she really was. She fairly provoked him to

sometimes catch her in a piece of carelessness or failure in etiquette,

and then he treated her with condescending, sarcastic composure, as if

she were a person not fully accountable for her actions. But he

carefully avoided letting her feel his superiority in any other than a

jesting manner. If, as she was fond of doing, she roved in fancy, with

strange transitions of thought, over the world and mankind, life and

death, time and eternity, he could sit for fifteen minutes, tattooing

an apple in fantastic designs with a silver fruit knife, and listening

in silence. It always vexed her that he did not seem to think it worth

while to contradict her, and declared that even if he laughed aloud and

derided her, it would be less impolite than to sit silently smiling,

while she was talking about the most serious matters. If the wind were

blowing, or a fountain plashing, he could not adopt a more indifferent

air--"Was it his fault?" he answered laughing, "that in her presence he

often felt as strange an emotion as in that of nature, whose manifold

voices frequently rippled over him with similar elementary power,

without his feeling called upon to make any reply? He would seem to

himself a ridiculous pedant if he tried to talk logic to the woodland

birds, and reason to the waterfalls."

And yet, when he came again, it almost always happened that the

conversation went back to the same point at which it had been broken

off the last time. Then they exchanged parts, and it was his turn to

give utterance to his thoughts and rhapsodize undisturbed over the most

important questions. It was the strangest dialogue in monologues that

can be imagined, since twice four and twenty hours usually elapsed

between question and answer.

Was the cause of this, his fear of making the contrast between their

natures too perceptible, the dread that any dispute must instantly part

them forever, while he still considered it almost a duty, when the

matter had once more become indifferent to her, not to withhold his

opposition or deny his opinion. Or did he suspect that he should lose

all mastery over himself, if he obtained more and more control over her

and gradually harmonized and assimulated the heterogenious traits in

her character? And what was the use of this daring venture? What

was to be hoped for, even in the best case? To tame a gazelle, an

antelope--what can it avail in a zone and on a soil that are not

created for tropical animals--

It was on a gloomy afternoon in September, the first autumn rain was

falling, and the wind sweeping chilly through the empty street, the

windows were closed and a little fire was burning on the hearth, though

rather for the pleasure afforded by the sight of the bright flames,

than through any necessity for warmth. The beautiful girl, who had

often boasted that she had never been really sick, complained of a

slight headache, sent away the carriage which was to convey her to the

theatre, and threw herself on the sofa in the little red dining room,

with her feet toward the flames, whose red flickering light lent some

color to her pale cheeks.

"Read something aloud to me, Doctor," she said. "If I fall asleep over

it, so much the better. But don't choose Hermann and Dorothea; I don't

wish to offend you, as we have already quarrelled over it once, and yet

I can't help being lulled to sleep by the wonderful verses, as if I

were in a cradle, gladly as I would keep awake to listen to the

beautiful story. Do you know that I consider this Dorothea a very

enviable person, nay I have really never found the fate of any heroine

in a novel happier than hers? Poor, orphaned, homeless--she suddenly

comes into possession of a farm, and is loved and petted, and it all

comes about as naturally as if such a thing might happen any day! She

must have been very charming," she added after a pause, "I always

imagine her tall and slender, with raven hair and grey eyes, a black

ribbon round her fair neck, and ear rings with a red stone, which is

really only a bit of glass--"

"By the way," he interrupted, "I have long wanted to ask you something:

why do you wear no earrings or jewelry of any kind?"

"Because I am too poor to get large diamonds or real pearls, and I do

not care for any other ornaments."

"Too poor?"

"Yes indeed, much too poor, far poorer than you perhaps suppose, at any

rate poorer than Dorothea, who possessed the greatest treasure,

contentment. I, on the contrary--do you suppose I should have

considered it a happiness to become Frau Hermann?"

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

She looked at him quietly, as if trying to discover whether he was in

earnest, and then said:

"You're a singular person. Wisdom does not seem to be any protection

against folly, and you take no notice of the existence of anything that

does not accord with your system. How often must I explain to you, that

I have no idea of what you call being in love. And see, even in your

Dorothea, though created by a poet--and falling in love plays so

prominent a part in all poetry--yet I can discover no trace of this

singular condition. She meets a young man, who leads her from the

street into his house and wishes to make her his wife. As he seems kind

and good, and promises to become one of those persons who are

represented as pattern husbands--why should she say no, especially as

the pastor and doctor and provincial customs are not at all repulsive

to her? And that's just why I envy her. I, on the contrary--but please

throw a few sticks of wood on the fire; it's going out."

He did as she requested, and was kneeling before the hearth kindling

the flames anew with a dainty pair of bellows, when a noise and

altercation arose in the entry, which attracted his attention. The

whinning voice of little Jean, eagerly arguing with a deep bass, was

distinctly audible, then the door of the ante-room was thrown open, and

the disputants approached the little drawing room; the stranger, with a

rude laugh, pushed aside the boy, who endeavored to prevent his

entrance, there was a knock at the door, and without even waiting for a

reply, a tall fellow in a rich huntsman's livery, boldly entered, as if

entirely at home.

The young lady had hastily started up and was gazing at the intruder in

speechless alarm. Edwin had also risen from his knees, with the bellows

still in his hand, and was just in the act of accosting the man, when

the latter, with an elegant bow to Toinette, drew a letter from his

pocket and laid it on the little table before the sofa.

"Beg pardon, Fraeulein, if I have disturbed you," he said casting an

insolent glance at Edwin, "but the Herr Count expressly commanded me to

deliver this note into your own hands."

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

"That his young lady was not at home, yes; and also that she wished to

receive no notes, and preferred not to know the Herr Count, as she had

already intimated by not answering the letters His Excellency sent

through the post office--"

"Leave this room at once," fell with great difficulty from the lips of

the pallid girl, "and if you venture to come again and force an

entrance in this way--I shall find some means to protect my rights in

this house."

"Pardon me, Fraeulein," said the impudent fellow, with a saucy grin,

"but no one has any rights in a house except the person to whom it

belongs. If it is agreeable to my lord the count, to have his servant

turned out of a house, or the doors shut in his face, when His

Excellency is, so to speak, the tenant--"

"Insolent rascal!" Edwin burst forth. "Did you not hear what the young

lady told you? I've not the honor of your master's acquaintance. But if

he's a gentleman, it cannot be his intention to have a lady insulted by

a boorish lackey!"

The man, with cool impertinence, measured the person who so

unexpectedly addressed him from head to foot.

"And I, sir, have not the honor of your acquaintance," he retorted.

"But as for my conduct, no one but the Herr Count has a right to call

me a boor. There is the letter, and now I can go, as I have done my

errand. I had no idea of insulting the young lady, that would have been

entirely against my orders. But to have the first stranger--"

Edwin involuntarily raised the little weapon he held in his hand, but

the next instant recollected himself. The bellows fell on the floor, he

passed close by the man, opened the drawing room door, and fixing a

firm glance on the suddenly intimidated lackey, exclaimed: "Be off!"

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

slowly retreated.

"I will inform His Excellency," he said on the threshold, "that the

young lady had no time to answer the Herr Count's letters, because she

had gentlemen visitors."

Edwin closed the door behind him. They heard the fellow laugh loudly

and joke with Jean as he went away, as if nothing had happened.

A death-like silence pervaded the little drawing room. The beautiful

girl sat motionless on the sofa, with her eyes fixed upon the fatal

letter, which still lay unopened on the table, and her pale hands

folded in her lap. Edwin stood at the door, his hand still raised in

the threatening gesture with which he had motioned the insolent fellow

to leave the room. Not until he heard the outer door close, did he

suddenly move, as if he had shaken off an incubus, and quietly

approached the silent Toinette.

"Will you have the kindness to explain this scene, Fraeulein?" he asked

in a voice from which every trace of agitation seemed to have vanished.

As she did not immediately reply, he continued:

"May I hope that you will introduce me to this count, who apparently

has some right to compel you to read his letters?"

She was still silent. At last she timidly raised her eyes and gazed at

him beseechingly. The look penetrated to his inmost soul.

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

"I should not refuse your request," he answered dejectedly, "but I

should take leave of you at once--never to return."

"And why?"

"Because I do not desire to visit in any house in the capacity of a

guest, without knowing who is the head of it. I do not wish to expose

myself to the possibility of having the master instead of the servant,

appear before me someday, and hearing that it does not suit his

pleasure that you--should receive gentlemen visitors."

She seemed to reflect a moment.

"You're right, my friend," she now answered. "I owe it to you to

explain all this, or rather I owe it to myself. What must you think of

me? But I will not relate this long and sorrowful story to-day, or here

in this place. Besides, your visit has already been greatly prolonged;

it will soon be dark. Come to the gold-fish pond in the Thiergarten,

where the statue stands, at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. It's very

lonely there then; I've often sat under the trees with a book at that

hour and not see three people pass. In that spot I will tell you all.

If the charm our game of hide and seek has had, vanishes as soon as you

know your friend's very commonplace and prosaic story--you yourself

have willed it to be so. But that you may have a pledge of my sincerity

at once--take this unlucky note away with you and keep it for me until

to-morrow. We will read it together--"

She rose and extended her hand, which, absorbed in gloomy thoughts, he

grasped and held firmly in his own. "I need no pledge," he replied.

"Perhaps it would be best if I--"

"If I should bid you farewell forever," he was going to say. But he had

not the courage to do so. He gazed into her eyes, which were again as

unclouded, nay, which sparkled as brightly as ever, and mechanically he

took the little note she held out to him. Then he bent over her hand

and kissed it--long and passionately; it was the first time he had ever

pressed his lips to her cool, soft fingers.

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

"And suppose that the skies should fall during the night," she answered

smiling. "But sleep calmly. What I have to say to you, is only worth

knowing because you are still ignorant of it. Oh! my friend, I fear you

will yet regret having destroyed the spell by your question, if from

to-morrow the fairy tale is ended and Cinderella again sits in the

ashes!"

CHAPTER III.

When, soon after, Edwin returned home, passed Christiane's door, behind

which he heard loud, eager voices, and climbed the dark stairs, he was

glad that neither Mohr's nor Franzelius' voice could be distinguished

in the "tun." He was longing for an hour alone with his brother, and

therefore the surprise was all the more unwelcome when he found Balder

with his usual companions. Mohr was sitting opposite him before the

chess board, which they had placed on one corner of the turning lathe,

to take advantage of the last fading daylight. He had set a bottle of

Rhine wine--a small stock of which he had stored in the cellar of the

house, that he might not drink at the brothers' expense--on the window

sill, and seemed so absorbed by the wine, the game, and the smoke of

his cigarette, that he scarcely noticed Edwin's entrance. Franzelius

was sitting in the middle of the room astride a chair on whose back he

had clasped his broad hands, and rested his chin, while his gloomy eyes

stared intently at the bust of Demosthenes on the book case. He, too,

scarcely turned his head toward the new comer, and the greeting he

vouchsafed him sounded more like the growl of a watch dog, than any

human tone.

Edwin was no more disposed to talk. He stood behind his brother's chair

a moment, stroked his thick hair several times, and then went to his

desk, where he apparently began to read the newspapers. Once, however,

he turned toward the chess players and said: "It would probably be

better, Heinrich, if you would sacrifice your tobacco, which smells

horribly, on the altar of friendship. The time for open windows is

over, and Balder has already coughed three times."

Mohr instantly opened the window and tossed the cigarette into the

courtyard.

Then all four were silent, until Balder rose saying: "A wooden king

can't be expected to be checkmated more than five times. Besides, it's

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

"Then I _am_ good for something!" laughed Mohr scornfully as he tossed

the little pieces Balder had turned into the box. "Master of an art in

which persons of the least brains are often the greatest virtuosos.

Nay, it is still a question whether a talent for chess is not a sort of

disease, a hypertrophy of the power of conbination. You see, Edwin, I,

for instance--if this organ were in a normal state--should have made

more progress in my play. I plan the finest chess problems through five

acts, and when I afterwards examine them narrowly, they are mere wooden

figures, no living creatures. Basta! I vow not to touch knight or

bishop for a month, until I have arranged my comedy."

He emptied his glass and then slowly poured the remainder of the wine

from the bottle into it. "Good evening, Edwin," said he. "We've not had

the pleasure of seeing you in the 'tun,' for a long time. Even to-day

your thoughts seem to be far away--like our worthy philanthropist's,

who has not spoken ten words since he's been here."

The printer rose from his seat with a violent jerk, passed both hands

through his bushy hair and said: "It's true: I'm perfectly aware that

I've long been a tiresome guest here. Therefore--and for one other

reason--I hope our _feelings_ are still the same--"

"What fancy have you taken into your head now?" said Edwin, still

absorbed in his newspaper.

Balder had limped up to Franzelius and grasped his hand. "I was going

to ask you, Reinhold," he said in an undertone, "to come some day in

the morning; you will then find me alone, and I should like to say

something about your last essay--"

The other turned away. "No," he muttered, "it's better so, wiser to put

an end to this once for all. I'm glad Edwin is here too. I wanted to

say it before, but you were so absorbed in the game: I shall take leave

of you to-day--for an indefinite time--"

"Fools call it forever," quoted Mohr. "What devil has taken possession

of you, Caius Franzelius? Do you want to found a colony of workmen

among the red-skins on the Schultze--Delitz'schen principles? Or are

you going to the Salt Lake of Utah, to disgust the Mormons with their

immortality! Or--stop, now I have it--he can't endure the sight of a

man who drinks Rhine wine, while the camels in the desert of Sahara

often cannot get even muddy water."

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

him.

"You don't know what you are doing," said he. "If you part from old

friends, you must have some good reasons for doing so, for they are

wares that are not to be bought in every market. It would be kinder,

Franzel, to inform us of these reasons. Who knows whether they're so

well grounded, as you imagine."

"I thank you, Edwin," replied the other in a faltering voice. "I'm glad

it's not a matter of entire indifference to you whether or not our

intercourse is given up, little pleasure as it has afforded during the

last few weeks. As for my reasons--"

"I'm quite ready to forsake this locality, if unrestrained intercourse

is desired," said Mohr quietly, rising.

"There's nothing personal to be said," replied the gloomy visitor. "The

fact that we do not understand each other--unpleasant as it often is to

be the butt of your frivolous jests--could not induce me to remain away

from the 'tun' entirely. The matter is far more serious; to tell the

whole story in a few words: I've decided to publish a newspaper, which

is to acknowledge and defend my principles more plainly and openly than

my fugitive sheets have hitherto done. It is to appear twice a week

under the name of: 'The Tribune of the People.' I thank you for the

nick-name, Mohr, which I have now made a title of honor. The prospectus

will break with the last remnants of superstition and traditional

delusions, and as the rich have good reasons for preserving these

traditions, since they stir up the water in which they want to fish, it

will appeal expressly to the poor and miserable. I have recognized this

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

hardest."

As he uttered these words he looked at Balder, but instantly averted

his eyes and pretended to be searching for his cap.

The brothers were silent, but Mohr went up to him, laid both hands on

his shoulders, and said: "Franzel, although you don't like me, you must

allow me before these witnesses to declare my respect for you. I envy

you such a life task, although I consider it perfect folly. At least

change the title. Your readers will hardly be sufficiently well versed

in Roman history, to distinguish the difference between tribune and

tribunal. Besides, why should we lose the pleasure of your society on

that account? I will even offer to be a coworker: in case you, as I

hope, issue a feuilleton, I should not be disinclined to write a few

brilliant aphorisms--"

"Cease this jesting!" Edwin indignantly interrupted. "Franzel, what

does this mean? Because you're going to establish a newspaper, must we

clasp hands in an eternal farewell? You may do what you cannot leave

undone. Are we our brother's keeper? Or have we hitherto found fault

with all your sayings, to which we could not assent?"

"No," replied the printer, as he thrust his huge hands into his

pockets. "But that's the very reason; you must be as safe in the future

as you have been in the past, so far as it depends upon me.

Unfortunately, I'm only too well aware that we shall no longer agree as

well on many subjects, as we have done hitherto. But I'm determined to

burn my ships; there shall be no more evasions, no half-way measures.

The people at the helm cannot endure them. There will be trouble, they

will use their usual coarse means--arrests, searching of houses,

seizure of papers, watching for conspirators. I do not want to subject

you--for I go nowhere else so often--"

"They can seal up all my papers," said Mohr dryly. "The mediocrity of

talent, to which they all bear culpable witness, is at least not

dangerous to the state. On the contrary, the less genius one possesses,

the more useful he is as a tax-paying individual, a sheep in the

flock."

Franzelius seized his cap.

"You will do us no harm," said Balder. "Let us take the risk. What

could they find here? As I know Edwin--"

"I too would see them enter with the greatest composure," observed

Edwin smiling. "No, Franzel, your fears are visionary so far as we are

concerned. Can you not, in case of necessity, even swear that I have no

tendencies toward socialism, but on the contrary am an incorrigible

aristocrat, for which you have often reproached me?"

"And if they question you about your catechism, will you deny it? Will

you deny that our principles are the same, and that we only differ in

opinion as to whether the times are yet fully ripe for them? You are

silent; now you see--"

"Scientific convictions are somewhat different from public speaking,

and the police, thank God, no longer meddle with the freedom of thought

of a private tutor of philosophy. But since we have come to this

point--once more and, as it seems, for the last time: do you take me

for a coward, Franzel?"

"You! How can you even--"

"Or do you not believe that I would be drawn and quartered, rather than

deny my convictions? Well then, if you think me a man of whose

friendship you have no cause to be ashamed, let me tell you this: what

you are about to do, appears to me little more judicious, than if you

wanted to set before an infant that had not yet cut its teeth, a roast

chicken instead of its mother's milk or some of Liebig's preparations,

with which it had hitherto appeased its hunger. If any one attempted to

do that to my child, I should certainly forbid him the house, or at

least endeavor to make his premature diet harmless."

"You talk so, because you don't know the people," Franzelius burst

forth, "They are no longer children, their teeth are cut, and their

eyes open; where this is not the case, we will help them, offer hard

food that they may cut their teeth on it, instead of cooking the

traditional children's porridge, perpetually lulling them to sleep with

baby talk, when they are grown men, and the leading strings of

guardians--"

"Don't get angry unnecessarily!" Edwin interrupted. "Who of us wishes

to check the natural growth of the mind, instead of aiding it according

to its powers? But what you have in view, is a forced, premature

culture, your demagogical enthusiasm is a hot house, and that is why I

repeat: make no useless sacrifices, which must not only ruin yourself,

but many of your foster children. You cannot carve an Apollo from every

block of wood; not every one who ties on a leather apron and earns his

bread by the sweat of his brow, will be able to grasp the idea of the

fall of man which a follower of Kant or Spinoza can form. Why, when

there are so many crying wants of a coarser nature to be satisfied, do

you desire to create needs for our less gifted brothers? Why show them

what they lack, when, after they have with difficulty learned to feel

their needs, you can only give them such very doubtful assistance? You

aim to produce an artificial thirst, and then all you can offer them to

assuage it, is a pear; for the fountains that flow for us, will, as

matters now appear, long remain sealed to them."

"Edwin is right!" exclaimed Mohr, speaking for the first time without

his sarcastic curl of the lip. "The people are asleep, dreaming all

sorts of things, and Franzelius Gracchus goes about like Macbeth, and

murders sleep. I've never understood how anybody can be so inhuman as

to rouse a person who is slumbering. But that's the preaching of these

humanitarians! You're just as selfish as the priests. For the sake of

making the people see, you drum them out of bed at three o'clock in the

morning."

"And suppose they are grateful to us for it? Suppose a nightmare has

oppressed or bad dreams tormented them?" exclaimed the printer

vehemently. "And that's just the case with the people. Their sleep

under the night cap of superstition is no longer so sound and

refreshing as it was a hundred years ago. All sorts of voices have

startled them, and now they are slumbering in the dusk of morning and

do not know whether it is time to rise. But why do I talk of this to

you? You don't understand the times, you've never felt the pulse throbs

of humanity stir your heart, with all your knowledge and good,

intentions, you're--"

"Say no more, Franzel," whispered Balder. "You're excited; why should

we utter angry words in the parting hour,--if you really intend to take

leave of us? That we shall meet again, and before much time has passed,

I'm perfectly sure."

"You--I will never lose you!" murmured the deeply agitated enthusiast,

in a tone audible only to Balder. "You're right," he added aloud. "It's

sad enough to feel that our paths must diverge. We should not make the

inevitable unnecessarily difficult. Farewell, Edwin. I could almost

envy you the power of keeping to yourself what you consider an

intellectual possession; for to be sure, 'he who is foolish enough not

to guard his own heart'--but--it's useless: _alus inserviendo

consumor_. Adieu, Mohr. With you--"

He was about to add something, but thought better of it and left the

room. On reaching the entry he paused a moment, as if waiting for some

one. He was not disappointed. Balder followed him, on the pretext that

he had something more to say. But he only pressed his hand in silence,

then threw his arms around his neck, hastily released him again, and

Franzelius stumbled down the stairs, like a man whose head is heavy or

whose eyes are closed.

"He's obeying his evil genius!" said Edwin, shaking his head. "I've

seen the fit coming and vainly endeavored to stay it. But water will

flow down hill."

[Illustration: Balder's farewell to Franzelius in the stairwell.]

"It will soon come to a level and remain stagnant for some time,"

muttered Mohr. "I'm sorry for the poor fellow! Believe me, Edwin, it

was always disagreeable to me to be continually compelled to make fun

of him. At heart I not only respected, but liked him. He has exactly

what I lack, and because he is not ambitious of distinction, he is

indifferent to his own worth. He takes himself just as he is--I believe

if he thought he was a superior person liable to be admired in society,

he would indignantly ostracise himself."

Balder re-entered the room and they talked of other things; Mohr

inquired about the private lessons Edwin was giving the young

hedge-princess, as Leah was called in the "tun." But Edwin, whose

thoughts were entirely engrossed with the confession his mysterious

friend had promised to make on the morrow, gave very absent replies: he

was explaining the history of philosophy from his own books. He told

her without any oratorical flourishes, how the secret of the universe

had been differently reflected in various human brains, how thoughtful

minds had endeavored to interpret it and expressed the inexpressible in

formulas more and more profound. "I have now come to ideology," he

concluded, "which to one who possesses so deep an intellect as this

girl, can afford a great deal of pleasure, and be comprehended without

much difficulty. I'm amazed to see what progress she makes in

Aristotle. Yet, after all, it only confirms the proposition that where

a real need exists, the organs for it are formed, as the feeling of

hunger always asserts itself when a creature possesses a stomach. It's

a pleasure to see this girl listen. She has long languished for

knowledge, now she fairly revives like a thirsty plant in the summer

rain."

"Congratulate the Frau Doctorin," laughed Mohr.

The brothers' eyes involuntarily met.

"We're now just coming to Plato," Edwin forced himself to answer in a

jesting tone. "Whether my pupil, in spite of her studies of hedges and

lagunes, has sufficiently elevated thoughts to develop a taste for our

'tun' philosophy, I greatly doubt."

Meantime Franzelius, walking slowly down stairs, as if every step cost

him a fresh resolution, had just reached the front of the house. When

he came to the glass door that led into the shop, he suddenly stopped.

In the chair behind the show window, where Madame Feyertag was usually

enthroned, sat Reginchen. It was already very dark in this corner, for

the gas in the shop was usually not lighted in summer, and September,

according to the Feyertag calendar, belonged to the summer months; yet

notwithstanding this, the printer had perceived at the first glance who

it was that sat in the corner knitting a stocking.

He seemed to struggle with himself a moment, then softly opened the

door and with a: "Good evening, Fraeulein Reginchen!" entered the shop.

"Oh! dear, how you frightened me!" cried the young girl, starting from

her seat.

"I beg your pardon," stammered Franzelius, "I ought to have knocked.

But I have so many things to think of--sit still, Fraulein Reginchen,

I--I only wanted--I came--"

He clutched his cap convulsively in one hand, and was brushing the brim

with his elbow.

"My mother has gone out," said Reginchen, to make a little

conversation. "But father is still in the work room. If you want to

speak to him--"

"Oh no--but allow me--" He picked up the knitting she had dropped, but

in so doing let his cap fall, and as she now stooped for it, their

heads came in contact somewhat violently. He blushed crimson, but she

burst into a merry laugh.

"That's owing to the short days," said she. "But father is anxious to

save the gas. I drop so many stitches!"

Then both were silent again.

At last the printer, pausing before the case of ladies' shoes and

gazing into it as intently, as if he were endeavoring to count each

individual pair, said:

"You're fortunate, Fraeulein Reginchen. You can stay in this house. I--I

must--from to-day I shall--"

"Are you going away on a journey, Herr Franzelius?"

"No, Fraeulein Reginchen, or rather yes!--it amounts to the same thing.

I--I'm glad I've met you--I should like--I didn't want to leave without

a farewell--"

"Are you going away for long?"

"No one can tell--perhaps I shall never return. Fraeulein Reginchen, I

cannot hope--you know I--I have always revered you--"

She laughed again in her merry childish way; but if the shop had not

been so dark and he had looked at her, he would probably have noticed

the deep blush that suffused her face. "Oh gracious!" she exclaimed.

"Revered! No one ever did that before. A stupid creature like me, who

can't do anything and doesn't understand anything, as mother tells me

every day--"

"You don't know your own worth, Reginchen, and that's the best proof of

it--I mean that it's no false worth. But excuse me for telling you this

so bluntly: It's the first--and last time. And of course you--if I

don't come back--will never give me another thought."

The prudent child seemed to know that silence is sometimes the best

answer. She coughed several times, and then said: "Where are you

going?"

"Wherever the winds and waves carry me!" he replied with sorrowful

pathos, and then paced heavily up and down the shop.

"So you're going to sea! Dear me, how frightened I should be! Do you

know, Herr Franzelius, I shall tremble every time that the east wind

blows and the window panes rattle and the gas lights flicker--and

you'll be on the angry sea--"

"Will you really do that, Fraeulein Reginchen?" he asked hastily,

pausing before her. "If you were in earnest--but no, why should you

give yourself useless anxiety about a man who can never--to be sure,

I--it will be a real cordial on my journey--and I wanted to say

something else: I should like to take a keepsake to remember you and

this hour."

"A keepsake?"--she involuntarily glanced at her knitting work, at which

he too was looking intently. "I'm just at the heel," she said, "and I

suppose you'll not wait till it's done."

"No, Fraeulein Reginchen," he replied, "don't think me so presuming as

to ask for such a gift--your own handiwork--so unceremoniously. But--if

I could find any of your father's work--but I've an ugly foot, which is

hard to fit with ready made boots--"

"I could take your measure."

"Yes, you might do that; but no, Reginchen, in the first place I would

not accept such a service from you--"

"I would do it willingly, besides, I'm accustomed to it."

"No, no! A creature like you, and such an unlucky mortal as I--but if I

could find a pair already made--"

He looked around the walls, sighed, passed his hand through his hair,

seemingly endeavoring to avoid her glance.

"You have not the smallest foot in the world," said the girl, looking

at his coarse boots with the eye of an connoisseur. "If it were only as

long in proportion as it's wide. But it's so short beyond the instep,

it would be hard--"

"Won't it? Two elephants' feet!" said the printer laughing bitterly.

"We men of the people, who don't tread as often as we're trodden upon,

didn't need to have such big feet. But it's no matter. Who knows when

our turn will come. Well, Fraeulein Reginchen, if you can't--"

"Wait," she exclaimed, starting up and opening the show window, "I

think I can find something for you; that is, if you can use jack-boots.

But as you're going to sea--"

--"At least through fire and water.--Show me the jack-boots, Fraulein

Reginchen."

He sat down on a low stool and watched her, as she nimbly leaned

forward into the show window, dislodged with considerable difficulty

two huge boots paraded there as models, and placed them in the shop.

During this operation he again sighed, as if suffering. While, assisted

by Reginchen, he tried on the boots, which fitted admirably, that is

were much too large, he did not utter a syllable; but when with his

feet cased in the huge polished coverings he stood before her as if

rooted to the floor, he drew out his blue checked pocket handkerchief,

wiped his forehead, and slowly replacing it, said: "Ask your father to

send me the bill with the old boots. And now, Fraulein Reginchen, one

thing more: take care of my friends up stairs as before--especially

Balder. He--perhaps you don't know it--won't live to be very old; at

least while he is here, let him know only love and kindness--"

He turned away because his voice failed, and furtively wiped his eyes

with his cap.

"Good Heavens!" cried the young girl in terror, "what are you saying?

Herr Walter--"

"Hush!" replied Franzelius putting his broad fore-finger on his lip.

"You're a kind hearted, sensible girl--you'll keep it to yourself Oh!

Fraulein Reginchen, if it were not for that, if it were not for many

things--of which you have no suspicion--Heaven knows I--I would make no

secret of my feelings, and tell you--but no! Love him, Reginchen, as

much as you can. Will it be hard for you to love Balder?"

Again she made no reply. The question seemed to her a dangerous one. He

was looking at her with a strange expression of anxiety and love;

suddenly he caught both her hands in his huge palm, clasped them so

closely that she with difficulty restrained a cry of terror, and burst

forth: "If there is such a thing as an angel, you are one. Farewell.

Think--forget--you have never had a better friend than I! I only wanted

to bid you farewell--Fraulein Reginchen!"

He tore himself away and tramped out of the shop in his gigantic boots

as hastily as if he feared to remain longer, lest spite of these firm

pillars, he might lose his centre of gravity and fall at the feet of

the shoemaker's little daughter.

Reginchen looked after him through the show window. Often as she had

laughed at him, she could not do so to-day, she was much more ready to

cry. No one had ever spoken to her so before. She had longed perceived

that he liked her, and even prided herself a little upon that fact,

because she thought he must be unusually learned, as he was always

occupied in printing. But that he "revered" her, that he thought her

almost an angel--! And what did he mean in speaking so about Herr

Walter?

She sat down again in her chair in the corner. "I'll commence to-night

to knit a pair of stockings for him to take on his journey," she

thought. "If only I can get them done! His feet are so awfully big."

CHAPTER IV.

About the same hour Lorinser was sitting on the little leather sofa in

Christiane's room, with his knees half drawn up on the seat, and his

long arms stretched along the back, like a person who is making himself

comfortable, because he does not intend to go very soon. Although it

was already so dark that faces could scarcely be distinguished, no lamp

stood on the little table. But from one of the windows in the front of

the house gleamed a faint light, which frequently moved and fell upon

the pale face of the man on the sofa, revealing the expression of eager

expectation stamped upon the strongly marked features. Whenever the

light flitted over Lorinser's countenance, the strange smile appeared

on the mobile lips, and he lowered the eyes, which so long as it

remained dark, followed every movement of the woman who, with her arms

folded across her breast as usual, was pacing up and down the room.

Suddenly she paused at the window, opened it a moment gasping for

breath, and then turned toward the silent man on the sofa.

"How people forget the flight of time when they are talking," she said.

"I see it has grown dark. Excuse me, Herr Candidat, my hours are so

regularly apportioned--"

"You wish to send me away, Fraeulein Christiane," he said making no

preparation to move from his comfortable position. "I have really

forgotten the true cause of my visit, in your musical revelations,

which have afforded me a glimpse of depths hitherto unsuspected. So

what answer can I give the baroness?"

"Is any positive answer required?" she said. "Why should I have told

you how I prize music, except to explain that I will never become a

drawing room teacher, that I would rather starve than share in the

universal sin of the jingling, bungling profanation of what I hold

sacred?"

"And yet you do not disdain to give lessons to a soubrette?"

"How do you know?"

"Because--well, because I've enquired about you. I must be able to

answer for a person whom I recommend to houses like that of the

baroness."

"Very well. I will tell you why I take this frivolous creature; from a

motive which will be perfectly obvious to you, as you too are

interested in home missions:--to save a soul."

"You want to transform this stage princess, who has already passed

through so many hands, into a saint? You're jesting."

Christiane laughed, a short, hollow laugh, utterly destitute of mirth.

"What do you take me for?" she asked. "To make a person something which

I myself neither am nor desire to be! And what has her mode of life to

do with me? I'm willing to allow everybody to be happy in their own

way. What I call saving her soul, is giving her an idea of true music.

The girl has the most enviable talents, voice, ear, passion, the

genuine, the natural musical sympathy, which in all such compositions

instantly opens to her the real meaning of the author or the part, so

that she not only repeats the notes, but reproduces the whole meaning

to the life. This is rare, even among those who consider themselves

great artists, and are paid as such. And that's why this stage princess

as you choose to call her, is too high for Offenbach, and, indeed,

perfectly capable of interpreting Mozart and the other great masters."

"And if you succeed, do you really believe that this rescued soul will

be made any happier?"

"Who can tell? I merely do what lies in my power. Happy! If music alone

could give happiness, few would possess such joy as mine. But it's only

a substitute, perhaps the most powerful and noble, but not the real

thing, not happiness itself. Of that I'm perfectly sure; I've had time

to experience it."

"And what do you consider real happiness?"

She was silent a moment, not as if it were difficult to answer, but as

if considering whether she owed the questioner any reply.

Then in a tone of cold resignation she said suddenly:

"Real happiness? I only know because I have never tasted it. Real

happiness can be nothing but to sacrifice ourselves without losing

ourselves, because we find ourselves again in something better than we

are; to forget self in another, without fear of being ashamed of it,

because that other at the same moment is thinking only of what we

ourselves forget. You'll not understand me, and no matter if you don't.

I'll light the lamp."

"You speak of love," he said quietly. "I understand you, because the

same happiness you hope to find in earthly love, opens before us

children of God in the bliss of eternity. Did I not tell you just now,

that you must forget yourself to find yourself again in God, that there

was no other redemption? Now you come to meet me half way."

"But I shall never be able to traverse the other half," she said

bitterly. "Pray don't let us recur to that conversation. Once

more--it's late. I've work to do."

Still he did not move from his crouching position on the sofa.

"Don't be narrow-minded," he said quietly. "It doesn't suit you. You

have a larger nature than ordinary women; what's the use of these half

allusions, this shame-faced, prudish reserve, where the point in

question is the happiness of your life? If I could only really help

you?"

"You? No one can help me."

"Except God, and he who leads you to Him."

"I do not understand you. Have I not told you plainly enough, that I

feel no longing for your God and his pardoning grace? All I can do for

him, is not to hate him; though he has placed me in this world as I

am."

"As you are? And how are you?"

"You've just said it yourself: I'm no ordinary woman. I don't know what

could be more sad for a girl. And really: ever since the tale of a dear

God became improbable, ever since it dawned upon me that we poor human

animals only move about in the great throng of creation and have no

more claim to any special tenderness, than the thistles in the field,

which the donkey gnaws, or the donkey that the miller's boy cudgels,

I've become somewhat calmer. No one is to blame because I'm a joyless,

ugly, lonely woman, with a man's face, except perhaps my parents, who

died long ago and couldn't atone for it; the good people certainly did

not know what they were doing, when they gave _me_ life."

She poured forth these words in harsh, scornful tones, as one relates

something that has long angered one, busying herself, while so doing,

in lighting the little lamp with the green shade which she now placed

on the table.

"I think you've heard enough," she added dryly. "You're now convinced,

Herr Candidat, that such a mangy sheep would make a poor figure among

the gentle flock you lead to pasture, so I beg you in the future not to

trouble yourself about my temporal and eternal welfare."

"Certainly I have heard enough," answered Lorinser opening his eyes so

suddenly upon her, that the metallic lustre of the whites, subdued by

the green lamp light, seemed ghostly, "though you have really told me

nothing more, than I knew at the first glance. You're mistaken if you

think such confessions are new to me or repel me. They always proceed

from an exceptionally powerful nature, and grace can work only where

there is strength. Gentle, unselfish souls have nothing to oppose and

so nothing to gain. But since I have fully understood your nature, it

would be of great value if you would trust me sufficiently to disclose

the external circumstances among which you have become--no, have

remained, what you were from the beginning; I mean, your history, the

events of your life."

"My history?"--she laughed. "I have none, or what I have has already

been told you. My face is my history, my heavy eye-brows and the

shadow on my upper lip are my destiny. My father happened to look as I

do, and was considered a stately, interesting man. But I should have

been wiser to choose the face of my mother, who was by no means filmed

for her beauty, but must have been exactly what I am not, a thorough

woman. At least she made all sorts of innocent conquests. I, on the

contrary, though I was neither stupid nor had unwomanly manners--I

mean when I was a young girl; for I now go about boldly, like an old

student--although my talents early attracted attention among my

father's colleagues--he was one of the court musicians,--never made a

conquest in all my life. That is, I might have married two or three

times; but it was for very different reasons than love. One wanted to

give concerts with me, another, who was an elderly man and tired of his

bachelor life, needed a housekeeper, and that she should be ill-favored

he rather preferred than otherwise. He thought he would be all the more

sure of her faithfulness and self-sacrificing gratitude, in return for

his making her a married woman. The third--but why should I tell you

these disgusting tales, which at first deeply humiliated me. And though

I might have learned from them what my mirror had not then taught me, I

was mad enough always to select as the objects of my secret adoration,

the handsomest, most agreeable, and most admired men, who never cast a

glance at me. I had artist's blood in my veins, I could not help being

filled with enthusiasm about everything that was lovable, charming, and

distinguished, even if my heart should burst in consequence. But now I

have reached my thirty-fourth year; youth with its foolish desires for

love-sorrows, yearnings, anxieties, and honey that turns to gall, may

well have raved itself calm. Do you wish to know more of my story? I am

very sorry; but unfortunately I have nothing to tell of love

adventures, broken vows, wanderings from the path of virtue.

Unfortunately, I say. They would have made a change in the dreary grey

of my days and years, a few blood red spots, a stain effaced with

thousands of tears. Instead of that, I'm an old maid in the fullest

sense of the word, and your 'magic of sin' has no power over my

beggarly pride. Can you even imagine a bright, interesting, exciting

romance with such a frontispiece?"--She suddenly removed the green

shade and raised the little lamp to her face, which she turned full

upon him in the bright glare.

"That's a matter of taste," he replied without the slightest change of

countenance. "For instance, I for my part have always preferred faces

full of character to smooth, meaningless ones, which might nevertheless

be considered very charming, pretty, and attractive. Superficial

sweetness nauseates me. To feel strength, bitterness, even icy scorn

and hatred melt in the glow of passion, always seemed to me more

desirable than the sentimental fusion of two harmonious souls. The

woman who is to attract me, must have something of the devil in her.

Put down the lamp Fraeulein Christiane. It is illuminating charms which

under some circumstances might become dangerous, and as I am at present

entirely indifferent to you--"

At this moment the bell was violently pulled.

"Thanks for the interruption," said Christiane in a subdued tone, that

the person outside might not hear; "I should have given you an answer,

which perhaps would have seemed altogether too unwomanly. Now I shall

dismiss you without ceremony, and indeed--"

The bell rang again. Lorinser had put his feet on the floor, but did

not seem inclined to leave his corner.

She looked at him with a glance of indescribable astonishment and

anger, then took the lamp and went into the ante-room to open the door.

Mohr was standing outside; his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes,

as soon as the door opened, strove with a keen, intent gaze, to pierce

the darkness within; but his manner was perfectly unembarrassed, almost

formal.

"I beg a thousand pardons, Fraeulein," he said, "for having knocked at

your door a second time at so unseasonable an hour, but if I violate

ceremony, to an artist my errand will plead my excuse. I only beg

fifteen minutes conversation;--Have you a visitor?" he continued, as he

suddenly perceived the figure of a man in the adjoining room. "So much

the better, that will prevent all thought of indecorum. Will you allow

me to enter? There's a disagreeable draught on these stairs. Or shall I

interrupt you?"

"Not in the least," replied Christiane, with a very gloomy expression,

as she slightly bent her head. "To be sure I've not the honor of your

acquaintance--"

"As a friend of your fellow lodgers up stairs, I thought I had a sort

of right to introduce myself to you. A short time ago, in a merry mood,

I made an unsuccessful attempt to do so, though my friend Edwin tried

to prevent me. You cannot have condemned it so severely as I did

myself, so soon as I came to my senses."

"I have no recollection, sir--"

"So much the better. It was quite dark in the entry. Today, by the lamp

light, permit me to introduce myself to you: plain Heinrich Mohr; I

scorned to buy a doctor's title. A man usually who has nothing to make

him must have some distinction."

"Will you be kind enough to inform me--"

She was still standing in the ante-room with the lamp in her hand, as

if she wished to get rid of him as quickly as possible, while he from

time to time cast eager glances into the sitting room.

"I will come to the point at once," said he leaning against a chest of

drawers which stood near the door. "What I have to propose, is no

secret and requires no privacy. Unfortunately, it is tolerably well

known to all who are aware of my existence--but will you not sit down,

Fraulein? To stand so--" He made a movement toward the door of the

sitting room.

"Thank you. I'm not tired."

"Nor I. So to proceed: I'm unfortunately endowed with all sorts of

mediocre talents. One would be enough to make a man who is no fool, but

possesses a critical judgment, thoroughly unhappy. In the arts bungling

even is worse than in medicine. What does it matter if a few men die

more or less? But to corrupt or lower the standard of art, is a sin

against the divinity of genius. Don't you think so too, Fraulein?"

She looked at him intently, without opening her lips.

"But," he continued, "there's a false modesty too. Many a great man

would never have believed in his own talents, if kind friends had not

discovered them. Other gifts are, as it were, trampled under foot in

the crowd, through malice and envy--men are very envious, Fraulein,

Germans especially. I allude of course to the common envy of trade,

which is no more allied to the ideal, high-souled envy, than a

toad-stool is to a truffle--in short it's not easy for every man to

know what's in him. My eyes have gradually been opened to the fact that

my talent for rhyming amounts to nothing. But music, music! I play the

piano very poorly and my voice is like a raven's; but in regard to the

gift of composition, it always seems to me that I can compare very

favorably with the shallow composers of waltzes, or writers of street

songs. As for yourself, Fraeulein--pardon me for having listened to

your playing; you confided your musical confessions to the quiet

courtyard--I--I have the deepest reverence for your talent--for--how

shall I express it?--for the strong nature expressed in your style of

playing. Now you see--I have just finished--for a long time I have been

engaged on a great composition, which I have sometimes called--it's

only a fancy, or rather a bad joke--my _sinfonia ironica_. You

understand: so far, none of it has been written out, but in my head

everything is as good as ready for the press--except the

instrumentation. Musicians to whom I've now and then played parts of

it, have usually been bigoted adherents of some particular school. I

must confess that I gave none of them credit for really entering into

the spirit of the work. With you the case is wholly different. I would

wager, that if you would only give me an hour--"

"Sir," she interrupted, "you over-estimate my knowledge and judgment. I

sincerely regret--"

"Pray do me the favor, Fraeulein, not to condemn me unheard. I ask

nothing more than that you will listen to the first few bars, where the

irony is still in the stage of oppression and grief--C. minor, which

afterwards changes into F.--"

"I've never been able to understand the so-called language of music,"

she answered curtly. "So it would be better--"

"Do you dislike the title? Very well! I'll give it up. It shall merely

be absolute music, like any other. I'll submit to hear Wagner all the

days of my life, intensified one day in the week by Offenbach, if the

first bars do not prove that the rest is at least worth hearing. You

_must_ allow me to play the introduction on your piano--"

He did not wait for her permission, but hastily entered the sitting

room, so that there was nothing left her but to follow with the lamp.

Lorinser was still sitting in the sofa corner. His eyes were fixed on

the ceiling and he seemed so lost in thought that he did not notice the

new comers.

Christiane set the lamp heavily on the table, as if she wished to rouse

him by the rattling of the shade.

"Allow me to introduce you to each other, gentlemen," she said coldly.

"Herr--what is your name?"

"Heinrich Mohr, Fraeulein. A name hitherto very obscure, but which you

will perhaps help to some moderate distinction. But an introduction is

scarcely necessary. I already have the honor of knowing that

gentleman."

Lorinser fixed his piercing eyes on the other's face and then

carelessly replied: "I didn't know I had the pleasure of your

acquaintance before."

"That's a matter of course," replied Mohr, approaching the little table

and raising the shade from the lamp. "The acquaintance has hitherto

been entirely on my side. Besides, with the exception of a casual

meeting in the entry, it's still very recent; it dates from last

night."

Lorinser rose. He seemed to find the full glare of the lamp

objectionable.

"Last night," said he. "You must be mistaken."

"My dear sir," replied Mohr with eager courtesy, "he who possesses so

marked a face as yours, may be certain that no one will ever mistake

his physiognomy, though to be sure, I only saw it for about five

minutes through a window on the ground floor."

"Sir, allow me--"

"But I'll take my oath before a magistrate, that it was you whom I saw

in very lively society--it was a house in Koenig's stadt--you'll

recollect. You must know, Fraulein, that I'm still poet enough to

prefer night to day. I usually wander aimlessly about the streets till

after midnight; to be sure one doesn't always see the brightest side of

men, but if you wish to know them thoroughly--and they are so

incautious! They fancy if the curtains are down, they can show their

weaknesses great and small in secret. As if there were not chinks and

cracks in blinds and curtains, and one tiny insignificant little hole

was not enough to afford a view of a whole room, as a single word often

gives a glimpse of the inmost depths of hypocritical souls."

"An extremely poetical fancy, to peep through curtains," Lorinser

remarked, seizing his hat. "Unfortunately this time you've made a

mistake in the person, as I could prove, if it were worth while to take

the trouble, or the lady could by any possibility be interested in it.

Meantime, as you are about to occupy yourselves with musical exercises

my presence is superfluous--"

He bowed to Christiane and walked toward the door.

She turned to Mohr, who was watching Lorinser with a mischievous

glance.

"I must request you to excuse me to-day," said she. "If your ironical

symphony is anything more than a jest--you will always find me at home

in the morning, between twelve and one o'clock."

Mohr did not make the slightest attempt to request a short respite for

himself and his composition. The musical object of his visit seemed to

have entirely escaped his attention, for his eyes were sparkling with

delight at the thought of having driven Lorinser from his sofa corner.

He took a cordial but respectful leave of Christiane, and followed the

Herr Candidat, who silently walked out into the entry.

On the stairs they passed; Lorinser seemed to wish to give Mohr the

precedence. "Pray go on," said Mohr in the most cordial tone, "I'm

perfectly at home here. But perhaps you may prefer not to come up these

steep stairs too often. You might get hurt. The house where I saw you

yesterday is better lighted at any rate."

Lorinser half turned and said in a tone of suppressed fury: "You're

very much mistaken, sir, if you expect to intimidate me by such paltry

expedients. I deny having any knowledge of the place where you pretend

to have seen me; but I suspect from the tone you assume, that the

company was by no means the best. Well I confess, that for a man who,

in a lady's presence, denounces another and tries to represent him as a

person who visits bad houses--for such a spiteful and slanderous spy, I

repeat I've no feeling but profound contempt."

"Thank you," replied Mohr dryly. "If you had assured me of your esteem,

I should have taken it more to heart. Besides, my worthy friend in the

dark, I shall throw a little light on your path, should you show any

disposition to continue your visits to this lady, whom you already know

quite too well; I should be forced to speak still more plainly. I don't

see why I am to withhold my information against an individual of your

stamp, who visits workmen's societies for the purpose of denouncing to

the police any speaker that may not happen to suit him. I have the

honor to wish you a good night."

He raised his hat with mock respect and pointed out the path across the

courtyard, but did not follow, until the stealthy steps of Lorinser,

who in helpless rage could only exclaim, "we shall meet again," had

died away in the hall leading through the front of the house. Then he

looked up at Christiane's lighted windows. "This time at least I did no

half way work!" he said in a well satisfied tone. "She will thank me

for it some day. That singular woman is a whole-hearted creature."

If he could only have seen what the object or his adoration was doing

in her lonely room! After the two men went out, she had hastily, as if

to re-consecrate a sanctuary that had been profaned by evil spirits,

taken from her bureau a small carved frame containing a photograph, and

placed it like an altar picture on the table, so that it was brightly

illumined by the lamp. Then she drew up a chair, sat down before it,

and gazed at it in silent devotion. But her stooping posture becoming

uncomfortable at last, she glided down from the chair upon the floor,

and knelt, with her chin resting on the table and her eyes fixed with

enthusiastic fervor on the little card. The pictured face gazed quietly

into vacancy seeming to deprecate homage, and it bore the familiar

features of--our Edwin.

CHAPTER V.

The following day was cloudy and dismal. When at the appointed hour

Edwin arrived at the Thiergarten, he found it completely deserted. The

autumn rain was trickling drearily down, the trees, which had hitherto

still retained something of their summer aspect, now hung their heads

and seemed to realize that the sunny illusion could no more be retained

than their yellow leaves which were beaten down by the rain drops. Very

dreary looked the gold-fish pond, its surface bestrewn with withered

foliage, through which here and there a spot of deeper crimson

betokened the presence of some fish that snapped at a water-fly and

then indignantly retreated to the bottom again. Even the statue of

Venus looked as mournful in the falling rain as if she were reflecting

with horror that the time would soon come when a mantle of snow would

rest on her bare shoulders, and a crow, pecking at her diadem, scream

the harsh song of the Northern winter into her ear.

"She will not come," Edwin said to himself, after pacing up and down

once or twice under his umbrella. "The weather is too disagreeable.

Besides, perhaps she knows the contents of the Count's letter only too

well, and it was merely a gentle way of getting rid of me. Then--what

am I to do then. Did she expect me in that case, to open the letter and

read what she could not tell me?"--He drew the note from his pocket and

again glanced at the address: "'Mademoiselle Antoinette Marchand.' No,

if she does not come, has not the courage to come--the fish yonder

shall keep the secret."

At this moment a carriage rolled along the avenue and stopped before

the open space at the end of the pond. The striped waistcoat swung

himself down from the box, and out sprang the beautiful girl, wrapped

in a long black silk cloak, with the hood drawn over her head like a

nun, looking, with her sparkling eyes and slightly flushed cheeks, more

lovely than ever. She nodded to Edwin from the distance and smiled so

frankly that all his doubts suddenly vanished, and he secretly begged

her pardon for them.

"I've kept you waiting," she said, as she hung lightly on his arm. "But

my coachman made _me_ wait. I suppose he did not think the weather

suitable for driving. However, I am here now, and it's all the better

that it rains; no one will disturb us; I shall not be interrupted in my

confession and my 'wise friend's' moralizing and head-shaking will have

no hindrance."

"Have I ever shown a decided inclination that way?"

"No, but I fear when you know me better--! True, it is said: 'that

which can be comprehended can be forgiven.' But how are you to

understand me? Hitherto you have taken me for heaven knows who, at any

rate, for some very peculiar person, with good reasons for keeping her

incognito. Now when you learn how simply everything can be explained,

won't you think it your duty to guide me back to the paths of wisdom

and self-sacrifice, which will lead me straight to an early grave? If I

had not seen this conclusion foreshadowed so plainly, how gladly I'd

have told you long ago what you're now to hear for the first time!"

"Try me and see whether I'm not less stern than my vocation," he forced

himself to reply in a jesting tone. "I, like you, am no adept in

self-denial, where I feel that I have to assert a natural right, and

therefore I lack the first requisites of a moralist. What a foolish awe

you have of a poor private tutor! I know professors of philosophy who

have done the most absurd things."

"No, no, no!" she said earnestly, gazing down at the wet gravel, over

which she was lightly walking. "You don't understand it. You and I are

made of very different material. Can you understand why the little fish

are better off down in that dark water, than if you bade them to the

most luxurious couch of lilies and rose leaves? Every creature lives in

its own element, and perishes in an alien one. Don't you see, that I

too can philosophize?"

She paused, and for some time walked thoughtfully beside him, while the

solemn boy following some twenty paces behind under a large umbrella,

trod carefully in the dainty footprints made by his young mistress. The

carriage waited in the avenue beyond.

At last she paused a moment, looked him full in the face with a

mischievous expression in her large dark eyes, and said: "Before I

betray to whom you have given your arm, Won't you tell me what you have

taken me for?"

"I would not hesitate a moment," he answered smiling, "but indeed you

wrong me. Because I have confessed myself a philosopher, you believe me

foolish enough always to fancy things different from what they appear.

Thank God, I understand my own interests better. I'm glad when I

encounter something which banishes thought, and allows me to dream, as

when I listen to beautiful music, enjoy a spring day, or the fragrance

of clusters of roses. My thoughts--why should I deny it?--have been

very much engrossed by you, perhaps more than was well. But the idea of

imputing any blame to you has never occurred to me."

She laughed. "You're only evading the question. But no matter what good

or evil qualities you have attributed to me: I am neither an

aristocratic lady, nor an adventuress, but the very prosaic child of

'poor but honest parents.' Do you remember, in your boyhood, hearing of

a ballet dancer on the Berlin stage called Marchand? But how should

you? My father--he was a Frenchman--was still in the prime of life,

when he had an unlucky fall from a flying trapeze, which forever shut

him out from the field of his art, with all its joys and honors. He

took this so much to heart, that he never wished to see or hear of the

theatre, and voluntarily retired into exile in a miserable little abode

in the Mark. Here he married my mother, and had three daughters beside

the oldest, myself. One died young, but the two others married worthy

burghers and became happy wives. Things did not prosper so well with me

unfortunately. I never was like the others, and my good mother had a

great deal of trouble with me. Perhaps she'd have been more successful

in teaching me if she'd shown me more love, but though possessing the

kindest heart in the world, she was always cold, stern and formal to

me, and as my father only spoiled me the more, you can imagine what

sort of training I received. I once heard it whispered that I was not

my mother's child. But although in such a small place nothing remains a

secret, and everybody knows his neighbors' business by heart, I never

discovered what was meant by the hasty words, and almost believe it was

only said in explanation of my mother's coldness, which was noticed

even by strangers. Perhaps she was jealous of the love my father

lavished upon me; for her aversion increased with years, in exact

proportion as I grew prettier and my father petted me more. Besides,

none of my sisters were like me. You ought to have known my father, in

order to be able to understand and forgive him for idolizing me. When a

very young man, he had gone through the best dancing school in Paris,

and the impressions made by the last brilliant days of the Empire never

left him. He always wore pumps and a white cravat, and when he felt

particularly happy, told us tales of Paris, the entertainments he had

witnessed at court--of course only from a corner of the gallery--the

duchesses and marquises to whom he had given lessons, their beauty,

grace, and the luxury that surrounded them, concluding usually with a

heavy sigh, as he looked around our miserable room: '_Ils sont passes,

ces jours de fete!_"