When Edwin, leaning on Marquard, entered the tun, Madame Feyertag was

kneeling beside the bed rubbing Balder's cold temples with some

stimulant. Marquard permitted her to go on, and for some minutes

closely examined the motionless body. Then he turned to Edwin, who had

sunk down on the foot of the bed. "Poor boy!" said he. "Come, Edwin, be

a man! It was only a question of weeks. He's passed into the other

world quickly and painlessly. Look at the calm face."

A loud burst of weeping interrupted him. Herr Feyertag, with gentle

violence, led away his kind-hearted wife, who sobbed as hopelessly as

if she had lost a child of her own; the head journeyman, with tears

streaming down his face, softly followed them; he first tried to say

something to Edwin, but checked the words that were on his lips. When

he returned to the workshop, he sat down on a stool and buried his face

in his hands. Half an hour later, when the apprentices stole in to

continue their work, prepared for violent reproaches, they found the

choleric fellow in the same attitude. He seemed completely transformed;

but when toward evening, the youngest apprentice began to whistle

softly to himself, he rushed at him like a madman and called him a

heartless toad, for screwing up his mouth and whistling wedding tunes

on such a day.

Over the house there was a hush, as if with the fading away of this one

life all the joy of existence had vanished. Every one went about on

tip-toe and closed the doors noiselessly. When, toward evening, the

maid-servant went to the pump, she looked up to the open windows of the

upper room, wiped her eyes, and stealing away with the empty pail,

brought the water from one of the neighboring houses.

In the afternoon, Mohr came, and an hour after him, Franzelius, both

entirely ignorant of what had happened. But Herr Feyertag sat in the

shop and beckoned to every one who entered the house, in order to keep

troublesome visitors away from Edwin. Mohr did not utter a word and no

change of countenance betrayed his emotion, so that the worthy

shoemaker shook his head, as, muttering something in a low tone, the

young man left the shop, to go up to the tun. But it was a long time

before he reached it. He first slipped into Christiana's room, and

sitting there in the darkness let the first passion of grief rage

itself calm, before he ventured to go to Edwin. Franzelius, on the

contrary, had thrown himself into the arms of his future father-in-law,

with such heart-rending sobs, that Herr Feyertag, who hitherto had

placed no great confidence in him, because he believed him to be a

bloodthirsty revolutionist, secretly admitted that his wife was right;

Reginchen could not have found a better husband.

It was strange that neither of the friends ventured to let Edwin see

their first sorrow, that both paid the common toll of human weakness

before making their daily visit to the tun. Was it because of the habit

formed during the last few weeks, of considering that room a sacred

place, from which all the tumult of selfish sorrows and passions must

be kept away, or did they fear that they could not endure the sight of

the survivor, if they had not first regained their own composure?

They met on the stairs, just as Mohr was leaving Christiane's room.

Without uttering a word, the old antagonists fell into each others

arms, kissing and embracing each other as if there had never been any

ill-blood between them. Thus a solemn vow of eternal friendship was

exchanged, and they mounted the stairs hand in hand.

They found Edwin alone, still sitting in the same attitude as when

Marquard had left him an hour before, to visit some patients. Balder

was lying wrapped in his cloak, like a victor who had fallen on the

battle field. Edwin was bent forward, leaning on the foot of the bed.

He now half rose and with a faint smile held out his hands to his

friends.

"Have you come too?" said he. "I'm glad. He's so beautiful! I can

scarcely pity my own loneliness when I look at his face. Can you

believe that he will never open his eyes again? And yet he never will,

Marquard says he never will, and he must know." After a pause he

continued: "Take a chair, Franzel. Pardon me that I keep my seat. We

need not stand upon ceremony, and it is hard for me to move a limb.

He's better off, I don't grudge him his happiness,--but it's hard to

think we shall soon see his face no more."

Mohr had taken a chair opposite the bed, Franzelius was leaning against

the door gazing through his tears at the closed eye-lids and marble

brow of the beloved dead. When the room grew so dark, that they could

scarcely distinguish each other's features, Mohr rose and insisted upon

taking Edwin to his room, where he could get some wine and some light

food to strengthen him. "You've a great deal before you; you must

husband your strength. Franzel will stay here. We'll send a lamp up to

him. The night watch can be divided between us." Unconsciously, like a

somnambulist, Edwin obeyed. The strong wine Mohr pressed upon him threw

him into a sound sleep for half an hour. As he awoke, he uttered a cry

that made his companion start up in alarm.

"It's nothing!" Edwin said with a sorrowful shake of the head. "I was

only dreaming that I heard Balder's voice. Just as I tried to take his

hand, I awoke and suddenly remembered all. I thought my heart would

burst; but I am strong again, only my eyes are still dry. Come, we'll

not keep him waiting too long."

When they opened the door of the death chamber, they paused on the

threshold in astonishment. Franzelius had taken advantage of their

short absence to erect, with the aid of the household, a sort of

catafalque. The turning lathe was placed in the centre of the room and

covered with a black cloth, and on it was a hastily made couch, on

which Balder was laid. At his head stood the palms, and beside them two

tall laurel trees, which the old tenor had sent. His wife had added two

silver candelabras, which burned on either side of the bier and shed a

calm light on the beautiful pale face. Instead of the little cloak, a

white sheet, on which the slender hands rested, covered the slight

form. The white cat had glided in through the open window and wandering

around for a time, crouched finally at the foot of the bier with its

yellow eyes fixed steadily on the candles.

Edwin seated himself on Balder's empty bed and drew his friend down

beside him. "Thank you," said he. "We'll let no stranger touch him. No

one but those who have loved him."

Franzelius mutely pressed his hand and turned away to hide his tears.

Mohr had sat down before the chess board that stood on the little table

in the corner, and mechanically began to move the pieces.

They had not long sat thus silent and alone, when some one knocked

gently. Mohr went to the door and came back saying: "The zaunkoenig is

here, with Leah and Frau Valentin. They only wish to hear how you are,

and have no desire to intrude upon you. But I thought if you had no

objections we would admit them."

Edwin nodded and rose. When the little artist entered and cast a glance

at the simple catafalque, tears gushed from his eyes. He blindly

grasped Edwin's hand and held it firmly, trying to conceal his emotion

behind his hat. Frau Valentin's pleasant face also disappeared in her

handkerchief. Leah, without looking at Edwin, approached the bier and

seemed utterly petrified with surprise at the incomprehensible mystery

of death. Her face was as still and white as that of the departed. Only

her eyes, which without the quiver of a lash, rested intently on the

noble countenance of the dead, glowed with the intense fire of life.

For a time no words were uttered; at length Frau Valentin, wiping her

eyes, approached Edwin. "Forgive me for coming," said she. "My heart

brought me here. You needn't fear that I shall obtrude words of

consolation that would be meaningless to you. But to me, to us, you

will not grudge the comfort of believing that the Father has recalled

his child, and that we other children of God shall meet him again in

the eternal home; and meet you too, dear friend, who until then must

feel his loss so terribly."

"Thank you," replied Edwin. "I know your meaning is the kindest. You

wish to give me of your abundance in what you think is my poverty. To

be sure, I've lost much; for what can replace the joy of daily and

hourly drinking in every look, every thought that proceeds from such a

soul! I'll say nothing about him; he would never let me praise him to

his face, and I'm foolish enough to fear that yonder poor husk would

begin to blush. To speak of him later--behind his back--will be the

best consolation. As for the rest--do you really believe, that I shall

not see him again daily and hourly, even without waiting for a heavenly

meeting? If I were forced to await that, I should hardly linger long

behind. But I have him, he can never be torn from me; the happiness of

having known and loved such a creature in the flesh and blood, can

never pass when the flesh moulders away. This spiritual intercourse is

the only really living thing, the only eternity, and it continues to

exist amid a thousand changes, an inextinguishable flame, even when the

individual brain and heart which for a time have fed the flame, cease

to feed it longer. They may well crumble to ashes, when their short

blaze has kindled a fire in other souls." He paused. She had listened

with deep emotion and a scarcely perceptible shake of the head; but

repressed any desire she might have had to contradict him. Edwin now

approached Leah.

"I thank you for coming," said he as he pressed her hand. Large tears

welled to her eyes, but she did not utter a word. "See how beautiful he

is!" Edwin gently continued. "I know you will never forget these

features, and therefore I'm glad you can see him. True, his rare smile

will never come again, and his eyes--but dear Fraeulein, this is

exhausting you too much. Let them take you home--I'll come in a few

days--you ought to spare yourself."

A look from him summoned her father, who gently took the hand of the

deeply agitated girl and led her out of the room. Frau Valentin

embraced Edwin like a mother, and then followed the others. The room

was again perfectly still, and they sat together in silence for several

hours, until Marquard came and insisted that Edwin must spend the night

with him. "To-morrow!" replied the latter. "Let me have my own way

to-day. Go all of you, and leave me. Rest assured this course is best

for me; I'll go to sleep, and my quiet companion will not disturb me."

At first Marquard would not listen to such a proposal, but Edwin was

firm in his resolution, and they at last left him alone with the dead.

It was ten o'clock on a cold, dark winter's night; the wind drove snow

flakes into the open windows, and ever and anon the candles flickered

as if they would be extinguished. Edwin, wrapped in Balder's cloak, had

thrown himself on his bed without undressing, and now lay listening to

the wind, the spluttering of the candles, and the distant rolling of

the carriages in the crowded city. No restful sleep visited his excited

senses, only a hasty changeful dream, in which scenes from his earliest

childhood passed before his mind, and amid them Toinette seated in a

light carriage beside a stranger, gazing coldly and sadly at him,

followed by a vision of Leah's thoughtful face which appeared beside

her mother's bust. When he opened his eyes to drive away these confused

images, he looked straight into the round yellow eyes of the cat that

would not leave the bier. This at last made him uncomfortable. He rose,

took the animal in his arms and carried it to the door, to drive it

down stairs. But when he turned the handle, he saw crouching on the

threshold the figure of some one who seemed to have been peeping

through the key hole.

"You here, Reginchen?" he exclaimed in astonishment.

The young girl had started up, and was standing before him trembling

from head to foot like some detected criminal.

"Ah! Herr Doctor," she faltered at last, "don't be angry with me. I

couldn't sleep, I tossed about continually, and let me close my eyes as

resolutely as I would, I constantly saw him before me, and then--then

something fairly drew me here--I thought when I'd once seen him I

should feel better, that I could rest, and so I crept up stairs. I

could, just see his face through the keyhole, but it wouldn't let me go

away again. If you hadn't come, I believe I should have knelt here all

night and been forced to look at him till I died."

"Won't you come in, child?" he said, taking her by the hand. "Don't be

frightened. I'll cut off a lock of his hair for you. Do you want it?"

"No, no!" she exclaimed vehemently. "Not in there, not a step nearer!

I'm so afraid of him, I'm afraid he will open his eyes, and ask--oh!

Herr Edwin, you don't know--let me go--if I should touch a lock of his

hair, I should never be able to leave his side again and I can't help

being a poor stupid thing, who didn't understand him! Oh, God! my heart

is breaking!"

Passionate sobs checked her utterance. But when Edwin put his arm

around her and kindly tried to soothe her, she broke from him and

darted down the stairs like an arrow, while he stood a long time in the

darkness, musing over this strange enigma, ere he again threw himself

on his cold bed.

CHAPTER IV.

On the morning of the third day the funeral took place. Franzelius, who

had undertaken to attend to all the sorrowful details, insisted that

this last duty should be performed at six o'clock. "Perhaps then the

preacher will oversleep himself," said he. Edwin had assented. The

clergyman belonging to their ward, who as professor of theology had met

Edwin at college, came the day after the event to condole with him and

ask for some notes for the funeral address. "You would do me a favor,"

Edwin replied, "if you would merely say what is absolutely necessary,

what your formula prescribes. Eulogies from a person who knew nothing

of the dead, have always been repulsive to me; and besides, as my

brother shared my opinions, many a word would be uttered over his open

grave, against which he would protest if he could hear it." The

clergyman probably thought that the softened soul of a mourner would be

good soil in which to sow the seed of religion, but Edwin cut short all

farther conversation, and his colleague, in by no means the best of

humors, left him.

Franzelius had still another reason for choosing the dark morning hour.

A society of workmen, of which he was a member, wished to sing a hymn

in the churchyard and could not assemble later. But he did not tell his

friend a word of this.

He had kept his promise, no stranger's hand had been allowed to touch

the dead body. Even the most painful task, he performed himself,

screwing down with his own hands the coffin lid. Then, as the bearers

wound slowly down the crooked stairs with their burden, he took Edwin's

arm and supported him on the last sorrowful pilgrimage.

The street was only lighted by a faint reflection from the snow, and

few persons were standing around the door. Edwin bowed sorrowfully to

his acquaintances and then entered the first of the four mourning

coaches, which instantly moved forward. He was accompanied by Mohr,

Marquard, and Franzelius. The second carriage was occupied by Herr

Feyertag and the old gentleman on the second floor, who despite the

wintry cold, would not be dissuaded from showing his fellow-lodger this

token of sympathy. The third carriage belonged to the little artist. He

had come by himself and intended to follow the coffin alone, when he

perceived the head journeyman, who with a large weed on his hat and a

band of crape on his left arm, was preparing to accompany the

procession on foot. Herr Koenig instantly ordered his driver to stop,

opened the door, and compelled the worthy man to take the seat beside

him, which the modest fellow after long hesitation, at last consented

to do.

The fourth and last carriage contained a young Pole and the president

of a society, which numbered among its members many foreigners and

formed the largest portion of the audience to Edwin's lectures. They

followed the body solely from regard for their teacher, as they had

never known Balder, and instantly drew down the curtains in order to

beguile the long ride by discussing theatrical matters, the latest

news, and smoking paper cigarettes.

From an upper window, a weeping girl wrapped in a thick shawl, gazed

after the slowly moving carriages. It was Reginchen, who for two days

had not made her appearance and steadily refused even to see her lover.

The procession moved through the Oranienburg Gate and traversed the

suburbs for some distance, ere it reached the cemetery. The air was

mild, as if a thaw were about to set in, and the snow over which they

walked to the grave, yielded noiselessly under their feet. Beside the

fresh mound of earth stood the clergyman, and behind him a throng of

dark figures, the workmen to whom the printer had said that he had lost

his dearest friend. The clergyman, whom Edwin only greeted with a

formal wave of the hand, now read aloud the prayer for the burial of

the dead and then approached the edge of the grave, into which the

coffin was already lowered.

He began: "'In the midst of life we are in death.' But they who turn

from the light of eternal truth, bear the gloom of death within their

souls. They live as if they thought never to die, and die as though

they were never to live again. What grief and terror will overwhelm

them on the day when the graves open and the dead come forth to receive

the crown of glory or the sentence of eternal condemnation. How the

words of the Judge will thunder in their ears: 'I offered you salvation

and ye rejected it with scorn and turned a deaf ear unto my message.'

In your vain self-righteousness you chose to be your own deliverers,

and have pronounced your own doom. Then will your pride bow before the

throne of the Highest, and defiance be crushed before the majesty of

the Son of Man. Then lips will sue for mercy, which on earth overflowed

with blasphemy, denying with Peter and saying: 'I know not this man.'

But we, who stand around this sad grave, will unite in silent prayer to

God, and implore him not to enter into judgment with this our brother,

to suffer a ray of his eternal mercy to transfigure and cleanse from

sin the frail erring life, which too early reached its end!"

An unbroken silence followed these words. The clergyman had folded his

hands over his book and closed his eyes in prayer. Suddenly Franzelius'

suppressed voice was heard amid the group of friends who were standing

at the foot of the grave:

"Let me speak, for I cannot be silent, I should despise myself, I

should be a miserable coward, if I could hear such words spoken over

his grave, without uttering a protest in the name of those who have

known and loved him. What is that I hear? 'let there be no scandal?'

Say that to those, who have not hesitated to carry the strife of

opinions into the stillness of the churchyard, where even the bitterest

enemies lie in death quietly side by side. No, my friends," he

continued in a loud voice, springing upon one of the snow covered

mounds, "we at least have not assembled around this grave, to stammer

an abject petition for a poor sinner who, unless justice be tempered by

mercy, is forever lost. This dead man will never be lost to us, and as

by the might of his love and intellect, he has indeed redeemed himself

from the curse of frail mortality, the terrors of blind delusion and

the bonds of selfishness, his memory will help us to free ourselves

also and to become more worthy of the joy of having been loved by him.

For yes, he has loved you too, my friends who never saw his face or

heard his voice. His great heart beat for all his brothers, for all who

were poor and miserable, for all the children of this world, who come

they know not whence and go they know not whither, and yet are too

honest to console themselves with fantastic tales and be lulled to rest

by idle dreams. What can be called sacred, if his grave is not? For do

you know _whom_ we are burying here? A laborer, my friends, who was

ever sharing his last shilling with some poor man; a poet who never

desecrated his genius for fame or gold; a hero, whose last act was a

deed of sacrifice for those he loved. And is this life to be swallowed

up in gloom? Should this grave be called a 'sad' one over which

penitent sighs and pharasaical petitions for mercy must resound? Oh! my

Balder, I know you would submit to even this error of a gloomy,

intolerant formalist, with the quiet smile which was your only weapon

against all assaults. But we, your friends, are not yet at peace, but

in the midst of warfare. We must struggle for the weak who allow

themselves to be intimidated by formulas preferring to leave their free

souls in imprisonment than to shake themselves free from the hands of

their tyrants, to learn to know and love this earth instead of

despising its beauty in view of an imaginary world to come. Despise an

earth, which has contained you, my Balder, a sky to which your noble

eyes have been raised? no, a thousand times no! such a world is no vale

of tears, and even in the bitterest woe beside your grave, we still

have a feeling of triumph--we have possessed you, and all the

calamities of life are richly compensated for, by the certainty that

your great heart lives on in ours--Balder--my friend--my brother--"

His voice suddenly failed, he pressed his clenched hand to his eyes and

turned away, but the next instant regained his composure and motioned

to the singers, who stood in a dense mass behind him. Instantly a

quartette choir, whose voices at first low and unsteady from agitation,

became gradually clearer and more powerful, began a song, which Mohr

had composed to the air of _Integer vitae_:

Brother, ere in the dust thy form we lay,

We'll to thy worth a loving tribute pay;

Thy virtues rare, and kindly heart, which were

A comfort on life's way.

Fearless thy earnest, noble soul did stand,

Not mid the lofty masters of the land,

But with thy brothers, 'mong their lowly huts,

A member of their band.

O! chosen one, for whom we proudly weep.

Of whom thy friends a loved remembrance keep,

How patiently thy weary lot was borne

Till peaceful thou did'st sleep!

Rejoice we at thy absence; gone before

Thy pleasures and thy pains on earth are o'er;

Rest thou, while on through strife and woe

We heavenward soar.

The last solemn notes died away, but there was still no movement among

the group who stood with bowed heads beside the open grave. When after

a pause they raised their eyes they perceived that the clergyman had

disappeared. The old sexton, unable to understand the strange scene,

had also retired leaving his spade behind him. While Edwin, standing

between Mohr and Marquard, gazed into the grave as tearlessly as a

departed spirit, it was rapidly filled, each person stepping forward in

turn to cast in a spadeful of earth.

Franzelius approached Edwin, and they clasped each other's hands in

silence. The mourner's soul was still benumbed with grief, and the same

dull stupor rested upon him as the party returned home. He took leave

of his friends at the door of the house and went up to his desolate

cell alone.

He found everything in the neatest order, nothing was left to recall

the sorrowful events which, during the last few days, had occurred in

the quiet room. A bright fire was burning in the stove, the breakfast

stood on the table as usual, and the turning lathe was once more in its

place beside the window, with the tools arranged upon it as before.

But on Balder's chair lay the little chisel with which Franzelius had

screwed down the coffin lid. At this sight, the spell which had bound

Edwin was suddenly broken; he threw himself into the chair and gave

free course to the bitterest tears.

CHAPTER V.

When Marquard visited Edwin the following morning, he found him at his

desk, holding his pen in his right hand and resting his head on the

left. A sheet of paper lay before him.

"Good morning, Fritz," said he. "You've come just at the right time. I

must make a decision, and everything within me seems walled up. I need

some one to unlock me. Perhaps you have the key." He looked at him with

a weary, restless glance, and tried to smile. It was pitiful to see the

effort he made to adopt a careless tone. His friend shook his head, "A

decision?" he asked.

"Yes, indeed, and no less important one than to dip this pen into

yonder inkstand and write: 'Honored Sir!' Will you believe that I've

been working at this herculean task for two hours and have not yet

stirred a finger?"

"You can do something more sensible."

"Gladly. If it doesn't require too much intelligence."

"Only as much as is needed to pack a trunk and go with it to the railway

station. My fur boots are at your service, and also money to pay the

traveling expenses. If you will only for once take the medicine,

without reflecting upon the prescription, and pack up this very day."

"This very day?"

"What's the use of writing that you will come? You're going, and that's

enough. I know all you want to say: that you don't feel like it, that

you fear you'll not make a favorable impression just now. That's all

nonsense. If you don't make haste at once, it's very doubtful whether

you can ever present yourself in any place; you're far more likely to

absent yourself--retire where we yesterday accompanied our own Balder.

You've been moping about here for months. It's a bit too much, quite

enough to break down a stronger man. Come now, make a dash, put on your

dress-coat, visit your superiors and colleagues, set the cog-wheel of

your career in motion, and let the grey substance in your brain rest,

that it may make good its deficiencies. If this prescription is not

carefully followed, I'll answer for nothing, or rather I will answer

for the nothing into which your insignificant self will soon be

resolved. Have you had any sleep?"

"I believe so," replied Edwin, with an absent nod. "I slept night

before last from two to three."

"I thought so!" exclaimed his friend, dashing his hat violently upon

the table. "And no one made his appearance yesterday, to perform a work

of charity and bore you till you fell asleep. What's the use of friends

who are poets in private and lecturers in public? Where was Mohr, with

his famous comedy? And our dear Franzel? Holy--"

"Philosophy showed poetry the door in the afternoon," said Mohr, who

had just entered and overheard Marquard's words, "but don't be

disturbed. Doctor, I'm not at all offended. It's long been known that

you materialists have not classical culture enough to distinguish

between Orpheus and Morpheus. Good morning, Edwin. I'm only here to

tell you that I'm not yet fit for anything. The salt in my nature has

lost its savor, or else grown bitter. As Bitter-salt[6] it may perhaps

be of some assistance as a purgative; (pardon the wretched pun, the

times are too hard for good ones.) And then I wanted to tell you why

the tribune of the people cannot appear to-day any more than yesterday.

He's been imprisoned."

"Franzel?"

"Arrested and imprisoned. The police officers have extended their

motherly arm toward him and taken the erring child. We needn't pity

him. He's very well satisfied. My phenological science told me long ago

that he has _la bosse du martyr_.

"But the occasion, the pretext?"

"The disturbance of a public act of worship. Your reverend colleague,

Edwin, drove straight from the churchyard to the police headquarters,

to complain of the atheistical opposition he had encountered. Franzel

was doubtless already prominent in their books among the powers hostile

to repose and order, so they took advantage of the opportunity to keep

him quiet for a time. They can't do much to him, and a few weeks

imprisonment is a more merciful punishment for godless heretics, than

the wood piles of former days. I'm only afraid it will make him still

more obstinate."

"And he's right!" cried Edwin, as he started up and began to pace up

and down the room in feverish haste. "They want an open battle, they

challenge it themselves, and there will be no peace until it has been

fairly fought. How often, in this very spot, I've agreed with Franzel

that we ought not to discuss anything, except with those who hold

similar views, for certainly the truth will not be spread by arousing

superstition and folly against it. But we ought at least to retain our

right to go our own way, and much as people prattle about liberty of

conscience, when the matter becomes serious, the liberty is only for

those who think they have rented the public conscience; and we, in the

belief that the more sensible people have already yielded, are

constantly stopping half way. We submit ourselves to listen to

unmeaning formulas repeated at the most important epochs of our lives;

when a child is given to us, a tie formed for life, a loved one

restored to earth, a stranger whose every word we would fain oppose,

utters that which wearies if it does not anger us. I've endured it like

a thousand others, and said to myself: it's no worse than to sign

yourself at the close of a letter 'with respect and esteem,' when you

feel neither; it is a mere form which can only bind those who find in

it a substance. But I now see whither this carelessness leads. Instead

of declining all priestly gabble, I paid no more attention while this

warder of Zion was slandering Balder's dust, than if the wind had been

blowing through the leafless branches, and was only roused from my

reverie by our faithful friend's eloquent defense. If he had remained

silent, I verily believe I should have been stupid enough to let the

zealot talk on, just as once, when I undertook to be godfather, I

weakly said 'yes,' when asked if I would strengthen the child in the

faith that Jesus Christ descended into hell and rose from the dead on

the third day. And now our poor champion must atone for the cowardice

and false shame we have all shown in not honestly and thoroughly

renouncing ancient abuses. No, I'll go and tell these gentlemen--"

"You'll be kind enough not to attempt to escape from my care," said

Marquard quietly, as he seized the agitated man by the arm. "As for our

scapegoat, I hope to set him free immediately. I am blessed with

various connections, and fondly as conservative circles cherish the

deceptions of a high church patterned after the English, they can't

wholly shake off a secret fear of the free-thinkers, and are the first

to counsel half way measures and compromises as long as possible. But

you, my son, will now take an hour's walk, accompanied by Mohr, in the

course of which you'll converse on the most shallow and insignificant

subjects--"

He was interrupted by the old maid-servant, who came in to deliver a

letter. A deep flush crimsoned Edwin's pale face as he recognized the

handwriting, "Excuse me," said he, "if I glance it over."

He went to the window, and they soon heard him laugh aloud. "Good

news?" asked Mohr, who was absently playing with the leaves of the

palms.

"Excellent! And it comes just at the right time. I'll set out on my

journey this very day, for you're right, Fritz, the air of this city

doesn't agree with me. I must beg you Heinrich, to take my farewell

messages to the little house on the lagune and to Frau Valentin.

I--whether I ever set foot in the tun again, or trouble one of you to

send my movables after me--at any rate, I'll write as soon as I know

how matters stand where I am going, and whether I shall remain. And

now--perhaps you'll excuse me--the train leaves in two hours, and I

still have all my arrangements to make."

"We yield to force," said Marquard dryly, "and I dispense with all the

formalities of leave taking the more willingly, as I'm sure all this is

mere bustle, and we shall not get rid of you so quickly."

He was not mistaken. Two hours after, Edwin still sat as unprepared for

traveling as before, gazing at the letter which lay open before him, as

if he expected to discover some other meaning in the lines, than that

which the words conveyed. They ran as follows:

"My Dear Friend!

"_The time has expired, the three days have passed without my seeing

you again, I had scarcely hoped that the disclosure I made to you

through your brother--give my kindest regards to him; I envy you the

happiness of possessing such a relative--that any word from me could

produce any impression upon you since I can retract nothing, cannot

deceive you and myself._

"_I have ceased to desire to exist and have exhausted my means to do

so. You know that with me both amount to very much the same thing. I

cannot understand how people can remain attached to a life, whose

conditions are limited to simple existence. And yet--I must suffer more

than I yet suffer, physical and spiritual hunger must gnaw still more

sharply, ere I can bring myself to try the last resource. Meantime the

pain is dull, and sometimes blended with the hope that it may not last

forever. So I wish to try whether I shall be better amid entirely new

surroundings. The old countess has invited me to spend some time at her

castle; she came for me in person, and little as I like her, I have

still less reason to be over fastidious. When you read these lines I

shall be on the way._

"_I can scarcely ask you to write to me. But if you do not prefer to

utterly forget me, pity me more than you condemn. I shall never cease

to remember you._

"Toinette."

At noon, when kind Madame Feyertag went to the tun to interrupt his

solitude, and ask if he wanted anything, he seemed perfectly calm,

spoke of his speedy departure, thanked her for the love she had shown

Balder, and made all sorts of arrangements, in case he should enter

upon his duties as professor at once. He even ate a portion of the food

brought up to him, but could not made up his mind to go, and the trunk

he had brought down from the attic remained unpacked. Old Lore saw him

wandering about his room late at night; his lamp was not extinguished

until after midnight.

When Marquard called the following morning, he was not at all surprised

to hear that the Herr Doctor had not yet gone. "He has a disease of the

nerves called absence of will," he said to the shoe maker, "it's hard

to reach, but I think if we can once get him on the way--"

At the door of the room he started violently. He heard Edwin's voice

talking in a very strange tone on all sorts of matters. When he

entered, he found his friend sitting on the bed with dilated eyes,

holding the little bottle of violet perfume and Leah's plate, and

striking them together like a tambourine and a drum stick. He did not

recognize the new comer, and continued his discordant music, which he

accompanied with confused, delirious words, and verses of Italian

poetry--apparently from Dante. On the little table beside him lay a

small copy of the Divina Comedia, and beside it Toinette's letter. The

back of this was covered with writing in Edwin's small hand, which had

probably been done just before the fever set in, and his friend in

amazement read a singular improvisation in the style of the Inferno,

whose echo must have excited the sick man. Although Balder had said

that his brother was a poet, he had not been caught in such sins for

years, and in his days of health, certainly would not have fallen into

this fever for versifying. But as it sometimes happens in dreams or a

state of somnambulism, that we suddenly practise with wonderful skill

an art whose rudiments we have scarcely mastered, these lines had been

written without an erasure, as if dictated by some other, and as even

the worst verses were far superior to what Edwin usually acknowledged,

and the cynical, over-excited tone of the whole was utterly foreign to

his nature, Marquard looked upon them as a record of words uttered by a

man possessed with a devil, and forced to repeat what the demon

suggests. The verses ran as follows:

Methought that all my tasks were duly learned,

And I prepared to turn my back on school.

Must I examined be, to show what rank I've earned?

Then pray begin to ask your questions o'er,

For I am almost tempted to display

Before you all my wisdom's scanty store.

Our life--whence comes it?--That we do not know.

And whither does it tend?--From dusk to night.

Its purpose?--Earth to teach us to forego.

Say, 'What is God?--That, God alone doth know.

And what is pleasure?--To be free from pain.

And pain?--To lack all pleasure here below.

Not always must we joy in self-denial.

We are too far removed from actual life,

And to the ground 'twixt two beliefs will fall.

Well, in the first class I have learned this truth,

Which in the sixth I dimly did suspect,

Hollow's the nut we have to crack, forsooth.

When scarcely from the nurse's arms escaped,

We gnaw, till on it we have cracked our teeth.

By earnest zeal reward from toil is reaped.

To feel the pangs of hunger never stilled,

Mocking us alway as dry husks we gnaw,

In the delusion we are being filled.

Then, though of course the palate, without question,

Is thereby fooled, the stomach's soothed, and we

Our nap can take fearing no indigestion.

Naught save the carelessness that questions never,

Goes satisfied away. It took the shells

For kernels, and thought ignorance clever.

It hopes, when shrinking from the pangs of death,

That life's just opening, the best to come!

When its last sun doth fade, and fails its breath.

A brighter heavenly light will swiftly shine.

Good dreamers! After school there is no doubt

That a pleasant vacation will be thine.

Next to the university, the student,

When once the school examinations o'er,

Will go, and with the change be well content.

From obscure toil and hours of study free

Into this world we go; only again

Quiet and insignificant to be.

No difference exists 'twixt old and young; nor

Any trace of cheerful intercourse,

No longer rings the cry "Excelsior!"

And say, are all these changing forms in quest

Of this? This lavish outlay too! Oh fools!

Who in this world think "all is for the best."

To me, from whom its joys have passed away,

It seemeth like a dream of the great Pan,

Sprung from his burning brain on some dog day.

_Dixi!_ Although thy brains thou'st often racked.

The matter is not yet so plain and smooth.

The aid of ripe experience thou hast lacked.

Not yet? A little longer turn the pages dreary,

Conning the self same lesson? Said I not

Of sitting on the school bench I was weary?

Loathsome the animal, whose monstrous jaws

The food long since digested idly grinds,

And grinds again, nor ever makes a pause.

No matter, still thou must remain to aid

Thy weaker schoolmates on the lower forms,

Till themes are all prepared and lessons said.

Why sullen looks and frowning brow display?

The hours of leisure may be occupied

In scribbling rhymes, while schoolboy pranks you play

And on the school room bench your name enscribe.

CHAPTER VI.

Sensitive minds are in the habit of terming the union between body and

spirit an unequal marriage, a _mesalliance_. And yet good and evil days

might teach them a better term, show them that whatever may be thought

in regard to the difference of origin, in the conscientious fulfillment

of every duty the dust born portion certainly does not fall below the

other, which is said to be its master. How could the soul enjoy the

sensation of pleasure, if its faithful companion did not lend to it the

aid of the senses, to say nothing of the joys which, even to the most

transcendental, arise from the senses alone. And if, in the pure ether

of spiritual enjoyment, we tremble at the thought of our resemblance to

God, what tortures we should suffer in the knowledge of our likeness to

the worms, if the body did not again befriend us, and as distress

reached its climax, transfer the conflict to the domain of the senses,

thus, as it were, retrieving the vantage point it has lost, until it

has gained new strength and new armor to end the struggle in its own

territory.

Thus the severe illness which attacked Edwin was a boon to his sorely

wounded spirit. For weeks he lay senseless, a prey to a violent nervous

fever. He recognized none of his nurses, neither Franzelius, who after

having been released from his imprisonment with an impressive warning,

spent his nights regularly in the tun, sleeping perhaps a short time on

Balder's bed, when toward midnight the patient grew a little calmer,

nor the faithful Mohr, who acted as sick nurse during the day, and who

in the intervals when his constant attendance was not required, found

his sole recreation in sitting at Balder's turning lathe and playing

countless games of chess. At the commencement of the illness, Marquard

had been inclined to send Edwin to the hospital, where he could have

taken charge of him more easily. But the other two friends and Madame

Feyertag would not listen to the proposal, and although the illness

lasted for weeks and months, the kindhearted woman never for a moment

regretted that she had kept the sick man under her roof. Her heart and

her linen chest, her hands and those of her old maid-servant were

always open and ready, whenever they were needed. "My worthy friend,"

said the zaunkoenig to her husband--he came every day to inquire how the

sick man had passed the night--"your explosive theory is brilliantly

refuted, and the wisdom of Solomon proven:--'the price of a virtuous

woman is far above rubies.'"

A calm smile rested on his lips and he looked at the crape on his white

hat. The shoe-maker shrugged his shoulders. "The intention is good,"

said he, "but the idea is usually weak. For instance, there's my

daughter Reginchen!--Well, I won't praise her, but Schopenhauer is

right again in regard to her explosive effect. The Lord knows what ails

her; her mother didn't make half so much fuss when she was young. But

her imaginative power Herr Koenig, is beyond any man's comprehension.

You know she's betrothed to Herr Franzelius. Didn't she act at first as

if she would die if she couldn't have him? Besides, he's a very

respectable man and if he only gets rid of his radical nonsense, can

make a good living; for it can't be denied that he has education and

what's called character, and with the few groschen she'll bring him, he

can settle in life and even start a printing office. Well, as I have

only this one daughter--we're weak, Herr Koenig, we men when we are

fathers. But now, just think of this: ever since the young gentleman

upstairs died, the silly thing has worn black as if he had been her

brother, and all the betrothal gayety is over. When Herr Franzelius

comes in the evening, they clasp each other's hands for ten minutes and

hang their heads like a couple of weeping willows, and all the rest of

the day she sits still and reads Schiller's poems, and if I ask how

much of her wedding outfit is completed, she says: 'There's no hurry

about that, father.' Yes, yes, Herr Koenig, it's just as I say: the will

is good, for she still means to marry him; but what notion she's taken

into her head, to be suddenly absorbed in Schiller when she ought to be

thinking of making up underclothes and bed-linen--if I've got the least

idea, I'll never attempt to tell the difference between neat's leather

and calf skin again. By the way, where's your daughter? It's an age

since I've had the honor--"

The little artist, who had listened with evident sympathy, was so much

disturbed by this question that his only answer was a heavy sigh. At

last he said: "The dear God some times tries us very severely, Herr

Feyertag. He has long showered blessings upon me, I was happy in my

home and in my art, and really always strove hard to keep my mind

humble that I might not be rendered arrogant by so many mercies. Since

I've become a court-artist, especially, I've examined my heart and

uprooted every fibre of pride, for after all there are many far more

deserving and talented than I, who yet accomplish nothing, while my

modest speciality--but now I've been chastised in what was dearest to

me. My Leah's health is failing, no one knows what to do for her, even

Dr. Marquard can say nothing except that it may improve when the

weather is more favorable, when we can travel. But its now February,

who knows how matters will be in April or May. Oh! my dear friend, all

my life I've clung to the consolation that our heavenly father

chastises us because he loves us, but if I should be compelled to

endure--"

He paused suddenly and without, as usual, leaving his regards for

Madame Feyertag, hastily quitted the shop.

At this time, Edwin had been out of danger for several weeks and even a

relapse was no longer to be feared. His physical health was visibly

improving; but his intellect seemed inexpressibly slow in regaining its

clearness and strength. He could sit at the window for hours with a

very cheerful face, without seeking any amusement or occupation. Not

until the first days of early spring came and he could drive out in the

noonday sun, did the mist which had settled on his mind gradually

dissolve. His memory regained its power slowest of all. When the events

which had occurred during the last few months before Balder's death

were mentioned, it was with the greatest difficulty that he could

re-unite the sundered threads.

Even after nursing was no longer necessary, Franzelius still continued

to sleep in the tun. Edwin had begged him to do so, because he felt how

much pleasure it afforded the faithful friend to thus fulfil what he

had promised Balder. Moreover, after being alone all day--Mohr having

sought solitude for some time, it was pleasant when evening came to see

the honest face and to be lulled to sleep by quick conversation. True,

there was no lack of other visitors. The little artist came and Frau

Valentin, who again as far as Madame Feyertag's jealousy permitted,

hastened convalescence by preserves, strengthening broths, and various

delicate birds. But the more his strength returned, the more

indifferent and content with his position the invalid seemed.

The news that another had obtained the professorship offered to him had

come long before. Edwin had seen it in a newspaper and submitted to the

disappointment with great indifference. What was his career to him now?

He was happy in once more feeling strength to think of new books, and

eagerly read the important works that had appeared during his sickness.

Toinette's name never crossed his lips. He once asked whether Marquard

had seen a letter which he had received just before his illness and

which he was unable to find. "The maid-servant probably lighted the

fire with it long ago," Marquard answered dryly; "was it anything of

importance?" He did not want to return the fatal sheet which he

had carefully laid aside, until there was no possible danger of a

re-opening of the old wound.

But this danger seemed at last to have disappeared. One day, when

Marquard was making a short call, Edwin with a perfectly calm face

showed him a note he had received an hour before at the sight of which

his friend could scarcely conceal his alarm.

"It has come true," said Edwin smiling, but with a slight flush. "I

thought the lime twig would not release the bird again. Well, I hope

her gilded cage will be large enough for her to fancy herself at

liberty."

"May I read it?" asked Marquard.

"Certainly. Unfortunately I've never had any secrets in common with

her, and you have long thought her what she seems here."

The note ran as follows:

"_You discarded me so suddenly, dear friend, that if I were sensitive I

should now keep silence in my turn. But as, from the beginning of our

acquaintance, I was as sincere in my friendship as you in your

unfortunate love, my feeling is more lasting, as well as more

compassionate and considerate than yours, I should not like to have you

learn through the newspapers, that your poor duchess has resolved to

make a mesalliance and in a few days will be called countess. Why have

I made this resolution? If your philosophy can find no answer to the

question, will you expect a hopeless simpleton to furnish one? Why are

we in the world at all? Perhaps a curiosity to learn whether any reason

for existence would declare itself was the sole motive that induced me

to take this step, at which you will doubtless feel some degree of

indignation. Believe me, it is only a preparation for the last extreme

measure, the step into nothingness. Besides, I have not been untrue to

myself, I told him all, even that I do not love him. But as he is more

easily satisfied than certain people, and asks nothing I cannot give, I

think we shall get along with each other very well, as we generally end

best with those with whom, we have never begun. With you--I feel it by

this letter, which can find no close--I should never have been happy.

But it is the same now. There are some absurd destinies, is it not so,

dear friend?_

"_In spite of everything ever your own_

"TOINETTE,

"_P. S.--Little Jean sends his compliments to you. It was on his

account that I decided to marry the count. He would have been miserable

for life, if he had not been permitted to wear the count's livery,

which is green embroidered with silver, and makes him look like a

green-finch in a gala dress._

"_Despite all this I still wish I were--_"

The last line was erased, but the words were yet legible. Marquard

silently laid the letter on the table.

"What do you say to it?" asked Edwin, as he slowly replaced the sheet

in the envelope.

"Nothing. I've long since given up saying anything about the countless

varieties of the great species, 'woman.' I hate unscientific talk and

therefore only try to look at each individual case from the practical

side. At present I should like to hear what you say to it. You've taken

more than a theoretical interest in the case from the very beginning."

"I'll tell you, as soon as I have found the formula. Hitherto, it has

only been boundless surprise."

"At her decision? Why, I should think--"

"No, at its effect on myself. Will you believe that I read this letter

without any quicker pulsation of the heart than if it had contained the

news that the Sistine Madonna had been removed from Dresden to Munich.

It seems as if the enchantment had vanished with the old blood the

fever consumed. Countess Toinette--I can say it as calmly as Reginchen

Franzelius."

Marquard, with immovable composure, looked him steadily in the face.

"Bravo!" said he. "You ought to have a red ticket: 'dismissed cured.'

To-day you must take a little walk, then for dinner--but I'll consult

with Madame Feyertag about that."

He pressed his hand, whose temperature did not seem to exactly please

him, and left the room. On the stairs he met Mohr. "Be kind enough to

watch Edwin to-day as closely as possible and not leave him alone

long," he whispered hastily. "His old love has accepted her count. He

says he's perfectly indifferent to it, but this idealist is not to be

trusted. Tell Franzel to keep watch to-night. I'll look in again

to-morrow."

But this time the clever physician was mistaken. When he returned the

next morning, he found his patient looking much fresher and brighter

and his pulse in a perfectly normal condition. He listened to the

account of the expedition made the day before, which, favored by the

brightest March sunlight, had for the first time restored Edwin's

confidence in his strength. "To-day, with your permission, I propose to

make a visit," said he. "I want to look in upon my little friend and

patron in the Venetian palace. He's not made his appearance in the tun

for a week. Did the child of God only have intercourse with the child

of the world as a good samaritan!"

"You're very much mistaken," replied Marquard looking unusually grave.

"Our zaunkoenig is watching his nest, because his brood is looking very

miserable."

"Leah? Sick? And how long has she been ill? Why do I first hear of it

to-day?"

"Why should I gossip about one sick room in another! I only wish I were

as successful there as here. But there are cases which remind us rather

roughly of the limits of our powers."

"Can't you understand her sickness?"

"Her case requires a wiser man than I. I know that the seat of the

difficulty is in the mind, and I would even venture to touch the sore

spot with the point of a needle. But what will that avail, if the

remedy, which I also know, is not to be bought at any apothecary's?"

"A disease of the mind?"

"No: a simple consuming fever with a perfectly clear intellect. In

short:

"By angels 'tis called a heavenly bliss,

By devils a woe of th' deepest abyss,

While mortals exclaim 'it is love.'"

"Love? Is the poor girl--"

"In love, and so deeply that her life is imperiled. Oh! my dear fellow,

these still waters!"

"And who in the world--But to be sure, from what I know of her, she'd

not confess it to you, or any other human being."

"A good family doctor needs no verbal confession in such cases. We've

other means of examining a feverish little heart--quiet noiseless

means. At first, its true, I was on the wrong track. I imagined--mind,

this is entirely between ourselves--that I myself was the fortunate

object and cause of this mysterious suffering. After all, it would not

have shown any want of taste in her, and with the romantic occasion of

our introduction--the night when we rescued Fraeulein Christiane from

drowning--who would have wondered if she had at first revered me as the

saving angel, then admired, and at last learned to love. And I confess

the bare thought cost me several sleepless nights--until about

midnight. You know what I think of love and matrimony, but my most

sacred prejudices were in danger of being vanquished, when I fancied

that a girl like this zaunkoenig's daughter could really want me for her

lawful husband. There's something about her which must make it

difficult, nay impossible for an honest man ever to be faithless to

her. I'm as good a conductor of heat as an iron stove, and opportunity

added fuel to the flames. Under the pretext of being obliged to watch

her, I daily spent an hour in her society, almost always alone; and

besides, just at that time, I'd had a quarrel with my little

nightingale. Adeline had been a little too enthusiastic about a

handsome Hungarian. So I took advantage of the holiday thus given my

heart, to make studies beside the lagune, to ascertain whether I could

change my sentiments and transform myself from an admirer of ladies in

general, to the adorer of one."

"And in what did these studies consist?" asked Edwin forcing a smile.

"That's _my_ secret," replied Marquard pathetically. "Enough I gave up

the game as I saw it was lost to me; but with the zeal of jealousy

searched for the man who stood in the way. My old sympathetic method

didn't leave me in the lurch this time."

"May one know--?"

"It's not my own invention. One of my colleagues in the dim past made

use of the stratagem. You know the story of the sick prince, who was in

love with his step-mother, and whose secret the physician discovered by

feeling his pulse just as the queen was entering the room. Well, I

couldn't introduce the man whom I suspected into Leah's sick chamber.

There was an obstacle in the way. But his name, which I uttered

apparently without design, while clasping the delicate round wrist of

the little Jewish-Christian, produced precisely the same effect. A

sudden quickening of the pulse to forty more throbs a minute.

"Of course the case is not particularly interesting to you," he

continued, as Edwin made no reply but with averted face gazed steadily

out of the window. "You've never had any different feeling for this

pupil, than for any other student. At that time you'd been bitten by

the serpent, and even if you had been offered the three graces attired

in their authentic Olympic costume, you would have blindly pursued the

ducal banner. Whether under these circumstances, however, it would be

well for you to pay your visit to the Venetian palace today, you must

decide yourself. True, we usually recommend rubbing chilblains with

snow, but unfortunately a woman's heart is somewhat more delicately

organized than the sturdy extremities. I thought it my duty to make

this acknowledgement. Adieu!"

He patted his silent friend on the shoulder and left him alone.

It would be impossible to describe Edwin's state of mind in a few

words; we can scarcely venture to say whether joy or perplexity

predominated in his strange bewilderment. The first overwhelming

surprise was succeeded by the sense of secret shame that this could

have so amazed him, the burden of a fault, which pardonable on account

of its total unconsciousness, was yet unable to wholly absolve itself

from the charge of ingratitude. How selfishly unfeeling it now seemed,

that he had not even repaid with friendly recognition her many

unobtrusive tokens of the most humble affection! Even today, when he

had determined to see her again, it was principally the father, toward

whom he thought he had a duty to fulfil. And now he learned that the

happiness and misery of this young girl's life depended upon his

presence or absence.

He closed his eyes and recalled all the scenes in which she had played

a part, from the first interview in the little house to the evening

when she had stood beside Balder's catafalque and gazed at the still

face with an expression of the deepest woe. He saw her so distinctly

that he could have sketched her features line for line, the beautiful

lines of the eye-lids, which had attracted his attention at their first

meeting, because they moved very little, as if the eyes had more

strength than those of others to bear the light without the quiver of

an eyelash. Then the delicate, strongly marked brows, which contracted

when she was in thought--her father often teased her about it; her

forehead was like a white page containing some secret inscription, and

the eyebrows arched beneath it like two large interrogation points--all

these things appeared before him, and the quiet droop of the head when

it was difficult for her to understand something he was explaining, and

the sudden movement with which, when she had grasped the idea, she

raised it as if exulting in her victory and demanding new and more

difficult tasks.

This girl loved him, and for months he had not had the slightest

suspicion of it!

He took the plate she had painted for him from his desk, where he kept

all sorts of writing materials lying on it, and looked at it as if for

the first time. Without thinking what he was doing, he breathed on the

surface and polished it with his handkerchief. It seemed as if he

thought some secret cipher was concealed among the flowers and ears of

corn, which must now stand out and reveal what thoughts had passed

through her mind while she painted.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he possessed something better than

this. The volume written by her own hand, in which as her father said,

she had copied his lessons--a deep flush crimsoned his face as he

remembered that it still lay unopened in his desk. True, how could it

have interested him to see whether his pupil had correctly understood

all his words, since the instruction was to cease. But suddenly this

pledge entrusted to his care became of the greatest value, as a fresh

means--since she would disclose her feelings in it without reserve--of

obtaining a thorough knowledge of her, and then: did he know what

confessions she might have made between the lines, confessions which

had so long remained mute and unanswered?

As if to repair the omission by the utmost haste, he now drew out the

package and tore off the enclosure. A plain thick volume, like a diary,

appeared, on whose blue cover was written the word "journal." A

flourish had been drawn beneath with the pen, and as he turned the

leaves he found many traces on the margins of the pages that the writer

had dreamily drawn, intricately interwoven flowers and figures, before

summoning up courage to commit her thoughts to paper.

It was anything but a simple exercise book. The records dated much

farther back, to a period three or four years before her acquaintance

with Edwin, and contained all the secrets of her young life, everything

which since her girlish heart had awakened, had aroused grave doubts

and questions.

There was scarcely a trace of external events; only from the reaction

on her mind could it be inferred that even this most quiet, uniform

life had experienced its trials and storms. But instead of merely

describing the tone and contents of these pages, let us at this point,

while Edwin for hours absorbs himself in reading, insert a short

extract from oft-interrupted soliloquies of this earnest young soul,

which will at least afford an idea of its principle characteristics.

CHAPTER VII.

FROM LEAH'S DIARY.

"Since I burned the old volumes in which I so conscientiously gave an

account of all my secret struggles before and after confirmation, I

have had a horror of all writing. But is not this feeling similar to

that experienced by a person just recovering from small-pox who sees

himself in the glass for the first time, and desires to break the

innocent mirror that shows him his real face. I wish I had not burned

those diaries. True, they told a tale of sickness; but have we any

reason to be ashamed, if we are attacked by fever and rave in delirious

fancies?

"As to what befell me at that time--either I am greatly mistaken, or we

are developed by sickness; few escape this development by pain, I

think, and those few only because their natures are too weak and their

blood too stagnant.

"But when I reflect upon it, it was not shame because I must endure

these childish tortures before reaching clear views of life, which made

me destroy the old journals; it was a gnawing remorse that I could see

so plainly and yet lack the courage to openly assert my convictions. I

could not even plead the excuse that my unbelieving mind was not wholly

clear, and when my lips repeated the confession of faith, I only made a

vague protest. I knew perfectly well that I was uttering a monstrous

falsehood, my own quiet creed in black and white gave the lie to the

public confession in church, and in addition to the first act of

cowardice, I committed the second one of destroying these mute

witnesses, as if thereby I could stifle my own consciousness.

"I can still remember how, in those days, a shudder like the chill of

death ran through my frame, as, one after another, I heard all the main

points of the creed which my benumbed brain had for months vainly

striven to comprehend, echo loudly through the church, and at each one

a voice within me shrieked 'no! no!' and yet the 'yes' fell from my

lips, and I suddenly felt as though I were dead, since I had so

publicly and solemnly belied my own nature. It seemed as if I had

forsworn my existence, renounced what was nearest for something alien,

and taken what must ever be foreign to my character as my dearest

possession. Oh! the shame, the confusion, in which I returned and was

forced to allow myself to be congratulated on my disgrace and

degradation. For months I have been unable to regain my courage, or

enter into cordial relations with myself, so utterly was I crushed.

"In those days, no palliating circumstances occurred to me, neither the

timidity natural to my sixteen years, nor the horror that would have

filled the solemn space if I had told the truth, nay I did not even

think of the true motive of my decision, the grief I should have caused

my dear father by a step so unprecedented. I heard only my own voice

professing a religion of which my heart knew nothing, nay which to

myself I had even clearly refuted, openly refused, and yet now

acknowledged as the substance of my deepest thoughts and feelings. It

weighed upon my conscience like a perjury; then I burned the books.

"Why have I now commenced a new one? What have I to discuss with

myself? Ah! the silence which I have become accustomed to keep, because

I fear the sound of my own thoughts, has at last reached such a point

that nature and the world and my own heart are also dumb to me. There

is no one to whom I could utter my secret feelings. My father would be

frightened if he should see such deep gulfs and lonely heights in my

soul. Aunt Valentin speaks a different language, and others who come to

the house take me for a strange and not very lovable girl, who has few

attractions.

"It's all the same. On the whole, silence makes us far happier; but we

ought not to forget to talk to ourselves. I will practice the art

again. Hitherto I have always lived at peace with myself, except for

that one great discord.

"And that--I have now clearly perceived it--is the fault of the bad

habit of expecting young people, just as they are beginning to suspect

the value of words, the difficulty of the enigma of the world, the

depths of the abysses of life, to be contented with a few answers

learned by rote to the most mysterious questions! It is cruel, to

compel them either to carelessly cast aside every doubt, in obedience

to the exhortations of a good man, who by virtue of his office is not

permitted to doubt, or the tremendous courage to step forward before a

whole congregation and reveal the inmost depths of their souls!

"The objections I ventured to make during the time of instruction were

all so easily refuted--with the theological self-sufficiency and

supreme wisdom against which there can be no debate, since it refers

every spiritual doubt to the poor hypercritic's conscience, and instead

of any real arguments has only the inscrutable retort: 'we must pray to

God for faith, and he will bestow it.' Is not that like saying that

when I am hungry and ask for bread, I can have an opiate, that I may

forget my wants and dream of full dishes? Thoughts disturb me, and to

escape from their conflict, I must pray for thoughtlessness?

"But they are happy and wish others to have the same joy. If only the

same food satisfied and nourished all!--

"_May_ 10_th_.--I have been driving about the city with Aunt Valentin,

buying all sorts of things. While we were so engaged she took advantage

of the opportunity to labor again at my poor soul, which I thought she

had given up as hopeless. But she really loves me, and therefore does

not weary in constantly directing my attention to what renders her

happy. I said very little in reply. There was so much noise and bustle

in the streets, I had not felt cheerful and gay for so long a time, why

should I spoil my enjoyment of the beautiful sunlight with arguments

and self-defense? But at last, when we were again approaching our

little house, in order not to delude her with false hopes, I remarked

that I certainly greatly needed redemption and often longed for it with

bitter pain. Yet how was I to feel love for a Saviour who did not

answer my questions, did not know my sad thoughts, and stood before me

as a sinless, perfect god-man. The mystical act of dying to rescue

erring humanity has always been incomprehensible to me. Single

beautiful rays of his nature shining through his doctrine might have

warmed me; but I needed not only to be warmed but enlightened, and

besides the wants of the heart, about which I am never uncertain, I

have other needs, which the catechism does not still, and which--even

if they are unnecessary or wrong--no dogmatic words can soothe.

"My dear father who was just going out, met us and interrupted Aunt

Valentin's reply. No theological subjects are ever discussed before

him, he has positively forbidden it. His relations toward God and all

'that is not of this world,' fill his whole nature so completely, that

he himself says it is like a second health. If we speak of it, we must

already be half sick, as we usually do not feel it at all. I envy him

the happy certainty of constant intercourse with his God, who is as

living a presence to him, as if he could see him with his eyes and

touch him with his hands. I, on the contrary, always feel alone with

myself, my human heart, my human thoughts; Aunt Valentin calls it

godless, I call it god-forsaken. But is it my fault, that it is so?

Have I not honestly sought him in tears and despair, the nearer the

time came when I was to confess him in public? And he has not suffered

me to find him!

"_Evening_.--I have been obliged to finish a piece of work, a vase

designed for a wedding gift, roses and sprays of myrtle with the

interlaced initials of both names in the centre. I can understand how

my father is so 'satisfied in his God.' He has a much less exacting

heart, and is also content with his art, while my half-way talent

shames me. This too is a matter of temperament. It is an impossible

thought that we must wish (that is pray) to close our eyes to our own

deficiencies, to be satisfied with trivial things. It is well not to

murmur, to submit to what cannot be altered, but to falsify our own

judgment for the sake of so-called contentment--I shrink from it as

from a heinous sin.

"Perhaps if I had great talent, or any high, difficult life-work taxing

my energies, I might sooner cease to brood over inscrutable things. He

who creates something in which he can himself believe, will perhaps in

time lose his curiosity or the anxious desire to understand what has

been created around him. He knows or imagines he knows why he lives.

Each day seems to show him. I, on the contrary--if I were not necessary

to my father--

"_Two days later_.--I stopped writing day before yesterday, because

some impulse suddenly urged me to read the New Testament again. I had

not opened it since so many incomprehensible, threatening and

condemnatory sentences perplexed my heart and then threw it back upon

itself. Now, since I have lost the childish awe of hearing in it the

voice of an infallible spirit, an Omniscient God, since I have read the

story of one of the noblest and most wonderful of men, I have found

much that greatly refreshed me. But the subdued tone of the whole at

last oppressed me again. What do we mortals possess that is more

elevating, pure, and consoling than joy; joy in beauty, in goodness, in

the brightness of this world! And while we read this book, we are

constantly wandering in the dusk of expectation and hope, the promise

of eternal life is never fulfilled, but just dawning when we have

struggled through time, uncheered by a bright ray of joy, a jest, a

laugh--the pleasure of this world is vanity--we are referred to a

future which makes the present worthless, and the brightest earthly

bliss, that of becoming absorbed in a pure, deep, loving thought, must

also be suspected by us, since only the poor in spirit inherit the

kingdom of heaven--

"I am poor in spirit, but it makes me unhappy that I feel it, and at

the same time feel that if I could break though these restrictions, I

should no longer be what I am, not yet become sure of my redemption and

happiness. For what transcends me is no more mine.

"And then the thought that this gentle man, in order to belong to all

humanity, should turn away from his relatives with such strange

harshness, have no family ties--I suppose it was necessary but it

always chills the ardor of my feelings. All the other great souls I

have loved, have been glad and bright, and amid their majesty were

allied to my nature by the chords of human needs. When I read Goeethe's

letters, of Schiller's narrow circumstances, Luther and his family, or

of the people of still more ancient times, up to Socrates and his

scolding wife, I always feel a breeze from the native soil out of which

the plant of their spirits has sprung, and which also bears and

supports my insignificant one. But the absence of everything akin to

humanity alarms and estranges me, and to make amends I have not even

the faith to believe that all, as with God, is perfectly right.

"I have often wished I were a genius, for I thought geniuses must be

very happy people, since with a sudden bound of fancy they leap over

all the abysses of doubt at which quiet thinkers, to whom no brilliant

idea suddenly lends wings, stand gazing helplessly. But on the other

hand no applause from others or myself--though I greatly value

genius--would induce me to relinquish honest labor, even if it advances

slowly or does not reach the goal at all. This is my piety since I lack

any other. Genius and devotion are probably incongruous, but without

the consciousness of being absorbed in quiet honest devotion, in

studying the mystery of life, not even our brief existence would not be

worth the trouble of living.

"_End of July_.--I have worked hard at my studies from nature. I think

these industrious months which have filled my portfolio, must have done

me good; for I now believe I am on the track of my own views and

opinions, and have freed myself as much as possible from what I

learned, which never satisfied me.

"True, while I was doing so my journal has been neglected. I have

painted until not only sight and hearing, but thought failed. If

absorption in nature and art could content me, I should have

experienced a few months of perfect happiness.

"Aunt Valentin has brought to the house a young man whom she holds in

the highest esteem, an artist who belongs to the Nazarene school, not

without talent and not unattractive, but in spite of his St John's

head, as Aunt calls it, he will never be dangerous to me.

"_August_ 2_d_,--When I think I must some day belong to a husband, I am

always filled with fear, so greatly do I feel the need of loving,

yielding up my heart, in whose depths many things are unchained which

will some day burst forth like hot springs. But I know that I can only

deliver up my life to a man, when he is what I have so often sought in

books--a very Saviour; when he is so far above me in strength,

goodness, and intellect, that I can always receive from him, no matter

how often I ask. It is said to be more blessed to give than to receive.

But in marriage, it seems to me, since a woman gives her all, she ought

to receive more than her all. It may be that these are dreams woven in

a girl's idle brain, and that in reality such a union of two in one is

impossible. At least my own parents, exemplary as they were, my good

aunt and all the other happy married people I have seen, do not

correspond with this ideal. However, there will be plenty of time to

lower my standard when it is necessary.

"3_rd_.--Aunt Valentin has just been talking about N--r. She said he

esteemed me very highly, loved me warmly, and should consider himself

happy if he could win my affection and make me his wife. I have seen it

coming, and my answer was the more free from embarrassment, the less I

reciprocated the feeling.

"_He_ my saviour? He, who has not the most distant idea of my nature,

and who would not have the least comprehension of my needs, if I told

him all?

"'We are too unlike,' I answered. 'He is mistaken if he thinks one like

me could make him happy.'--Aunt Valentin eagerly protested against

this. He knew my religious opinions, and that was precisely what had

turned the scale. He now felt how much he had to give, otherwise his

modesty would have discouraged him. We discussed the matter a long

time, debating whether with the possibility of conversion and future

understanding, two persons so widely different in belief might venture

to join hands. Dear me, she believes it because she desires it. This

reason for faith does not exist for me, since I do not even wish to

attract him.

"A nature like his, which is alarmed by everything vague and seeks

repose at any cost, even that of truth--I mean truth to itself--such a

peace-loving soul would be chilled to death in the storms of thought

which are my element. It requires courage to stand as sentinel on such

a lonely post, and not even know when one will be relieved--if at all.

"_Wednesday_, 6, _A. M_.--I awoke last night and could not fall asleep

again on account of the heat, so I rose and sat down at the open

window, where the night heaven looked down upon me with its countless

stars. Then suddenly, when all around was so calm and silent, and yet

so grand and wonderful, a feeling stole over me as if I distinctly

heard my soul say: 'No, this boundless expanse contains no heart whose

pulses throb in harmony with yours. But do not fear. We breathe and

move and will and think according to eternal necessity, and are not

solitary, even amid the desolation of midnight.' And as I said this to

myself, I heard my dear father's quiet breathing and stole softly into

his room. There he lay smiling so lovingly in his sleep, that I

involuntarily knelt beside him and gently kissed his hand; then I

returned to my bed and slept more sweetly than I had ever done before.

"Long ago, when it occurred to me, that what people call God was a

vision created after their own image, a thrill of superstitious awe

stole over me, as if I must be punished in some way for my audacity.

But it is childish to suppose that if a conscious, omniscient,

omnipresent being really holds the world in his hand, our doubts or

misapprehensions would offend him, as an earthly monarch would be

angered if a sentinel did not pay him due honor. But the childish

tricks and farces which we daily see performed with the utmost

seriousness, and even take part in ourselves, have gradually made us in

earnest. People in Catholic countries believe that they offend this

God,--whom they call all-good and all-wise--if they pass a church

without removing their hats or making the sign of the cross, and in

many Protestant houses they do not appease their hunger without asking

the Saviour to share the meal. This is child's play, and very harmless

and even pleasing, if in these little pious, symbolical exercises, men

did not lose the capacity to realize the vast heights and depths of the

idea of God, that would be worthy of this vast universe. But you make

him out what you are yourselves, a being irritable, capricious, and so

susceptible to flattery that he cannot bear to have a man, at a rare

piece of good fortune, cry out: 'Well done;' but at once spoils the

poor mortal's mirth. If forsooth nothing can be gained by a formal

suit, he must try again to appease him, a being, that with all his

majestic designs, does not suffer a sparrow to fall from the roof

without serving his purpose, let alone a poor slater, who leaves a wife

and children penniless.

"Very well; let them model their household God as they choose and can.

But why do they rage with fire and sword or angry denunciations against

all who cannot make the magnificent creation harmonize with such a

creator, who to atone for the contradictions and mysteries, hardships

and delusions of life, seek something besides the rewards and

compensations to be received: in another world? Why should one who

troubles nobody with his wanderings and searchings, not be permitted to

fight his way through at his own risk, but always be forced to walk on

the great high road, where by the rays of the privileged lights so much

is done and approved that is utterly repulsive to him.

"_Later_.--My father too--in his tender affectionate way--has also

asked what I think of N--r. I made no concealment of my utter

indifference, and begged him to inform the worthy man that he might

cherish no delusions. 'You know,' said I, 'I have always been a

terribly obstinate child, and only one person has had with me the

patience I need--yourself. I should be a simpleton if I left you to

quarrel with somebody else who will not even listen to what I say, but

already believes me a stray sheep.' He laughed and said he did not wish

to give me up, I should have to run away from him till he could become

reconciled, and besides he only wanted to know my opinion; the affair

had seemed to him very improbable.

"I clearly perceived that Aunt Valentin, to whom he can never refuse

anything, was at the bottom of the matter. But with all his mildness

and gentleness, there is one point where he becomes firm as a rock, and

we perfectly understand each other: a person who lacks real nobility

and greatness of soul can not influence him, spite of the best

qualities. And therefore--"

* * * * *

"What I wrote yesterday afternoon has been strangely verified.

"Aunt Valentin interrupted me and induced father also to leave his work

and enjoy the fine weather in the Thiergarten. A concert was to be

given for some benevolent object. When we reached the place, we found,

as I suspected, N--r already there. As it was very crowded, he had

secured places for us, so we sat very comfortably looking at the gaily

dressed ladies and children, who moved up and down near us, and

listening to all sorts of overtures and dances, which failed in

producing a pleasant impression, on my ears at least. But the air was

like balsam, the recent rain had made it soft and free from dust, and

in the midst of the music a calm, cheerful feeling took possession of

me, and I was very grateful to aunt for having afforded me this

pleasure. She looked very bright; I often think she does not grow old,

but in spite of her hard, dogmatic ideas, retains some of the innocence

of childhood in her features; my father was very gay, his new coat

fitted him perfectly, and we joked about it; even N--r seemed more

agreeable than usual. Among all the _blase_ vacant, or frivolous faces,

his grave modest countenance looked like a human face amid mere masks.

Suddenly, in a pause between two pieces of music, we heard from an

adjoining table, where several officers were sitting, loud words about

us, or rather me. A very saucy looking young lieutenant was beginning

to tell his companions why he thought me pretty. I will not repeat his

language here, but though not intended to be insulting, it was an

offence against all good breeding, especially as various jests,

stories, and satirical remarks, such as are common among gay young men,

were added. Father turned pale and looked at Frau Valentin. 'We ought

to go away,' said Aunt, 'this is intolerable.' 'We ought to request

them to stop,' replied father, glancing at N--r. 'It would be better to

avoid a quarrel and any scandal,' replied the latter without daring to

look up. 'Why can't we remain quietly here, and let these children of

the world continue their talk, which doesn't concern us.' 'Us?' said my

good father rising. 'I should think, as we're sitting at the same

table, it concerned us all if any person behaved rudely to one. I'll

see whether this babbling mouth can't be stopped.' 'Would you--?'

exclaimed N--r in astonishment, but father did not hear him. He had

approached the table, courteously raised his hat, and said a few words

in a tone so low, that I did not understand them; there was a strange

roaring noise in my ears. I only saw his dear, gentle, honest eyes

flash with an unusual light, a flush mount to his cheeks, and an

expression of such firm resolution rest upon his features, that even

the blustering young officer remained perfectly quiet, and no one

interrupted him. When he had finished, he paused a moment to ascertain

whether they had anything to say, then as all were silent and only the

principal hero faltered a few incoherent words, father smiled very

pleasantly, raised his hat again, and bowed to the whole table.

Meantime the orchestra began, and when the piece was over, our

neighbors departed, courteously raising their caps to my dear, knightly

father, in doing which the ex-orator did not even venture to look at

me.

"N--r was overwhelmed with shame, but father behaved as if nothing had

happened. Afterwards when we were driving home with Aunt (my peaceful

suitor had found some pretext to bid us farewell,) he took occasion to

tell her that in the future she need not encourage this singular person

to visit our house. 'I know,' said he, 'that we're told to turn the

right cheek when smitten on the left. But although I greatly desire

always to be disposed to forgive insults to myself, as soon as they are

addressed to another, especially a lady, you must allow me to defend

myself and hold the man who either has not the heart or spirit to do

so, a weakling, with whom I prefer to have no intercourse.'

"When we were at home and alone, I threw my arms around my dear, noble

papa's neck and kissed him till he was fairly out of breath and began

to scold, though there were tears of joy in his eyes.

"N--r was not mentioned by either of us. I think I shall not see him

again--

"How little the days bring, that really touches the heart! Oftentimes

this void is not at all oppressive. A mist seems to enfold me, which is

already beginning to grow less dense and be gilded by the first rays of

the sun, which I cannot yet see. A soft, delightful expectation

pervades my soul, like the anticipation of very pleasant events,

experiences, and enlightenments, which will undoubtedly soon take

place. But when another day has passed in monotonous waiting, I lie

down on my bed with a very heavy heart, and think: suppose nothing

should happen? Suppose all your hoping and waiting should only befool

you? For I have long understood that our wishes can give no claim to

their gratification, our longings no right to their fulfillment. We all

strive toward perfection, and remain in our incompleteness.

"But there is so much beauty, depth, and joy accessible to me, even in

my limited sphere--and yet I am unable to attain it--am still far from

it--the greatest happiness is beyond my reach.

"To-day I stood a long time before a shop where medical and

philosophical works were displayed in the window. If I only had

money enough, I would buy all whose titles please me and read them

hap-hazard, as the man in the fairy tale ate through a mountain of

pan cakes and found priceless treasures. But the little I earn by

painting--

"I have again looked over the contents of our book shelves which I

already know by heart. Even in our great authors, I do not find what I

seek and need. Then I mechanically took down a volume of Becker's

History of the World and read a portion of it. If I only had some

connection with those long past wars, political revolutions, and

historical events! But the happy betrothal of our pretty little

neighbor, our landlord's daughter, is really more important to me at

this moment, than that Ninus married Semiramis, and Cleopatra had

several husbands. Does not very much the same farce go on under

different names, in other lands and costumes, a farce whose origin and

purport we understand no better when we have read all these fourteen

volumes?--

"And yet, if we did understand, could we endure life? Is not the fancy

that we have something very important and necessary to do, is not this

delusion perhaps the best in existence? At the theatre we ought to

forget, as much as possible, that the actors behind the footlights are

rouged and obey the prompter's voice instead of the dictates of their

own hearts.

"I can still remember how I felt, when in my childhood I sat toward

evening on the flight of steps leading down to the canal, gazing at the

tiny spot gilded by the slender ray of sunlight that made its way

between the high roofs. I always grasped at it and thought I could take

the golden water in my hand. Then it was once more as dull and dirty as

everywhere else in our lagune. But I had fancied or read somewhere,

that if one knew a certain spell it would not turn back to common

water, but remain liquid gold. Yes, if one knew the spell!--

"My good, kind, ever loving, ever thoughtful father! He has given me

to-day a joy never experienced before. Be has found me a teacher and

brought him home at once. The very first words exchanged with the Herr

Doctor have convinced me that he is wholly unlike all the others, that

he knows what I need, what I have not found in books and hitherto have

not asked from men.

"If I should describe the wonderful impression this man and our first

conversation--"

Here the writing suddenly stopped at the bottom of a page. The

following sheets seemed to have been cut out with a small pair

of scissors--how many could not be discovered. Then began in a

clear, regular hand--all the previous writing had shown traces of

agitation--an elaborate account of all Edwin had said during his

lessons. He was astonished, since in his presence she had scarcely

written a name or a date, to see how clearly the essential portion of

his statements was given without the slightest misunderstanding, and

yet in her own words, so that her memory was the least merit. No

description of personal moods and experiences interrupted the quiet

flow of these thoughts, but oftentimes there was a dash or

interrogation point on the margin, a sentence thrown in which showed

that here and there the writer's mind had not yet penetrated the lowest

depths, and was obstinately seeking to fathom them. "This might be

printed just as it stands, as a history of philosophy for women!"

exclaimed Edwin, when he had read the last line. "What a head! And I,

when she was gazing so dreamily into vacancy with her great eyes,

thought 'where is she wandering'--when she perhaps understood better

than her teacher.

"It's a pity that it closes so soon! I should like to see what she

would have made of later events. But there's something more."

He had turned the page and now read as follows:

"The most difficult thing in life has always seemed to me to clearly

perceive, in a conflict of duties, which is the higher, and those are

the happiest and most ingenious who can do so. If goodness were a

perfectly simple matter, what would be more delightful than always to

be good? But that reason must put in its word where affairs of the

heart are concerned, that we must think of what is customary, and often

come to no positive decision, is sad, because it makes us doubt that on

which we should most rely, our own consciences, and---whichever path we

may choose--leaves in the soul a sting, a something to regret.

"We are firmly convinced that it is our duty to offend no one. It is

the law of the gospel, as well as of our deepest feelings, which deals

with all the sorrows of the world, and therefore makes every

individual, out of compassion for the others, labor to alleviate the

misery of the world. And now each individual again strives toward

perfection, to the full extent of his powers, and yet can rarely carry

his point without injuring others, as a tree in the midst of a forest

has only just as much light and air as the neighboring trees admit. And

therefore many a one withers and pines away, knowing it, foreseeing the

end, and obliged to be silent--

"Yes, obliged to be silent even if speech would injure no one, when a

mere prejudice decides it to be unseemly to grow beyond a certain

height and breadth, and that those who are exceptions, would be struck

by lightening; Oh! why must----"

Here several lines were erased. Then on a fresh page was a letter:

"_I never dreamed that I should ever give this volume to any one, least

of all that it would come to your notice, my honored teacher. But

father wishes that the instruction for which I owe such inexpressible

gratitude, should cease, that for some time I should turn my thoughts

from all that was the subject of your lessons. He begged me to destroy

these pages too. But I cannot yet resolve to do so, and requested him

to allow me to place the volume in your care. So what came from, you

returns to you again.--I beg you not to laugh at the earlier records,

if you happen to cast a glance at them. I must now dispense with that

which during the past few weeks has occupied all my thoughts and

feelings, and for which I can never thank you enough! How deeply this

grieves me I cannot tell you, and yet I feel that it would be the only

thanks I could offer, if I could make you fully understand how much I

shall now sacrifice. You would then perceive how much you have given

me, and that I have received everything, even what was perhaps somewhat

above my comprehension, with the most eager and honest purpose. At

least I must tell you that presentiment and the incompleteness of my

knowledge will never torture me in the future, as they have done in the

past, now that I know there are clear judgments, and that even an

untutored, simple girl, if she collects her thoughts and has the right

guide, can at least advance far enough to comprehend the grandeur of

the task, and exercise her powers upon it._

"_Farewell, honored Herr Doctor. Be kind enough to accept the little

memento I venture to send, and hold an indulgent memory of your

sincerely grateful pupil,_

"L. K."

CHAPTER VIII.

It was high noon when Edwin turned the last page of this confession,

and meantime the maid-servant had brought his dinner, which stood

untouched on the little table. Even now he sat motionless at the window

for a long time, with the book on his knees and his hands crossed on

it, as we place them on a chafing dish by whose feeble glow we try to

warm ourselves.

When he rose, his eyes sparkled with a light as strong and brilliant as

if the slow work of his convalescence had suddenly been completed. He

extended his arms toward the blue March sky, and drew a long breath,

like a person who feels strong enough to cope with anything that may

come. "If I could only speak of it to Balder!" he said to himself; then

he carefully locked the book up in his desk and went out into the

street.

Once more life seemed dear and pleasant, the motley throng of people as

delightful as the swarming of bees in midsummer, the faces he met kind

and dignified. He paused before the shop windows, entered a

confectioner's more to look at the dainties and the human beings who

were eating them, than to enjoy them himself, and visited several of

his intimate acquaintances, whose thresholds he had not crossed since

the autumn. All congratulated him on his recovery, and said the

sickness had rejuvenated him. At last, when he had walked till he was

tired and remembered Marquard's threats if he attempted too much at

first, he went to Mohr's rooms and would not be deterred from entering

when told he was not at home. A strange, joyous restlessness urged him

to see all sorts of strange people and things, and remain with them for

a time, in order to have the secret pleasure of thinking of the

treasure he concealed in his bosom; as in times of special happiness,

when the lofty joys we experience render our sleep full of dreams, we

wake, turn from one to another and reflect that the joy we feel on

awaking, is the only real and actual experience.

Mohr did not return home. When Edwin had ransacked his room, looked

through his books, and softly struck a few chords on Christiane's

piano, which Mohr had bought at the sale of her effects, he at last

resolved to go home. He was delighted to see Franzelius, but did not

tell him one word of the subject that was occupying his thoughts. But

as he fancied he read in his friend's honest countenance something like

a reproach that Edwin could be so cheerful, almost wantonly gay, when

Balder had scarcely been dead five months, he took his hand, and said

gravely: "Franzel, I know of what you're thinking. But have patience

with me a little while. Signs and wonders happen, and a dry stick which

seemed fit for nothing except to be hacked to pieces and cast into the

fire, suddenly puts forth green branches. If _he_ had lived to see

this, I really believe the joy and wonder would have prevented his

death, we should have kept him here."

Then the next morning, when he opened his eyes and saw the sunbeams

playing among the palms, he could not help thinking of a verse of

poetry he had read somewhere, and as Franzelius had long since risen

and gone to his printing office, he softly repeated it:

How pleasant to wake in the bright morning's glow

When one has lain down with a soul full of love.

And hear in our wonder the heart laughing low

And know not the music that maketh it move,

Till full soon the radiant light comes, and low

The purple veil is withdrawn from above,

Revealing the vision of love just dawning,

Nodding and murm'ring: "Good morning! Good morning!"

He started up and hurriedly threw on his clothes. All hesitation was

over, and he now reproached himself for having waited yesterday to see

whether other thoughts would come during the night. If it had been

admissible to make a call at nine o'clock in the morning, he would have

rushed off without his breakfast. But he allowed another hour to pass,

and then in the brightest of spring sunlight, turned his steps toward

the Schiffbauerdamm and the lagune.

"Where are you hurrying at such a rate, Herr Doctor?" he suddenly heard

some one call behind him. "One must borrow the wings of the morning to

overtake you."

It was extremely disagreeable to be compelled to stop and give his

pursuer a courteous answer. And yet the speaker was a man whom he was

usually by no means unwilling to meet, a Livonian baron, whose great

wealth gave him the means to indulge his passion for art and extend and

correct his powers of judgment by constant travel. He had a gay,

careless disposition, with which a sort of Berserker rage that

overwhelmed him whenever the conversation turned upon spurious pictures

or undeserved fame, oddly contrasted. One who saw him passing through

the streets in his negligent attire, with a broad brimmed black hat

crowded down over his bald head, and eyes that from constant searching

and gazing, protruded like a snail's, as if eager to touch everything

visible, would scarcely have expected to find the artistic judgment and

delicate enthusiasm, which had made him dear to Edwin.

But to-day nothing could have been more inopportune to our friend than

this meeting. He pleaded a business engagement as the cause of his

haste, but could neither decline the troublesome companionship, nor

conceal the goal of his walk.

When the baron heard the zaunkoenig's name, he paused in astonishment,

and with a "_Cospetto di Bacco!_" seized Edwin by the coat.

"Listen to me, my dear fellow," he exclaimed, "this is a dispensation

of Providence, or there is no God. Do you know I was just in the act of

taking the same walk, and grumbling because I was obliged to do so, and

now I'm heartily glad to be relieved of the necessity."

"Have you an errand to the artist, which I could perform in your

place?"

"If you will be so kind, my friend; for that you can do so, and ten

times better than I, is just the miracle. But first hear _di che si

tratta_. Last autumn, when the exhibition of paintings was held here, I

had the honor of escorting Prince Michael Paulovitsch Bataroff, our

great Maecenas, you know, a man who between ourselves has allowed a

wretched Byzantine daub to be imposed upon him for a Taddeo Gaddi, and

otherwise paid dearly enough for his connoisseurship. But that's of no

consequence if he's in the right hands, his money sometimes goes to the

right man. Well, I am, so to speak, his oracle. Whenever anything is

offered him, especially by a modern artist who is not yet famous, he

always wants to ascertain from _me_, how the picture really suits

_him_. Of course I'm as rude and inconsiderate toward him, as a good

diplomat must be to conceal his subtlety. At that time, when as I've

already mentioned, we nosed around the exhibition, in doing which he

used me as his truffle-dog,[7] he had his pathetic days, when he would

pour forth the most incomprehensible tirades about the moral influence

of art, the priesthood of genius, and the incapacity of the German race

to produce any great artists--phrases which always made me think of the

famous symphony on the influence of blue on the arts, from the _Scenes

de la Vie de Boheme_. Well, one day he was riding his hobby: in art

only the highest developments have a right to exist. If he could be a

Caligula of aesthetics, he would wish that all mediocre painters had but

one neck, that he might sever it from the trunk at a single blow. I,

who've grown old enough to make a wry face at the theory of perfection

in art, dryly remarked that I knew spheres of life in which bungling

did still more harm. Was not a mediocre statesman, doctor, priest, nay

even an unskilful cook, far more injurious to the community, than a

poor devil of a painter, who quietly daubs his little square of

canvass, and meantime thinks himself an artist who understands how to

enjoy life and beauty far more than other mortals? Whom does he injure

except himself, if he sells nothing, and is compelled to starve with

his wife and children? And if he really helps to corrupt the taste of

the public, would the crime be any more reprehensible, than that

committed by a statesman who incites nations to war against each other,

or a cook who destroys our stomachs, let alone miserable doctors who

can't heal them again. No, I would not on any account wish the innocent

mediocrities away, unless they were blatant fools or scoundrels, and

procured large orders by intrigue. A hundred bunglers were necessary,

before one genius distinguished himself; but whether this eternal star

enjoyed as much happiness amid all its splendor, as the majority of

these ephemeral insects derived from their feeble spark, was very

questionable, etc., etc. His Highness condescended to laugh and call me

a paradoxical sophist. 'Look at this picture, my dear baron,' he

exclaimed stepping before a genuine zaunkoenig, which really did cut a

very poor figure. 'Will you, even in the presence of this sufficiently

pitiful production, assert that the kingdom of heaven belongs also to

the poor in art, that the worthy painter was satisfied with his work

and would not joyfully abandon his trade, if he had learned anything

else? I'll wager that most of these gentlemen, who pretend to glow with

the sacred fire of genius, would not hesitate a moment, as they've only

got into the habit of painting, as old Schadow said, to get out of it

again, if they were better paid for their idleness, than for their

bungling industry.'

"Well, he's not usually so unjust. You know, my friend, what a part

materialism plays at the present day, even in art. But the cold,

_blase_ tone thoroughly enraged me, as I know the condition of the

so-called sacred fire of art in His Highness' own breast. Just at that

moment I saw our zaunkoenig, with his good, modest face, standing at

some little distance, almost alarmed to see people linger so long

before his insignificant picture. 'Suppose you make the trial, your

Highness,' I hastily replied. 'The artist who painted this picture is

close at hand. My Mantegna against your Luini, that no money in the

world will induce this worthy man to sell the pleasure of occasionally

sending such a little abomination of art into the world. But we must go

to work delicately. An open offer would mortally offend his pride.

Propose to give him a yearly salary, on condition that he does not

touch a brush except for you, and must wait till you give him orders.

I'll declare your Taddeo Gaddi genuine, if the little artist can hold

out even a twelvemonth, without scrawling his hedges and foregrounds.'

"What do you say to this malicious wager? Shameful, my dear fellow,

wasn't it? But it popped out all at once, and really my Maecenos was

prince and Russian enough to think the trick very clever. I was ashamed

of myself, when the zaunkoenig was summoned and showed a touching

confusion, when he heard that his 'speciality' had at last found the

right purchaser. 'How much do you earn by your painting in the most

successful years?' asked the prince. 'Three hundred thalers at the

most,' was the reply. 'Well, I'll give you a thousand, and from this

time you're my court painter. You'll receive your salary from the

embassy every six months, and in return bind yourself not to touch a

brush except to execute my orders. Adieu!'

"So the good little man stood as if he had suddenly fallen from the

clouds, surrounded by several perplexed, envious colleagues, who were

paying him sarcastic compliments. But do you know, since that day I've

not slept as quietly as usual, for I've also undertaken the pleasant

task of watching the new court painter, to see whether he scrupulously

keeps his contract. As I should make the mischief still worse by

tattling, and moreover at last hope to win the wager and bring off my

old friend with all the honors, I must after having said A., go on to

B. I was just on my way to him again. He once told me that the spring

always arouses in him a desire to paint. The trees themselves are then

as dry as hedge poles, and vegetation is scanty; he can at any rate

reproduce that. And yesterday the secretary of Legation handed me a

letter, in which our artist asks His Highness whether he may be

permitted to paint a very charming picture for him: the last snow on a

low heath, with the bright spring sky arching over it, the first tender

grass, etc. All letters to the prince, at least from artists, pass

through my hands. Well, I shall win my Luini sooner than I expected.

But this espionage is very repugnant to my feelings. Dear Doctor,

you're an entirely disinterested person, and might do me the favor,

especially since, as a psychologist, it must be of interest to you--"

"My dear baron," interrupted Edwin laughing, "I'm very much obliged to

you for the part you wish to assign me in this tragi-comedy, but I

really don't know whether I can undertake it, whether the visit I'm

about to pay may not be the last for a long time, perhaps forever.

Yesterday I wrote to L., where a professorship of mathematics is

vacant. If it is given me, I've determined to exchange the air of

Berlin, which does not agree very well with the constitution of a

private tutor, for some more favorable climate. Besides, you take your

wager altogether too much to heart. To say nothing of the fact that

psychology will be greatly indebted to you, I see no danger whatever to

our excellent friend. Like you, I'm convinced that you'll win, and

then, as Russian princes always have their whims, it will be easy to

find some pretext for breaking the bargain. Your Herr Michael

Paulovitsch will have a good lesson, and the zaunkoenig his thousand

thalers, which in spite of all, he'll have honestly earned. But here we

are at his nest. Won't you come in with me? For this time I can place

my talents as a police inspector at your disposal."

"_Mille grazie_," replied the other. "I'll take you at your word. Write

a line this afternoon, either yes or no, to inform me whether the old

sinner is secretly spoiling colors and washing brushes, or

conscientiously keeps to his bond. I'll then add a postscript to his

letter to the prince. Adieu, my dear fellow, I wish you success!--"

Edwin's heart beat violently as he entered the little house. The door

chanced to be open, and he met no one in the entry. His heart told him

that he should find Leah in the sitting room on the left. Yet he

knocked at the door of the studio, and without waiting for the "come

in," crossed the threshold he had so long avoided.

CHAPTER IX.

At his entrance the little artist started from a chair by the window,

where he had apparently been seated a long time, absorbed in deep

thought.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, and his sad, honest face brightened, as he

held out both hands to Edwin--"you again walk among the living. It's

pleasant that you instantly remember your old friends--though this is

not exactly the right atmosphere for a person just recovering from

illness--you come to people who, in the midst of the loveliest air of

Spring, sit in affliction and the shadow of death. Well--it's as God

wills, I keep calm."

With the tear's streaming down his cheeks, he now told Edwin that Leah

had grown so ill that she could scarcely get an hour's sleep, and the

food she took was hardly enough to nourish an infant a week old. Yet

she bore her fate with a divine patience that often made him wonder

whence she derived her strength, since she neither prayed nor accepted

everything as the will of an all merciful Father who could make even

the most incomprehensible and hardest things result in a blessing. "In

that she's like her mother, whose only defense and weapons against all

sorrow were silence and meditation. Go to her, dear Doctor, I know

she'll be delighted to see you. She always esteemed you so highly, and

God is my witness that I've often reproached myself for yielding to

Frau Valentin and interrupting your lessons. Doctor Marquard says the

sickness is connected with the mind--if she could but divert her

thoughts, and not brood perpetually over one idea--Ah! me! If

philosophy could give her sleep and appetite, preserve my child to

me--" He paused and pressed his handkerchief to his eyes.

"If you'll give me leave, dear Herr Koenig," said Edwin, "I'll try what

I can do. Philosophy has already banished many evil spirits and infused

new blood into whole races. I'll speak to your dear daughter, and hope

it is not yet too late."

He turned away to conceal his emotion, and hastily left the studio.

When he entered Leah's room, he found her resting on the sofa with a

book in her lap, her beautiful dark eyes fixed upon it, each a burning

fire in whose glow a waxen image is slowly consuming. In other respects

she was not altered, except that her complexion was more transparent

and a sorrowful smile seemed frozen on her lips. But as he approached

her and with a few cordial words took her hand, a deep blush suffused

the delicate face and gave to it the appearance of blooming freshness

and health.

"What sorrow you are causing us, dear Leah!" he said drawing a chair

toward her couch. "No," he added as she attempted to rise, "you must

remain as you are, if you don't want to drive me away. I'm so glad to

see you again. Since that terrible day I've only heard of you through

others. And yet not entirely through others, through yourself, too. Do

you know that I read your journal yesterday for the first time?"

She moved her head as if to beg him not to talk about it, and replied:

"You've so many better things to do--if my father had not desired it--"

"No, dear Fraeulein," he answered, "I only wished I had not spent my

time over things so much more useless, before I took up that volume.

And yet, who knows whether I should before have been capable of

estimating the full value of the treasure entrusted to me."

She suddenly turned pale. "No," she murmured, "do not talk so, don't

treat me like a silly child, to whom you must make pretty speeches,

because you perceive my weakness and think you must spare or flatter

me; it pains me--I've been used to different things from you."

"I know you're ill and need consideration," he replied in a trembling

voice. "And yet, dear Leah, I've come to tell you something which will

at any rate excite you, think what you please and answer as you may.

Since I've read those pages, it has become evident to me that I've been

groping about in the mist like a dreamer and not perceived a real

happiness--the happiness of having found a soul, such as is revealed in

those pages, never to lose it again!

"They've tried to part us, dear Leah," he continued with increasing

agitation, while she lay with closed eyes and hands clasped upon her

bosom, without any sign of life. "But it only served to unite our

hearts more closely. We've both experienced how necessary we are to

each other, how little qualified to cope with life alone. True, you'll

doubt whether I've really missed you; nay I did not even realize it

myself. I was enchained by a passion which like some diabolical

enchantment, made me a stranger even to myself. I know not how much you

know or suspect, dear friend. For the first time in my life I learned,

a woman's power, and suffered keenly from it. It's over, Leah, the last

trace of it has vanished. She's about to become another's wife, and I

heard the news without the slightest heart-throb. Oh! Leah, those were

terrible days! When I think that the result might have been different,

that I might have been forever forced to bow to this power--a power

which treated pride and freedom, all that was worthy and precious in

life, as a toy, and rendered me almost unfeeling, even in the days of

Balder's keenest sufferings--I shudder at myself and the danger I have

escaped. But you ought to know, Leah, the weakness of the man who now

comes to you and says: 'will you, can you, notwithstanding all that has

happened, unite your life to mine? Can you give your soul to one who

has already once lost his own, while both he and you, perhaps may never

wholly overcome the smart of his servitude?'

"If you were to say no, Leah, I should understand why and be forced to

bear the pain. I know that I was dear to you. You would have burned

that book rather than have entrusted it to my care, if your heart had

not resistlessly drawn you toward me. And yet, Leah, I should not think

less of you if after the confession I have just made, your heart should

draw back, your pride forbid you to be satisfied with that which I

offer with this perfect candor. You've a right to expect and demand

that the man to whom you give yourself will repay you for the treasure

with such enthusiastic and passionate devotion, that even the thought

that any other power could become dangerous to him, would never enter

his mind. I, dearest Leah, am, as you see me, a fugitive, whose wounds

are scarcely healed after a severe battle. I come to you because I know

I can nowhere be safer, nowhere find a more inaccessible refuge than

with you. What I feel for you--we've not yet come to Spinoza," he

interrupted himself with a quiet smile, "so the phraseology of the

schools is not familiar to you. He, the great philosopher, calls the

feeling men have for that which he termed God--the absolute something

which encompasses, does and wills everything--the exaltation of all

emotions which follows when we become absorbed in the nature of this

one and all, he calls 'intellectual love.' It's neither a jest nor a

blasphemy, but the simple words of truth when I say that with such a

love I love you, Leah! That blind, demoniacal passion, which is usually

called love, has been washed out of my blood--I trust forever! What now

lives in me is the happy consciousness that you're the best, purest,

noblest creature that ever appeared on earth, the one being in whom my

world is contained, and that the man whom you should love and to whom

you consented to belong, would be the happiest of mortals!"

As he faltered the last words he knelt beside her couch, and taking her

hands held them clasped in his, fixing his eyes upon her cool, slender

fingers, unable to look her in the face. He remained for a long time

absorbed in a blissful stupor; it was such a relief to have told her

all, that he felt he scarcely feared her answer, although he was far

from being sure of a favorable one.

She still remained silent. At last he grew anxious, looked at her, and

instantly started up in alarm, for he could not doubt that she had

fainted. He hastily seized a little bottle containing some powerful

stimulant which he found on her table, and poured some on his

handkerchief to rub her temples and restore the color to her pale lips.

"Leah!" he exclaimed, "come to yourself again! Oh! do not punish me so

fearfully for my thoughtlessness; oh, how could I, when I found you so

ill--"

Her lips moved and she slowly opened her eyes. "Forgive me for alarming

you, my beloved!" she murmured. "The happiness was too great--too

sudden. But--I'm well again--I live--aye, I will live, now that I know,

through you and for you--Edwin, is it possible!"

She raised her arm and timidly put it around his neck. He bent toward

her face, now again glowing with blushes. "My wife!" he whispered. "You

are mine! mine! mine! And so surely as I hope to be happy through

you--" His lips, which met hers, stifled and sealed the vow of eternal

love and constancy.

CHAPTER X.

The same day, toward dusk, the little artist was seen hurrying along

the street in which Frau Valentin lived. Any one who had seen him in

his studio that morning, would scarcely have taken him for the same

man. Although the March winds could not seem exactly Springlike to

elderly gentlemen, he had stolen lightly out of the house without an

overcoat, like a youth whose hot blood keeps him warm. He had paid five

groschen for a little bouquet of violets which a poor girl offered him,

and fastened it daintily in his button hole; his white hat rested

jauntily over his left ear, as always happened during his hours of

inspiration, and those, who saw him pass, looking around with a merry

joyous face, nodding sometimes to a pretty child or flourishing his

cane, might well suppose that wine had played one of characteristic

pranks on the little man, and persuaded him that he was once more a

youth of twenty, and might yield to the most unbridled gayety as freely

as the most hopeful young schoolboy.

But when he saw Frau Valentin's house in the distance, his joyous

manner suddenly changed, his step became more moderate, a grave

expression shaded his face, and he even paused as if considering

whether it would not be better to turn back. Then he seemed to summon

up all his manhood, energetically fastened the upper button of his

coat, set his hat straight, and with resolute steps walked toward the

dwelling of his pious friend.

He found her up stairs in the large room among a party of little girls

who came to her twice a week after school, to be taught sewing, and

then, strengthened by lessons of wisdom and virtue and a cup of coffee

with a huge roll, were dismissed to their homes. The hour had just

expired, and the little ones were crowding around their benefactress,

who usually had to prevent them from kissing her hand by kindly

stroking the round cheeks or giving a friendly pat on the shoulder. In

spite of the dim light, she instantly perceived by the voice and

expression of her old friend, that some important motive had brought

him to her, and hastily led the way into the adjoining room, where her

little lamp was already lighted before the picture of the dead

professor. Her first question was concerning Leah. "She's very well,"

replied the artist, as he took the bouquet of violets from his button

hole and gallantly offered it to his old love.

"What has happened to you, my dear friend?" asked the lady in surprise.

They used the word _ihr_[8] in addressing each other when alone, as

they were too intimate for the formal "you" and yet did not venture to

adopt the familiar "thou."

"To me," he answered boldly, as if he were really meaning to conceal

something from her. "I don't know what you mean, my dear madame. I'm

just the same as usual. But it's suffocatingly hot here. Allow me at

least to open the windows--"

"Don't talk nonsense, my dear Koenig," she said quietly. "I can read

your good old heart as easily as the coarse print of my hymn book.

You've come here to tell a piece of news that pleases you, and yet

you've not the pluck to speak out. And that's just what surprises me;

for whatever pleases you, my old friend, has always been agreeable and

welcome to me. So out with it quick. I must go to the meeting of the

lying-in society in half an hour. Is Leah improving? Has any quack of a

doctor suddenly inspired you with such good courage?"

"You are the very embodiment of wisdom," replied the artist, who had

taken the chair at her work-table and was thoughtfully rummaging in her

little basket. "It is certainly a doctor, who has inspired me with

courage, but he's no quack, and the affair is altogether--"

He hesitated again and stooped to look for a thimble which he had

luckily dropped. "Keep your hands away from my things, for heaven's

sake," said the good lady sharply. "You know your meddling makes me as

nervous as I should make you if I wanted to paint a part of your

pictures. And now, once for all, for I hate all mysteries and enigmas,

what doctor are you talking about and what hopes has he given to you?"

"You shall hear, my dear friend, but I know you'll not like the mode of

cure, and that's why I want to prepare you a little; for you often put

on a look that makes even an old friend fear you. But if you want me to

speak out: our Leah's engaged!"

"Engaged! That's certainly a piece of news nobody could be prepared

for. My dear old friend, I hope you're not joking with me. You almost

look as if you'd come from a drinking bout and had all sorts of fancies

and notions in your head."