CHAPTER XVIII

It may easily be supposed that the strange, busy gentleman, whose

acquaintance we have already made--Mittler--as soon as he received

information of the disorder which had broken out among his friends, felt

desirous, though neither side had as yet called on him for assistance,

to fulfil a friend's part toward them, and do what he could to help them

in their misfortune. He thought it advisable, however, to wait first a

little while; knowing too well, as he did, that it was more difficult to

come to the aid of cultivated persons in their moral perplexities, than

of the uncultivated. He left them, therefore, for some time to

themselves; but at last he could withhold no longer, and he hastened to

seek out Edward, on whose traces he had already lighted. His road led

him to a pleasant, pretty valley, with a range of green, sweetly-wooded

meadows, down the centre of which ran a never-failing stream, sometimes

winding slowly along, then tumbling and rushing among rocks and stones.

The hills sloped gently up on either side, covered with rich corn-fields

and well-kept orchards. The villages were at proper distances from one

another. The whole had a peaceful character about it, and the detached

scenes seemed designed expressly, if not for painting, at least for

life.

At last a neatly kept farm, with a clean, modest dwelling-house,

situated in the middle of a garden, fell under his eye. He conjectured

that this was Edward's present abode; and he was not mistaken.

Of this our friend in his solitude we have only thus much to say--that

in his seclusion he was resigning himself utterly to the feeling of his

passion, thinking out plan after plan, and feeding himself with

innumerable hopes. He could not deny that he longed to see Ottilie

there; that he would like to carry her off there, to tempt her there;

and whatever else (putting, as he now did, no check upon his thoughts)

pleased to suggest itself, whether permitted or unpermitted. Then his

imagination wandered up and down, picturing every sort of possibility.

If he could not have her there, if he could not lawfully possess her, he

would secure to her the possession of the property for her own. There

she should live for herself, silently, independently; she should be

happy in that spot--sometimes his self-torturing mood would lead him

further--be happy in it, perhaps, with another.

So days flowed away in increasing oscillation between hope and

suffering, between tears and happiness--between purposes, preparations,

and despair. The sight of Mittler did not surprise him; he had long

expected that he would come; and now that he did, he was partly welcome

to him. He believed that he had been sent by Charlotte. He had prepared

himself with all manner of excuses and delays; and if these would not

serve, with decided refusals; or else, perhaps, he might hope to learn

something of Ottilie--and then he would be as dear to him as a

messenger from heaven.

Not a little vexed and annoyed was Edward, therefore, when he

understood that Mittler had not come from the castle at all, but of his

own free accord. His heart closed up, and at first the conversation

would not open itself. Mittler, however, knew very well that a heart

that is occupied with love has an urgent necessity to express itself--to

pour out to a friend what is passing within it; and he allowed himself,

therefore, after a few speeches backward and forward, for this once to

go out of his character and play the confidant in place of the mediator.

He had calculated justly. He had been finding fault in a good-natured

way with Edward for burying himself in that lonely place, upon which

Edward replied:

"I do not know how I could spend my time more agreeably. I am always

occupied with her; I am always close to her. I have the inestimable

comfort of being able to think where Ottilie is at each moment--where

she is going, where she is standing, where she is reposing. I see her

moving and acting before me as usual; ever doing or designing something

which is to give me pleasure. But this will not always answer; for how

can I be happy away from her? And then my fancy begins to work; I think

what Ottilie should do to come to me; I write sweet, loving letters in

her name to myself, and then I answer them, and keep the sheets

together. I have promised that I will take no steps to seek her; and

that promise I will keep. But what binds her that she should make no

advances to me I Has Charlotte had the barbarity to exact a promise, to

exact an oath from her, not to write to me, not to send me a word, a

hint, about herself? Very likely she has. It is only natural; and yet to

me it is monstrous, it is horrible. If she loves me--as I think, as I

know that she does--why does she not resolve, why does she not venture

to fly to me, and throw herself into my arms? I often think she ought to

do it; and she could do it. If I ever hear a noise in the hall, I look

toward the door. It must be her--she is coming--I look up to see her.

Alas! because the possible is impossible, I let myself imagine that the

impossible must become possible. At night, when I lie awake, and the

lamp flings an uncertain light about the room, her form, her spirit, a

sense of her presence, sweeps over me, approaches me, seizes me. It is

but for a moment; it is that I may have an assurance that she is

thinking of me, that she is mine. Only one pleasure remains to me. When

I was with her I never dreamt of her; now when I am far away, and, oddly

enough, since I have made the acquaintance of other attractive persons

in this neighborhood, for the first time her figure appears to me in my

dreams, as if she would say to me, 'Look on them, and on me. You will

find none more beautiful, more lovely than I.' And so she is present in

every dream I have. In whatever happens to me with her, we are woven in

and in together. Now we are subscribing a contract together. There is

her hand, and there is mine; there is her name, and there is mine; and

they move one into the other, and seem to devour each other. Sometimes

she does something which injures the pure idea which I have of her; and

then I feel how intensely I love her, by the indescribable anguish which

it causes me. Again, unlike herself, she will rally and vex me; and then

at once the figure changes--her sweet, round, heavenly face draws out;

it is not she, it is another; but I lie vexed, dissatisfied and

wretched. Laugh not, dear Mittler, or laugh on as you will. I am not

ashamed of this attachment, of this--if you please to call it

so--foolish, frantic passion. No, I never loved before. It is only now

that I know what to love means. Till now, what I have called life was

nothing but its prelude--amusement, sport to kill the time with. I never

lived till I knew her, till I loved her--entirely and only loved her.

People have often said of me, not to my face, but behind my back, that

in most things I was but a botcher and a bungler. It may be so; for I

had not then found in what I could show myself a master. I should like

to see the man who outdoes me in the talent of love. A miserable life it

is, full of anguish and tears; but it is so natural, so dear to me,

that I could hardly change it for another."

Edward had relieved himself slightly by this violent unloading of his

heart. But in doing so every feature of his strange condition had been

brought out so clearly before his eyes that, overpowered by the pain of

the struggle, he burst into tears, which flowed all the more freely as

his heart had been made weak by telling it all.

Mittler, who was the less disposed to put a check on his inexorable good

sense and strong, vigorous feeling, because by this violent outbreak of

passion on Edward's part he saw himself driven far from the purpose of

his coming, showed sufficiently decided marks of his disapprobation.

Edward should act as a man, he said; he should remember what he owed to

himself as a man. He should not forget that the highest honor was to

command ourselves in misfortune; to bear pain, if it must be so, with

equanimity and self-collectedness. That was what we should do, if we

wished to be valued and looked up to as examples of what was right.

Stirred and penetrated as Edward was with the bitterest feelings, words

like these could but have a hollow, worthless sound.

"It is well," he cried, "for the man who is happy, who has all that he

desires, to talk; but he would be ashamed of it if he could see how

intolerable it was to the sufferer. Nothing short of an infinite

endurance would be enough, and easy and contented as he was, what could

he know of an infinite agony? There are cases," he continued, "yes,

there are, where comfort is a lie, and despair is a duty. Go, heap your

scorn upon the noble Greek, who well knows how to delineate heroes, when

in their anguish he lets those heroes weep. He has even a proverb, 'Men

who can weep are good.' Leave me, all you with dry heart and dry eye.

Curses on the happy, to whom the wretched serve but for a spectacle.

When body and soul are torn in pieces with agony, they are to bear

it--yes, to be noble and bear it, if they are to be allowed to go off

the scene with applause. Like the gladiators, they must die gracefully

before the eyes of the multitude. My dear Mittler, I thank you for your

visit; but really you would oblige me much, if you would go out and look

about you in the garden. We will meet again. I will try to compose

myself, and become more like you."

Mittler was unwilling to let a conversation drop which it might be

difficult to begin again, and still persevered. Edward, too, was quite

ready to go on with it; besides that of itself, it was tending toward

the issue which he desired.

"Indeed," said the latter, "This thinking and arguing backward and

forward leads to nothing. In this very conversation I myself have first

come to understand myself; I have first felt decided as to what I must

make up my mind to do. My present and my future life I see before me; I

have to choose only between misery and happiness. Do you, my best

friend, bring about the separation which must take place, which, in

fact, is already made; gain Charlotte's consent for me. I will not enter

upon the reasons why I believe there will be the less difficulty in

prevailing upon her. You, my dear friend, must go. Go, and give us all

peace; make us all happy."

Mittler hesitated. Edward continued:

"My fate and Ottilie's cannot be divided, and shall not be shipwrecked.

Look at this glass; our initials are engraved upon it. A gay reveller

flung it into the air, that no one should drink of it more. It was to

fall on the rock and be dashed to pieces; but it did not fall; it was

caught. At a high price I bought it back, and now I drink out of it

daily--to convince myself that the connection between us cannot be

broken; that destiny has decided."

"Alas! alas!" cried Mittler, "what must I not endure with my friends?

Here comes superstition, which of all things I hate the worse--the most

mischievous and accursed of all the plagues of mankind. We trifle with

prophecies, with forebodings, and dreams, and give a seriousness to our

every-day life with them; but when the seriousness of life itself begins

to show, when everything around us is heaving and rolling, then come in

these spectres to make the storm more terrible."

"In this uncertainty of life," cried Edward, "poised as it is between

hope and fear, leave the poor heart its guiding-star. It may gaze toward

it, if it cannot steer toward it."

"Yes, I might leave it; and it would be very well," replied Mittler, "if

there were but one consequence to expect; but I have always found that

nobody will attend to symptoms of warning. Man cares for nothing except

what flatters him and promises him fair; and his faith is alive

exclusively for the sunny side."

Mittler, finding himself carried off into the shadowy regions, in which

the longer he remained the more uncomfortable he always felt, was the

more ready to assent to Edward's eager wish that he should go to

Charlotte. Indeed, if he stayed, what was there further which at that

moment he could urge on Edward? To gain time, to inquire in what state

things were with the ladies, was the best thing which even he himself

could suggest as at present possible.

He hastened to Charlotte, whom he found as usual, calm and in good

spirits. She told him readily of everything which had occurred; for from

what Edward had said he had only been able to gather the effects. On his

own side, he felt his way with the utmost caution. He could not prevail

upon himself even cursorily to mention the word separation. It was a

surprise, indeed, to him, but from his point of view an unspeakably

delightful one, when Charlotte, at the end of a number of unpleasant

things, finished with saying:

"I must believe, I must hope, that things will all work round again, and

that Edward will return to me. How can it be otherwise as soon as I

become a mother?"

"Do I understand you right?" returned Mittler.

"Perfectly," Charlotte answered.

"A thousand times blessed be this news!" he cried, clasping his hands

together. "I know the strength of this argument on the mind of a man.

Many a marriage have I seen first cemented by it, and restored again

when broken. Such a good hope as this is worth more than a thousand

words. Now indeed it is the best hope which we can have. For myself,

though," he continued, "I have all reason to be vexed about it. In this

case I can see clearly no self-love of mine will be flattered. I shall

earn no thanks from you by my services; I am in the same case as a

certain medical friend of mine, who succeeds in all cures which he

undertakes with the poor for the love of God; but can seldom do anything

for the rich who will pay him. Here, thank God, the thing cures itself,

after all my talking and trying had proved fruitless."

Charlotte now asked him if he would carry the news to Edward: if he

would take a letter to him from her, and then see what should be done.

But he declined undertaking this. "All is done," he cried; "do you write

your letter--any messenger will do as well as I--I will come back to wish

you joy. I will come to the christening!"

For this refusal she was vexed with him--as she frequently was. His

eager, impetuous character brought about much good; but his over-haste

was the occasion of many a failure. No one was more dependent than he on

the impressions which he formed on the moment. Charlotte's messenger

came to Edward, who received him half in terror. The letter was to

decide his fate, and it might as well contain No as Yes. He did not

venture, for a long time, to open it. At last he tore off the cover, and

stood petrified at the following passage, with which it concluded:

"Remember the night-adventure when you visited your wife as a

lover--how you drew her to you, and clasped her as a well-beloved bride

in your arms. In this strange accident let us revere the providence of

heaven, which has woven a new link to bind us, at the moment when the

happiness of our lives was threatening to fall asunder and to vanish."

What passed from that moment in Edward's soul it would be difficult to

describe! Under the weight of such a stroke, old habits and fancies come

out again to assist to kill the time and fill up the chasms of life.

Hunting and fighting are an ever-ready resource of this kind for a

nobleman; Edward longed for some outward peril, as a counterbalance to

the storm within him. He craved for death, because the burden of life

threatened to become too heavy for him to bear. It comforted him to

think that he would soon cease to be, and so would make those whom he

loved happy by his departure.

No one made any difficulty in his doing what he purposed--because he

kept his intention a secret. He made his will with all due formalities.

It gave him a very sweet feeling to secure Ottilie's fortune--provision

was made for Charlotte, for the unborn child, for the Captain, and for

the servants. The war, which had again broken out, favored his wishes:

he had disliked exceedingly the half-soldiering which had fallen to him

in his youth, and that was the reason why he had left the service. Now

it gave him a fine exhilarating feeling to be able to rejoin it under a

commander of whom it could be said that, under his conduct, death was

likely and victory was sure.

Ottilie, when Charlotte's secret was made known to her, bewildered by

it, like Edward, and more than he, retired into herself--she had nothing

further to say: hope she could not, and wish she dared not. A glimpse

into what was passing in her we can gather from her Diary, some passages

of which we think to communicate.

There often happens to us in common life what, in an epic poem, we are

accustomed to praise as a stroke of art in the poet; namely, that when

the chief figures go off the scene, conceal themselves or retire into

inactivity, some other or others, whom hitherto we have scarcely

observed, come forward and fill their places. And these putting out all

their force, at once fix our attention and sympathy on themselves, and

earn our praise and admiration.

Thus, after the Captain and Edward were gone, the Architect, of whom we

have spoken, appeared every day a more important person. The ordering

and executing of a number of undertakings depended entirely upon him,

and he proved himself thoroughly understanding and businesslike in the

style in which he went to work; while in a number of other ways he was

able also to make himself of assistance to the ladies, and find

amusement for their weary hours. His outward air and appearance were of

the kind which win confidence and awake affection. A youth in the full

sense of the word, well-formed, tall, perhaps a little too stout; modest

without being timid, and easy without being obtrusive, there was no work

and no trouble which he was not delighted to take upon himself; and as

he could keep accounts with great facility, the whole economy of the

household soon was no secret to him, and everywhere his salutary

influence made itself felt. Any stranger who came he was commonly set to

entertain, and he was skilful either at declining unexpected visits, or

at least so far preparing the ladies for them as to spare them any

disagreeableness.

Among others, he had one day no little trouble with a young lawyer, who

had been sent by a neighboring nobleman to speak about a matter which,

although of no particular moment, yet touched Charlotte to the quick. We

have to mention this incident because it gave occasion for a number of

things which otherwise might perhaps have remained long untouched.

We remember certain alterations which Charlotte had made in the

churchyard. The entire body of the monuments had been removed from their

places, and had been ranged along the walls of the church, leaning

against the string-course. The remaining space had been levelled, except

a broad walk which led up to the church, and past it to the opposite

gate; and it had been all sown with various kinds of trefoil, which had

shot up and flowered most beautifully.

The new graves were to follow one after another in a regular order from

the end, but the spot on each occasion was to be carefully smoothed over

and again sown. No one could deny that on Sundays and holidays when the

people went to church the change had given it a most cheerful and

pleasant appearance. At the same time the clergyman, an old man and

clinging to old customs, who at first had not been especially pleased

with the alteration, had become thoroughly delighted with it, all the

more because when he sat out like Philemon with his Baucis under the old

linden trees at his back door, instead of the humps and mounds he had a

beautiful clean lawn to look out upon; and which, moreover, Charlotte

having secured the use of the spot to the Parsonage, was no little

convenience to his household.

Notwithstanding this, however, many members of the congregation had been

displeased that the means of marking the spots where their forefathers

rested had been removed, and all memorials of them thereby obliterated.

However well preserved the monuments might be, they could only show who

had been buried, but not where he had been buried, and the _where_, as

many maintained, was everything.

Of this opinion was a family in the neighborhood, who for many years had

been in possession of a considerable vault for a general resting-place

of themselves and their relations, and in consequence had settled a

small annual sum for the use of the church. And now this young lawyer

had been sent to cancel this settlement, and to show that his client did

not intend to pay it any more, because the conditions under which it had

been hitherto made had not been observed by the other party, and no

regard had been paid to objection and remonstrance. Charlotte, who was

the originator of the alteration herself, chose to speak to the young

man, who in a decided though not a violent manner, laid down the grounds

on which his client proceeded, and gave occasion in what he said for

much serious reflection.

"You see," he said, after a slight introduction, in which he sought to

justify his peremptoriness; "you see, it is right for the lowest as well

as for the highest to mark the spot which holds those who are dearest to

him. The poorest, peasant, who buries a child, finds it some consolation

to plant a light wooden cross upon the grave, and hang a garland upon

it, to keep alive the memorial, at least as long as the sorrow remains;

although such a mark, like the mourning, will pass away with time. Those

better off change the cross of wood into iron, and fix it down and guard

it in various ways; and here we have endurance for many years. But

because this too will sink at last, and become invisible, those who are

able to bear the expense see nothing fitter than to raise a stone which

shall promise to endure for generations, and which can be restored and

made fresh again by posterity. Yet this stone it is not which attracts

us; it is that which is contained beneath it, which is intrusted, where

it stands, to the earth. It is not the memorial so much of which we

speak, as of the person himself; not of what once was, but of what is.

Far better, far more closely, can I embrace some dear departed one in

the mound which rises over his bed, than in a monumental writing which

only tells us that once he was. In itself, indeed, it is but little; but

around it, as around a central mark, the wife, the husband, the kinsman,

the friend, after their departure, shall gather in again; and the living

shall have the right to keep far off all strangers and evil-wishers

from the side of the dear one who is sleeping there. And, therefore, I

hold it quite fair and fitting that my principal shall withdraw his

grant to you. It is, indeed, but too reasonable that he should do it,

for the members of his family are injured in a way for which no

compensation could be even proposed. They are deprived of the sad sweet

feelings of laying offerings on the remains of their dead, and of the

one comfort in their sorrow of one day lying down at their side."

"The matter is not of that importance," Charlotte answered, "that we

should disquiet ourselves about it with the vexation of a lawsuit. I

regret so little what I have done, that I will gladly myself indemnify

the church for what it loses through you. Only I must confess candidly

to you, your arguments have not convinced me; the pure feeling of an

universal equality at last, after death, seems to me more composing than

this hard determined persistence in our personalities and in the

conditions and circumstances of our lives. What do you say to it?" she

added, turning to the Architect.

"It is not for me," replied he, "either to argue, or to attempt to judge

in such a case. Let me venture, however, to say what my own art and my

own habits of thinking suggest to me. Since we are no longer so happy as

to be able to press to our breasts the in-urned remains of those we have

loved; since we are neither wealthy enough nor of cheerful heart enough

to preserve them undecayed in large elaborate sarcophagi; since, indeed,

we cannot even find place any more for ourselves and ours in the

churches, and are banished out into the open air, we all, I think, ought

to approve the method which you, my gracious lady, have introduced. If

the members of a common congregation are laid out side by side, they are

resting by the side of, and among their kindred; and, if the earth be

once to receive us all, I can find nothing more natural or more

desirable than that the mounds, which, if they are thrown up, are sure

to sink slowly in again together, should be smoothed off at once, and

the covering, which all bear alike, will press lighter upon each."

"And is it all, is it all to pass away," asked Ottilie, "without one

token of remembrance, without anything to call back the past?"

"By no means," continued the Architect; "it is not from remembrance, it

is from place that men should be set free. The architect, the sculptor,

are highly interested that men should look to their art--to their hand,

for a continuance of their being; and, therefore, I should wish to see

well-designed, well-executed monuments; not sown up and down by

themselves at random, but erected all in a single spot, where they can

promise themselves endurance. Inasmuch as even the good and the great

are contented to surrender the privilege of resting in person in the

churches, _we_ may, at least, erect there or in some fair hall near the

burying place, either monuments or monumental writings. A thousand forms

might be suggested for them, and a thousand ornaments with which they

might be decorated."

"If the artists are so rich," replied Charlotte, "then tell me how it is

that they are never able to escape from little obelisks, dwarf pillars,

and urns for ashes? Instead of your thousand forms of which you boast, I

have never seen anything but a thousand repetitions."

"It is very generally so with us," returned the Architect, "but it is

not universal; and very likely the right taste and the proper

application of it may be a peculiar art. In this case especially we have

this great difficulty, that the monument must be something cheerful and

yet commemorate a solemn subject; while its matter is melancholy, it

must not itself be melancholy. As regards designs for monuments of all

kinds, I have collected numbers of them, and I will take some

opportunity of showing them to you; but at all times the fairest

memorial of a man remains some likeness of himself. This better than

anything else, will give a notion of what he was; it is the best text

for many or for few notes, only it ought to be made when he is at his

best age, and that is generally neglected; no one thinks of preserving

forms while they are alive, and if it is done at all, it is done

carelessly and incompletely; and then comes death; a cast is taken

swiftly of the face; this mask is set upon a block of stone, and that is

what is called a bust. How seldom is the artist in a position to put any

real life into such things as these!"

"You have contrived," said Charlotte, "without perhaps knowing it or

wishing it, to lead the conversation altogether in my favor. The

likeness of a man is quite independent; everywhere that it stands, it

stands for itself, and we do not require it to mark the site of a

particular grave. But I must acknowledge to you to having a strange

feeling; even to likenesses I have a kind of disinclination. Whenever I

see them they seem to be silently reproaching me. They point to

something far away from us--gone from us; and they remind me how

difficult it is to pay right honor to the present. If we think how many

people we have seen and known, and consider how little we have been to

them and how little they have been to us, it is no very pleasant

reflection. We have met a man of genius without having enjoyed much with

him--a learned man without having learnt from him--a traveler without

having been instructed,--a man to love without having shown him any

kindness.

"And, unhappily, this is not the case only with accidental meetings.

Societies and families behave in the same way toward their dearest

members, towns toward their worthiest citizens, people toward their most

admirable princes, nations toward their most distinguished men.

"I have heard it asked why we heard nothing but good spoken of the dead,

while of the living it is never without some exception. It should be

answered, because from the former we have nothing any more to fear,

while the latter may still, here or there, fall in our way. So unreal is

our anxiety to preserve the memory of others--generally no more than a

mere selfish amusement; and the real, holy, earnest feeling would be

what should prompt us to be more diligent and assiduous in our

attentions toward those who still are left to us."

CHAPTER II

Under the stimulus of this accident, and of the conversations which

arose out of it, they went the following day to look over the

burying-place, for the ornamenting of which and relieving it in some

degree of its sombre look, the Architect made many a happy proposal. His

interest too had to extend itself to the church as well; a building

which had caught his attention from the moment of his arrival.

It had been standing for many centuries, built in old German style, the

proportions good, the decorating elaborate and excellent; and one might

easily gather that the architect of the neighboring monastery had left

the stamp of his art and of his love on this smaller building also; it

worked on the beholder with a solemnity and a sweetness, although the

change in its internal arrangements for the Protestant service had taken

from it something of its repose and majesty.

The Architect found no great difficulty in prevailing on Charlotte to

give him a considerable sum of money to restore it externally and

internally, in the original spirit, and thus, as he thought, to bring it

into harmony with the resurrection-field which lay in front of it. He

had himself much practical skill, and a few laborers who were still busy

at the lodge might easily be kept together, until this pious work too

should be completed.

The building itself, therefore, with all its environs, and whatever was

attached to it, was now carefully and thoroughly examined; and then

showed itself, to the greatest surprise and delight of the Architect, a

little side chapel, which nobody had thought of, beautifully and

delicately proportioned, and displaying still greater care and pains in

its decoration. It contained at the same time many remnants, carved

and painted, of the implements used in the old services, when the

different festivals were distinguished by a variety of pictures and

ceremonies, and each was celebrated in its own peculiar style.

It was impossible for him not at once to take this chapel into his plan;

and he determined to bestow especial pains on the restoring of this

little spot, as a memorial of old times and of their taste. He saw

exactly how he would like to have the vacant surfaces of the walls

ornamented, and delighted himself with the prospect, of exercising his

talent for painting upon them; but of this, at first, he made a secret

to the rest of the party.

Before doing anything else, he fulfilled his promise of showing the

ladies the various imitations of, and designs from, old monuments,

vases, and other such things which he had made, and when they came to

speak of the simple barrow-sepulchres of the northern nations, he

brought a collection of weapons and implements which had been found in

them. He had got them exceedingly nicely and conveniently arranged in

drawers and compartments, laid on boards cut to fit them, and covered

over with cloth; so that these solemn old things, in the way he treated

them, had a smart dressy appearance, and it was like looking into the

box of a trinket merchant.

Having once begun to show his curiosities, and finding them prove

serviceable to entertain our friends in their loneliness, every evening

he would produce one or other of his treasures. They were most of them

of German origin--pieces of metal, old coins, seals, and such like. All

these things directed the imagination back upon old times; and when at

last they came to amuse themselves with the first specimens of printing,

woodcuts, and the earliest copper-plate engraving, and when the church,

in the same spirit, was growing out, every day, more and more in form

and color like the past, they had almost to ask themselves whether they

really were living in a modern time, whether it were not a dream, that

manners, customs, modes of life, and convictions were all really so

changed.

After such preparation, a great portfolio, which at last he produced,

had the best possible effect. It contained indeed principally only

outlines and figures, but as these had been traced upon original

pictures, they retained perfectly their ancient character, and most

captivating indeed this character was to the spectators. All the figures

breathed only the purest feeling; every one, if not noble, at any rate

was good; cheerful composure, ready recognition of One above us, to whom

all reverence is due; silent devotion, in love and tranquil expectation,

was expressed on every face, on every gesture. The old bald-headed man,

the curly-pated boy, the light-hearted youth, the earnest man, the

glorified saint, the angel hovering in the air, all seemed happy in an

innocent, satisfied, pious expectation. The commonest object had a trait

of celestial life; and every nature seemed adapted to the service of

God, and to be, in some way or other, employed upon it.

Toward such a region most of them gazed as toward a vanished golden age,

or on some lost paradise; only perhaps Ottilie had a chance of finding

herself among beings of her own nature. Who could offer any proposition

when the Architect asked to be allowed to paint the spaces between the

arches and the walls of the chapel in the style of these old pictures

and thereby leave his own distinct memorial at a place where life had

gone so pleasantly with him?

He spoke of it with some sadness, for he could see, in the state in

which things were, that his sojourn in such delightful society could not

last forever; indeed, that perhaps it would now soon be ended.

For the rest, these days were not rich in incidents; yet full of

occasion for serious entertainment. We therefore take the opportunity of

communicating something of the remarks which Ottilie noted down among

her manuscripts, to which we cannot find a fitter transition than

through a simile which suggested itself to us on contemplating her

exquisite pages.

There is, we are told, a curious contrivance in the service of the

English marine. The ropes in use in the royal navy, from the largest to

the smallest, are so twisted that a red thread runs through them from

end to end, which cannot be extracted without undoing the whole; and by

which the smallest pieces may be recognized as belonging to the crown.

Just so is there drawn through Ottilie Is diary, a thread of attachment

and affection which connects it all together, and characterizes the

whole. And thus these remarks, these observations, these extracted

sentences, and whatever else it may contain, were, to the writer, of

peculiar meaning. Even the few separate pieces which we select and

transcribe will sufficiently explain our meaning.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"To rest hereafter at the side of those whom we love is the most

delightful thought which man can have when once he looks out beyond the

boundary of life. What a sweet expression is that--'He was gathered to

his fathers!'"

"Of the various memorials and tokens which bring nearer to us the

distant and the separated--none is so satisfactory as a picture. To sit

and talk to a beloved picture, even though it be unlike, has a charm in

it, like the charm which there sometimes is in quarrelling with a

friend. We feel, in a strange sweet way, that we are divided and yet

cannot separate."

"We entertain ourselves often with a present person as with a picture.

He need not speak to us, he need not look at us, or take any notice of

us; we look at him, we feel the relation in which we stand to him; such

relation can even grow without his doing anything toward it, without his

having any feeling of it: he is to us exactly as a picture."

"One is never satisfied with a portrait of a person that one knows. I

have always felt for the portrait-painter on this account. One so seldom

requires of people what is impossible, and of them we do really require

what is impossible; they must gather up into their picture the relation

of every body to its subject, all their likings and all dislikings; they

must not only paint a man as they see him, but as every one else sees

him. It does not surprise me if such artists become by degrees stunted,

indifferent, and of but one idea; and indeed it would not matter what

came of it, if it were not that in consequence we have to go without the

pictures of so many persons near and dear to us."

"It is too true, the Architect's collection of weapons and old

implements, which were found with the bodies of their owners, covered in

with great hills of earth and rock, proves to us how useless is man's so

great anxiety to preserve his personality after he is dead; and so

inconsistent people are, the Architect confesses to have himself opened

these barrows of his forefathers, and yet goes on occupying himself with

memorials for posterity."

"But after all why should we take it so much to heart? Is all that we

do, done for eternity? Do we not put on our dress in the morning, to

throw it off again at night? Do we not go abroad to return home again?

And why should we not wish to rest by the side of our friends, though it

were but for a century?"

"When we see the many gravestones which have fallen in, which have been

defaced by the footsteps of the congregation, which lie buried under the

ruins of the churches, that have themselves crumbled together over them,

we may fancy the life after death to be as a second life, into which a

man enters in the figure, or the picture, or the inscription, and lives

longer there than when he was really alive. But this figure also, this

second existence, dies out too, sooner or later. Time will not allow

himself to be cheated of his rights with the monuments of men or with

themselves."

It causes us so agreeable a sensation to occupy ourselves with what we

can only half do, that no person ought to find fault with the

dilettante, when he is spending his time over an art which he can never

learn; nor blame the artist if he chooses to pass out over the border of

his own art, and amuse himself in some neighboring field. With such

complacency of feeling we regard the preparation of the Architect for

painting the chapel. The colors were got ready, the measurements taken,

the cartoons designed. He had made no attempt at originality, but kept

close to his outlines; his only care was to make a proper distribution

of the sitting and floating figures, so as tastefully to ornament his

space with them.

The scaffoldings were erected. The work went forward; and as soon as

anything had been done on which the eye could rest, he could have no

objection to Charlotte and Ottilie coming to see how he was getting on.

The life-like faces of the angels, their robes waving against the blue

sky-ground, delighted the eye, while their still and holy air calmed and

composed the spirit, and produced the most delicate effect.

The ladies ascended the scaffolding to him, and Ottilie had scarcely

observed how easily and regularly the work was being done when the power

which had been fostered in her by her early education at once appeared

to develop. She took a brush, and with a few words of direction, painted

a richly folding robe, with as much delicacy as skill.

Charlotte, who was always glad when Ottilie would occupy or amuse

herself with anything, left them both in the chapel, and went to follow

the train of her own thoughts, and work her way for herself through her

cares and anxieties which she was unable to communicate to a creature.

When ordinary men allow themselves to be worked up by common every-day

difficulties into fever-fits of passion, we can give them nothing but a

compassionate smile. But we look with a kind of awe on a spirit in

which the seed of a great destiny has been sown, which must abide the

unfolding of the germ, and neither dare nor can do anything to

precipitate either the good or the ill, either the happiness or the

misery, which is to arise out of it.

Edward had sent an answer by Charlotte's messenger, who had come to him

in his solitude. It was written with kindness and interest, but it was

rather composed and serious than warm and affectionate. He had vanished

almost immediately after, and Charlotte could learn no news about him;

till at last she accidentally found his name in the newspaper, where he

was mentioned with honor among those who had most distinguished

themselves in a late important engagement. She now understood the method

which he had taken; she perceived that he had escaped from great danger;

only she was convinced at the same time that he would seek out greater;

and it was all too clear to her that in every sense he would hardly be

withheld from any extremity.

She had to bear about this perpetual anxiety in her thoughts, and turn

which way she would, there was no light in which she could look at it

that would give her comfort.

Ottilie, never dreaming of anything of this, had taken to the work in

the chapel with the greatest interest, and she had easily obtained

Charlotte's permission to go on with it regularly. So now all went

swiftly forward, and the azure heaven was soon peopled with worthy

inhabitants. By continual practice both Ottilie and the Architect had

gained more freedom with the last figures; they became perceptibly

better. The faces, too, which had been all left to the Architect to

paint, showed by degrees a very singular peculiarly. They began all of

them to resemble Ottilie. The neighborhood of the beautiful girl had

made so strong an impression on the soul of the young man, who had no

variety of faces preconceived in his mind, that by degrees, on the way

from the eye to the hand, nothing was lost, and both worked in exact

harmony together. Enough; one of the last faces succeeded perfectly; so

that it seemed as if Ottilie herself was looking down out of the spaces

of the sky.

They had finished with the arching of the ceiling. The walls they

proposed to leave plain, and only to cover them over with a bright brown

color. The delicate pillars and the quaintly molded ornaments were to be

distinguished from them by a dark shade. But as in such things one thing

ever leads on to another, they determined at least on having festoons of

flowers and fruit, which should, as it were, unite heaven and earth.

Here Ottilie was in her element. The gardens provided the most perfect

patterns; and although the wreaths were as rich as they could make them,

it was all finished sooner than they had supposed possible.

It was still looking rough and disorderly. The scaffolding poles had

been run together, the planks thrown one on the top of the other; the

uneven pavement was yet more disfigured by the parti-colored stains of

the paint which had been spilt over it.

The Architect begged that the ladies would give him a week to himself,

and during that time would not enter the chapel; at the end of it, one

fine evening, he came to them, and begged them both to go and see it. He

did not wish to accompany them, he said, and at once took his leave.

"Whatever surprise he may have designed for us," said Charlotte, as soon

as he was gone, "I cannot myself just now go down there. You can go by

yourself, and tell me all about it. No doubt he has been doing something

which we shall like. I will enjoy it first in your description, and

afterwards it will be the more charming in the reality."

Ottilie, who knew well that in many cases Charlotte took care to avoid

everything which could produce emotion, and particularly disliked to be

surprised, set off down the walk by herself and looked round

involuntarily for the Architect, who, however, was nowhere to be seen

and must have concealed himself somewhere. She walked into the church,

which she found open. This had been finished before; it had been cleaned

up, and service had been performed in it. She went on to the chapel

door; its heavy mass, all overlaid with iron, yielded easily to her

touch, and she found an unexpected sight in a familiar spot.

A solemn, beautiful light streamed in through the one tall window. It

was filled with stained glass, gracefully put together. The entire

chapel had thus received a strange tone, and a peculiar genius was

thrown over it. The beauty of the vaulted ceiling and the walls was set

off by the elegance of the pavement, which was composed of peculiarly

shaped tiles, fastened together with gypsum, and forming exquisite

patterns as they lay. This and the colored glass for the windows the

Architect had prepared without their knowledge, and a short time was

sufficient to have it put in its place.

Seats had been provided as well. Among the relics of the old church some

finely carved chancel chairs had been discovered, which now were

standing about at convenient places along the walls.

The parts which she knew so well now meeting her as an unfamiliar whole,

delighted Ottilie. She stood still, walked up and down, looked and

looked again; at last she seated herself in one of the chairs, and it

seemed, as she gazed up and down, as if she was, and yet was not--as if

she felt and did not feel--as if all this would vanish from before her,

and she would vanish from herself; and it was only when the sun left the

window, on which before it had been shining full, that she awoke to

possession of herself and hastened back to the castle.

She did not hide from herself the strange epoch at which this surprise

had occurred to her. It was the evening of Edward's birthday. Very

differently she had hoped to keep it. How was not every thing to be

dressed out for this festival and now all the splendor of the autumn

flowers remained ungathered! Those sunflowers still turned their faces

to the sky; those asters still looked out with quiet, modest eye; and

whatever of them all had been wound into wreaths had served as patterns

for the decorating a spot which, if it was not to remain a mere

artist's fancy, was only adapted as a general mausoleum.

And then she had to remember the impetuous eagerness with which Edward

had kept her birthday-feast. She. thought of the newly erected lodge,

under the roof of which they had promised themselves so much enjoyment.

The fireworks flashed and hissed again before her eyes and ears; the

more lonely she was, the more keenly her imagination brought it all

before her. But she felt herself only the more alone. She no longer

leant upon his arm, and she had no hope ever any more to rest herself

upon it.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"I have been struck with an observation of the young architect.

"In the case of the creative artist, as in that of the artisan, it is

clear that man is least permitted to appropriate to himself what is most

entirely his own. His works forsake him as the birds forsake the nest in

which they were hatched.

"The fate of the Architect is the strangest of all in this way. How

often he expends his whole soul, his whole heart and passion, to produce

buildings into which he himself may never enter. The halls of kings owe

their magnificence to him; but he has no enjoyment of them in their

splendor. In the temple he draws a partition line between himself and

the Holy of Holies; he may never more set his foot upon the steps which

he has laid down for the heart-thrilling ceremonial, as the goldsmith

may only adore from far off the _monstrance_ whose enamel and whose

jewels he has himself set together. The builder surrenders to the rich

man, with the key of his palace, all pleasure and all right there, and

never shares with him in the enjoyment of it. And must not art in this

way, step by step, draw off from the artist, when the work, like a child

who is provided for, has no more to fall back upon its father? And what

a power there must be in art itself for its own self-advancing, when it

has been obliged to shape itself almost solely out of what was open to

all, only out of what was the property of every one, and therefore also

of the artist!"

"There is a conception among old nations which is awful, and may almost

seem terrible. They pictured their forefathers to themselves sitting

round on thrones, in enormous caverns, in silent converse; when a new

comer entered, if he were worthy enough, they rose up, and inclined

their heads to welcome him. Yesterday, as I was sitting in the chapel,

and other carved chairs stood round like that in which I was, the

thought of this came over me with a soft, pleasant feeling. Why cannot

you stay sitting here? I said to myself; stay here sitting meditating

with yourself long, long, long, till at last your friends come, and you

rise up to them, and with a gentle inclination direct them to their

places. The colored window panes convert the day into a solemn twilight;

and some one should set up for us an ever-burning lamp, that the night

might not be utter darkness."

"We may imagine ourselves in what situation we please, we always

conceive ourselves as _seeing_. I believe men only dream that they may

not cease to see. Some day, perhaps, the inner light will come out from

within us, and we shall not any more require another.

"The year dies away, the wind sweeps over the stubble, and there is

nothing left to stir under its touch. But the red berries on yonder tall

tree seem as if they would still remind us of brighter things; and the

stroke of the thrasher's flail awakes the thought how much of

nourishment and life lie buried in the sickled ear."

CHAPTER IV

How strangely, after all this, with the sense so vividly impressed on

her of mutability and perishableness, must Ottilie have been affected by

the news which could not any longer be kept concealed from her, that

Edward had exposed himself to the uncertain chances of war! Unhappily,

none of the observations which she had occasion to make upon it escaped

her. But it is well for us that man can only endure a certain degree of

unhappiness; what is beyond that either annihilates him, or passes by

him, and leaves him apathetic. There are situations in which hope and

fear run together, in which they mutually destroy one another, and lose

themselves in a dull indifference. If it were not so, how could we bear

to know of those who are most dear to us being in hourly peril, and yet

go on as usual with our ordinary everyday life?

It was therefore as if some good genius was caring for Ottilie, that,

all at once, this stillness, in which she seemed to be sinking from

loneliness and want of occupation, was suddenly invaded by a wild army,

which, while it gave her externally abundance of employment, and so took

her out of herself, at the same time awoke in her the consciousness of

her own power.

Charlotte's daughter, Luciana, had scarcely left the school and gone out

into the great world; scarcely had she found herself at her aunt's house

in the midst of a large society, than her anxiety to please produced its

effect in really pleasing; and a young, very wealthy man, soon

experienced a passionate desire to make her his own. His large property

gave him a right to have the best of everything for his use, and nothing

seemed to be wanting to him except a perfect wife, for whom, as for the

rest of his good fortune, he should be the envy of the world.

This incident in her family had been for some time occupying Charlotte.

It had engaged all her attention, and taken up her whole correspondence,

except so far as this was directed to the obtaining news of Edward; so

that latterly Ottilie had been left more than was usual to herself. She

knew, indeed, of an intended visit from Luciana. She had been making

various changes and arrangements in the house in preparation for it; but

she had no notion that it was so near. Letters, she supposed, would

first have to pass, settling the time, and unsettling it; and at last a

final fixing: when the storm broke suddenly over the castle and over

herself.

Up drove, first, lady's maids and men-servants, their carriage loaded

with trunks and boxes. The household was already swelled to double or to

treble its size, and then appeared the visitors themselves. There was

the great aunt, with Luciana and some of her friends; and then the

bridegroom with some of his friends. The entrance-hall was full of

things--bags, portmanteaus, and leather articles of every sort. The

boxes had to be got out of their covers, and that was infinite trouble;

and of luggage and of rummage there was no end. At intervals, moreover,

there were violent showers, giving rise to much inconvenience. Ottilie

encountered all this confusion with the easiest equanimity, and her

happy talent showed in its fairest light. In a very little time she had

brought things to order, and disposed of them. Every one found his

room--every one hand his things exactly as they wished, and all thought

themselves well attended to, because they were not prevented from

attending on themselves.

The journey had been long and fatiguing, and they would all have been

glad of a little rest after it. The bridegroom would have liked to pay

his respects to his mother-in-law, express his pleasure, his gratitude,

and so on. But Luciana could not rest. She had now arrived at the

happiness of being able to mount a horse. The bridegroom had beautiful

horses, and mount they must on the spot. Clouds and wind, rain and

storm, they were nothing to Luciana, and now it was as if they only

lived to get wet through, and to dry themselves again. If she took a

fancy to go out walking, she never thought what sort of dress she had

on, or what her shoes were like; she must go and see the grounds of

which she had heard so much; what could not be done on horseback, she

ran through on foot. In a little while she had seen everything, and

given her opinion about everything; and with such rapidity of character

it was not easy to contradict or oppose her. The whole household had

much to suffer, but most particularly the lady's maids, who were at work

from morning to night, washing, and ironing, and stitching.

As soon as she had exhausted the house and the park, she thought it was

her duty to pay visits all around the neighborhood. Although they rode

and drove fast, "all around the neighborhood" was a goodly distance. The

castle was flooded with return visits, and that they might not miss one

another, it soon came to days being fixed for them.

Charlotte, in the meantime, with her aunt, and the man of business of

the bridegroom, were occupied in determining about the settlements, and

it was left to Ottilie, with those under her, to take care that all this

crowd of people were properly provided for. Gamekeepers and gardeners,

fishermen and shopdealers, were set in motion, Luciana always showing

herself like the blazing nucleus of a comet with its long tail trailing

behind it. The ordinary amusements of the parties soon became too

insipid for her taste. Hardly would she leave the old people in peace at

the card-table. Whoever could by any means be set moving (and who could

resist the charm of being pressed by her into service?) must up, if not

to dance, then to play at forfeits, or some other game, where they were

to be victimized and tormented. Notwithstanding all that, however, and

although afterward the redemption of the forfeits had to be settled with

herself, yet of those who played with her, never any one, especially

never any man, let him be of what sort he would, went quite empty-handed

away. Indeed, some old people of rank who were there she succeeded in

completely winning over to herself, by having contrived to find out

their birthdays or christening days, and marking them with some

particular celebration. In all this she showed a skill not a little

remarkable. Every one saw himself favored, and each considered himself

to be the one most favored, a weakness of which the oldest person of the

party was the most notably guilty.

It seemed to be a sort of pride with her that men who had anything

remarkable about them--rank, character, or fame--she must and would gain

for herself. Gravity and seriousness she made give way to her, and,

wild, strange creature as she was, she found favor even with discretion

itself. Not that the young were at all cut short in consequence.

Everybody had his share, his day, his hour, in which she contrived to

charm and to enchain him. It was therefore natural enough that before

long she should have had the Architect in her eye, looking out so

unconsciously as he did from under his long black hair, and standing so

calm and quiet in the background. To all her questions she received

short, sensible answers; but he did not seem inclined to allow himself

to be carried away further, and at last, half provoked, half in malice,

she resolved that she would make him the hero of a day, and so gain him

for her court.

It was not for nothing that she had brought that quantity of luggage

with her. Much, indeed, had followed her afterward. She had provided

herself with an endless variety of dresses. When it took her fancy she

would change her dress three or four times a day, usually wearing

something of an ordinary kind, but making her appearance suddenly at

intervals in a thorough masquerade dress, as a peasant girl or a

fish-maiden, as a fairy or a flower-girl; and this would go on from

morning till night. Sometimes she would even disguise herself as an old

woman, that her young face might peep out the fresher from under the

cap; and so utterly in this way did she confuse and mix together the

actual and the fantastic, that people thought they were living with a

sort of drawing-room witch.

But the principal use which she had for these disguises were pantomimic

tableaux and dances, in which she was skilful in expressing a variety of

character. A cavalier in her suite had taught himself to accompany her

action on the piano with the little music which was required; they

needed only to exchange a few words and they at once understood each

other.

One day, in a pause of a brilliant ball, they were called upon suddenly

to extemporize (it was on a private hint from themselves) one of these

exhibitions. Luciana seemed embarrassed, taken by surprise, and contrary

to her custom let herself be asked more than once. She could not decide

upon her character, desired the party to choose, and asked, like an

improvisatore, for a subject. At last her piano-playing companion, with

whom it had been all previously arranged, sat down at the instrument,

and began to play a mourning march, calling on her to give them the

Artemisia which she had been studying so admirably. She consented; and

after a short absence reappeared, to the sad tender music of the dead

march, in the form of the royal widow, with measured step, carrying an

urn of ashes before her. A large black tablet was borne in after her,

and a carefully cut piece of chalk in a gold pencil case.

One of her adorers and adjutants, into whose ear she whispered

something, went directly to call the Architect, to desire him, and, if

he would not come, to drag him up, as master-builder, to draw the grave

for the mausoleum, and to tell him at the same time that he was not to

play the statist, but enter earnestly into his part as one of the

performers.

Embarrassed as the Architect outwardly appeared (for in his black,

close-fitting, modern civilian's dress, he formed a wonderful contrast

with the gauze crape fringes, tinsel tassels, and crown), he very soon

composed himself internally, and the scene became all the more strange.

With the greatest gravity he placed himself in front of the tablet,

which was supported by a couple of pages, and drew carefully an

elaborate tomb, which indeed would have suited better a Lombard than a

Carian prince; but it was in such beautiful proportions, so solemn in

its parts, so full of genius in its decoration, that the spectators

watched it growing with delight, and wondered at it when it was

finished.

All this time he had not once turned toward the queen, but had given his

whole attention to what he was doing. At last he inclined his head

before her, and signified that he believed he had now fulfilled her

commands. She held the urn out to him, expressing her desire to see it

represented on the top of the monument. He complied, although

unwillingly, as it would not suit the character of the rest of his

design. Luciana was now at last released from her impatience. Her

intention had been by no means to get a scientific drawing out of him.

If he had only made a few strokes, sketched out something which should

have looked like a monument, and devoted the rest of his time to her, it

would have been far more what she had wished, and would have pleased her

a great deal better. His manner of proceeding had thrown her into the

greatest embarrassment. For although in her sorrow, in her directions,

in her gestures, in her approbation of the work as it slowly rose before

her, she had tried to manage some sort of change of expression, and

although she had hung about close to him, only to place herself into

some sort of relation to him, yet he had kept himself throughout too

stiff, so that too often she had been driven to take refuge with her

urn; she had to press it to her heart and look up to heaven, and at

last, a situation of that kind having a necessary tendency to intensify,

she made herself more like a widow of Ephesus than a Queen of Caria. The

representation had to lengthen itself out and became tedious. The

pianoforte player, who had usually patience enough, did not know into

what tune he could escape. He thanked God when he saw the urn standing

on the pyramid, and fell involuntarily as the queen was going to express

her gratitude, into a merry air; by which the whole thing lost its

character, the company, however, being thoroughly cheered up by it, who

forthwith divided, some going up to express their delight and admiration

of the lady for her excellent performance, and some praising the

Architect for his most artistlike and beautiful drawing.

[Illustration: LUCIANA POSING AS QUEEN ARTEMISIA P. Grotjohann]

The bridegroom especially paid marked attention to the Architect. "I am

vexed," he said, "that the drawing should be so perishable; you will

permit me, however, to have it taken to my room, where I should much

like to talk to you about it."

"If it would give you any pleasure," said the Architect, "I can lay

before you a number of highly finished designs for buildings and

monuments of this kind, of which this is but a mere hasty sketch."

Ottilie was standing at no great distance, and went up to them. "Do not

forget," she said to the Architect, "to take an opportunity of letting

the Baron see your collection. He is a friend of art and of antiquity. I

should like you to become better acquainted."

Luciana was passing at the moment. "What are they speaking of?" she

asked.

"Of a collection of works of art," replied the Baron, "which this

gentleman possesses, and which he is good enough to say that he will

show us."

"Oh, let him bring them immediately," cried Luciana. "You will bring

them, will you not?" she added, in a soft and sweet tone, taking both

his hands in hers.

"The present is scarcely a fitting time," the Architect answered.

"What!" Luciana cried, in a tone of authority; "you will not obey the

command of your queen!" and then she begged him again with some piece of

absurdity.

"Do not be obstinate," said Ottilie, in a scarcely audible voice.

The Architect left them with a bow, which said neither yes nor no.

He was hardly gone, when Luciana was flying up and down the saloon with

a greyhound. "Alas!" she exclaimed, as she ran accidentally against her

mother, "am I not an unfortunate creature? I have not brought my monkey

with me. They told me I had better not; but I am sure it was nothing

but the laziness of my people, and it is such a delight to me. But I

will have it brought after me; somebody shall go and fetch it. If I

could only see a picture of the dear creature, it would be a comfort to

me; I certainly will have his picture taken, and it shall never be out

of my sight."

"Perhaps I can comfort you," replied Charlotte. "There is a whole volume

full of the most wonderful ape faces in the library, which you can have

fetched if you like."

Luciana shrieked for joy. The great folio was produced instantly. The

sight of these hideous creatures, so like to men, and with the

resemblance even more caricatured by the artist, gave Luciana the

greatest delight. Her amusement with each of the animals, was to find

some one of her acquaintance whom it resembled. "Is that not like my

uncle?" she remorselessly exclaimed; "and here, look, here is my

milliner M., and here is Parson S., and here the image of that

creature--bodily! After all, these monkeys are the real _incroyables_,

and it is inconceivable why they are not admitted into the best

society."

It was in the best society that she said this, and yet no one took it

ill of her. People had become accustomed to allow her so many liberties

in her prettinesses, that at last they came to allow them in what was

unpretty.

During this time, Ottilie was talking to the bridegroom; she was looking

anxiously for the return of the Architect, whose serious and tasteful

collection was to deliver the party from the apes; and in the

expectation of it, she had made it the subject of her conversation with

the Baron, and directed his attention on various things which he was to

see. But the Architect stayed away, and when at last he made his

appearance, he lost himself in the crowd, without having brought

anything with him, and without seeming as if he had been asked for

anything.

For a moment Ottilie became--what shall we call it?--annoyed, put out,

perplexed. She had been saying so much about him--she had promised the

bridegroom an hour of enjoyment after his own heart; and with all the

depth of his love for Luciana, he was evidently suffering from her

present behavior.

The monkeys had to give place to a collation. Round games followed, and

then more dancing; at last, a general uneasy vacancy, with fruitless

attempts at resuscitating exhausted amusements, which lasted this time,

as indeed they usually did, far beyond midnight. It had already become a

habit with Luciana to be never able to get out of bed in the morning or

into it at night.

About this time, the incidents noticed in Ottilie's diary become more

rare, while we find a larger number of maxims and sentences drawn from

life and relating to life. It is not conceivable that the larger

proportion of these could have arisen from her own reflection, and most

likely some one had shown her varieties of them, and she had written out

what took her fancy. Many, however, with an internal bearing, can be

easily recognized by the red thread.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"We like to look into the future, because the undetermined in it, which

may be affected this or that way, we feel as if we could guide by our

silent wishes in our own favor."

"We seldom find ourselves in a large party without thinking; the

accident which brings so many here together, should bring our friends to

us as well."

"Let us live in as small a circle as we will, we are either debtors or

creditors before we have had time to look round."

"If we meet a person who is under an obligation to us, we remember it

immediately. But how often may we meet people to whom we are, ourselves,

under obligation, without its even occurring to us!"

"It is nature to communicate one's-self; it is culture to receive what

is communicated as it is given."

"No one would talk much in society, if he only knew how often he

misunderstands others."

"One alters so much what one has heard from others in repeating it, only

because one has not understood it."

"Whoever indulges long in monologue in the presence of others, without

flattering his listeners, provokes ill-will."

"Every word a man utters provokes the opposite opinion."

"Argument and flattery are but poor elements out of which to form a

conversation."

"The pleasantest society is when the members of it have an easy and

natural respect for one another."

"There is nothing in which people more betray their character than in

what they find to laugh at."

"The ridiculous arises out of a moral contrast, in which two things are

brought together before the mind in an innocent way."

"The foolish man often laughs where there is nothing to laugh at.

Whatever touches him, his inner nature comes to the surface."

"The man of understanding finds almost everything ridiculous; the man of

thought scarcely anything."

"Some one found fault with an elderly man for continuing to pay

attention to young ladies. 'It is the only means,' he replied, 'of

keeping one's-self young, and everybody likes to do that.'"

"People will allow their faults to be shown them; they will let

themselves be punished for them; they will patiently endure many things

because of them; they only become impatient when they have to lay them

aside."

"Certain defects are necessary for the existence of individuality. We

should not be pleased, if old friends were to lay aside certain

peculiarities."

"There is a saying, 'He will die soon,' when a man acts unlike

himself."

"What kind of defects may we bear with and even cultivate in ourselves?

Such as rather give pleasure to others than injure them."

"The passions are defects or excellencies only in excess."

"Our passions are true phoenixes: as the old burn out, the new straight

rise up out of the ashes."

"Violent passions are incurable diseases; the means which will cure them

are what first make them thoroughly dangerous."

"Passion is both raised and softened by confession. In nothing, perhaps,

were the middle way more desirable than in knowing what to say and what

not to say to those we love."

CHAPTER V

So swept on Luciana in the social whirlpool, driving the rush of life

along before her. Her court multiplied daily, partly because her

impetuosity roused and attracted so many, partly because she knew how to

attach the rest to her by kindness and attention. Generous she was in

the highest degree; her aunt's affection for her, and her bridegroom's

love, had heaped her with beautiful and costly presents, but she seemed

as if nothing which she had was her own, and as if she did not know the

value of the things which had streamed in upon her. One day she saw a

young lady looking rather poorly dressed by the side of the rest of the

party, and she did not hesitate a moment to take off a rich shawl which

she was wearing and hang it over her--doing it, at the same time, in

such a humorous, graceful way that no one could refuse such a present so

given. One of her courtiers always carried about a purse, with orders,

whatever place they passed through, to inquire there for the most aged

and most helpless persons, and give them relief, at least for the

moment. In this way she gained for herself all round the country a

reputation for charitableness which caused her not a little

inconvenience, attracting about her far too many troublesome sufferers.

Nothing, however, so much added to her popularity as her steady and

consistent kindness toward an unhappy young man, who shrank from society

because, while otherwise handsome and well-formed, he had lost his right

hand, although with high honor, in action. This mutilation weighed so

heavily upon his spirits, it was so annoying to him, that every new

acquaintance he made had to be told the story of his misfortune, that he

chose rather to shut himself up altogether, devoting himself to reading

and other studious pursuits, and once for all would have nothing more to

do with society.

She heard of the state of this young man. At once she contrived to

prevail upon him to come to her, first to small parties, then to

greater, and then out into the world with her. She showed more attention

to him than to any other person; particularly she endeavored, by the

services which she pressed upon him, to make him sensible of what he had

lost in laboring herself to supply it. At dinner, she would make him sit

next to her; she cut up his food for him, that he might have to use only

his fork. If people older or of higher rank prevented her from being

close to him, she would stretch her attention across the entire table,

and the servants were hurried off to make up to him what distance

threatened to deprive him of. At last she encouraged him to write with

his left hand. All his attempts he was to address to her and thus,

whether far or near, she always kept herself in correspondence with him.

The young man did not know what had happened to him, and from that

moment a new life opened out before him.

One may perhaps suppose that such behavior must have caused some

uneasiness to her bridegroom. But, in fact, it was quite the reverse. He

admired her exceedingly for her exertions, and he had the more reason

for feeling entirely satisfied about her, as she had certain features in

her character almost in excess, which kept anything in the slightest

degree dangerous utterly at a distance. She would run about with

anybody, just as she fancied; no one was free from danger of a push or a

pull, or of being made the object of some sort of freak. But no person

ever ventured to do the same to her; no person dared to touch her, or

return, in the remotest degree, any liberty which she had taken herself.

She kept every one within the strictest barriers of propriety in their

behavior to herself, while she, in her own behavior, was every moment

overleaping them.

On the whole, one might have supposed it had been a maxim with her to

expose herself indifferently to praise or blame, to regard or to

dislike. If in many ways she took pains to gain people, she commonly

herself spoiled all the good she had done, by an ill tongue, which

spared no one. Not a visit was ever paid in the neighborhood, not a

single piece of hospitality was ever shown to herself and her party

among the surrounding castles or mansions, but what, on her return, her

excessive recklessness let it appear that all men and all human things

she was only inclined to see on the ridiculous side.

There were three brothers who, purely out of compliment to one another,

kept up a good-natured and urbane controversy as to which should marry

first, had been overtaken by old age before they had got the question

settled; here was a little young wife with a great old husband; there,

on the other hand, was a dapper little man and an unwieldy giantess. In

one house, every step one took one stumbled over a child; another,

however many people were crammed into it, never would seem full, because

there were no children there at all. Old husbands (supposing the estate

was not entailed) should get themselves buried as quickly as possible,

that such a thing as a laugh might be heard again in the house. Young

married people should travel: housekeeping did not sit well upon them.

And as she treated the persons, so she treated what belonged to them;

their houses, their furniture, their dinner-services--everything. The

ornaments of the walls of the rooms most particularly provoked her saucy

remarks. From the oldest tapestry to the most modern printed paper; from

the noblest family pictures to the most frivolous new copper-plate: one

as well as the other had to suffer--one as well as the other had to be

pulled in pieces by her satirical tongue, so that, indeed, one had to

wonder how, for twenty miles round, anything continued to exist.

It was not, perhaps, exactly malice which produced all this

destructiveness; wilfulness and selfishness were what ordinarily set her

off upon it: but a genuine bitterness grew up in her feelings toward

Ottilie.

She looked down with disdain on the calm, uninterrupted activity of the

sweet girl, which every one had observed and admired; and when something

was said of the care which Ottilie took of the garden and of the

hot-houses, she not only spoke scornfully of it, in affecting to be

surprised, if it were so, at there being neither flowers nor fruit to be

seen, not caring to consider that they were living in the depth of

winter, but every faintest scrap of green, every leaf, every bud which

showed, she chose to have picked every day and squandered on ornamenting

the rooms and tables, and Ottilie and the gardener were not a little

distressed to see their hopes for the next year, and perhaps for a

longer time, destroyed in this wanton recklessness.

As little would she be content to leave Ottilie to her quiet work at

home, in which she could live with so much comfort. Ottilie must go with

them on their pleasure-parties and sledging-parties; she must be at the

balls which were being got up all about the neighborhood. She was not to

mind the snow, or the cold, or the night-air, or the storm; other people

did not die of such things, and why should she? The delicate girl

suffered not a little from it all, but Luciana gained nothing. For

although Ottilie went about very simply dressed, she was always, at

least so the men thought, the most beautiful person present. A soft

attractiveness gathered them all about her; no matter whereabouts in

the great rooms she was, first or last, it was always the same. Even

Luciana's bridegroom was constantly occupied with her; the more so,

indeed, because he desired her advice and assistance in a matter with

which he was just then engaged.

He had cultivated the acquaintance of the Architect. On seeing his

collection of works of art, he had taken occasion to talk much with him

on history and on other matters, and especially from seeing the chapel

had learnt to appreciate his talent. The Baron was young and wealthy. He

was a collector; he wished to build. His love for the arts was keen, his

knowledge small. In the Architect he thought that he had found the man

he wanted; that with his assistance there was more than one aim at which

he could arrive at once. He had spoken to his bride of what he wished.

She praised him for it, and was infinitely delighted with the proposal.

But it was more, perhaps, that she might carry off this young man from

Ottilie (for whom she fancied she saw in him a kind of inclination),

than because she thought of applying his talents to any purpose. He had

shown himself, indeed, very ready to help at any of her extemporized

festivities, and had suggested various resources for this thing and

that. But she always thought she understood better than he what should

be done, and as her inventive genius was usually somewhat common, her

designs could be as well executed with the help of a tolerably handy

domestic as with that of the most finished artist. Further than to an

altar on which something was to be offered, or to a crowning, whether of

a living head or of one of plaster of paris, the force of her

imagination could not ascend, when a birthday, or other such occasion,

made her wish to pay some one an especial compliment.

Ottilie was able to give the Baron the most satisfactory answer to his

inquiries as to the relation of the Architect with their family.

Charlotte had already, as she was aware, been exerting herself to find

some situation for him; had it not been indeed for the arrival of the

party, the young man would have left them immediately on the completion

of the chapel, the winter having brought all building operations to a

standstill; and it was, therefore, most fortunate if a new patron could

be found to assist him, and to make use of his talents.

Ottilie's own personal position with the Architect was as pure and

unconscious as possible. His agreeable presence, and his industrious

nature, had charmed and entertained her, as the presence of an elder

brother might. Her feelings for him remained at the calm unimpassioned

level of blood relationship. For in her heart there was no room for

more; it was filled to overflowing with love for Edward; only God, who

interpenetrates all things, could share with him the possession of that

heart.

Meanwhile the winter sank deeper; the weather grew wilder, the roads

more impracticable, and therefore it seemed all the pleasanter to spend

the waning days in agreeable society. With short intervals of ebb, the

crowd from time to time flooded up over the house. Officers found their

way there from distant garrison towns; the cultivated among them being a

most welcome addition, the ruder the inconvenience of every one. Of

civilians too there was no lack; and one day the Count and the Baroness

quite unexpectedly came driving up together.

Their presence gave the castle the air of a thorough court. The men of

rank and character formed a circle about the Baron, and the ladies

yielded precedence to the Baroness. The surprise at seeing both

together, and in such high spirits, was not allowed to be of long

continuance. It came out that the Count's wife was dead, and the new

marriage was to take place as soon as ever decency would allow it.

Well did Ottilie remember their first visit, and every word which was

then uttered about marriage and separation, binding and dividing, hope,

expectation, disappointment, renunciation. Here were these two persons,

at that time without prospect for the future, now standing before her,

so near their wished-for happiness, and an involuntary sigh escaped out

of her heart.

No sooner did Luciana hear that the Count was an amateur of music, than

at once she must get up something of a concert. She herself would sing

and accompany herself on the guitar. It was done. The instrument she did

not play without skill; her voice was agreeable: as for the words one

understood about as little of them as one commonly does when a German

beauty sings to the guitar. However, every one assured her that she had

sung with exquisite expression, and she found quite enough approbation

to satisfy her. A singular misfortune befell her, however, on this

occasion. Among the party there happened to be a poet, whom she hoped

particularly to attach to herself, wishing to induce him to write a song

or two, and address them to her. This evening, therefore, she produced

scarcely anything except songs of his composing. Like the rest of the

party he was perfectly courteous to her, but she had looked for more.

She spoke to him several times, going as near the subject as she dared,

but nothing further could she get. At last, unable to bear it any

longer, she sent one of her train to him, to sound him and find out

whether he had not been delighted to hear his beautiful poems so

beautifully executed.

"My poems?" he replied, with amazement; "pray excuse me, my dear sir,"

he added, "I heard nothing but the vowels, and not all of those;

however, I am in duty bound to express all gratitude for so amiable an

intention." The dandy said nothing and kept his secret; the other

endeavored to get himself out of the scrape by a few well-timed

compliments. She did not conceal her desire to have something of his

which should be written for herself.

If it would not have been too ill-natured, he might have handed her the

alphabet, to imagine for herself, out of that, such laudatory poem as

would please her, and set it to the first melody that came to hand; but

she was not to escape out of this business without mortification. A

short time after, she had to learn that the very same evening he had

written, at the foot of one of Ottilie's favorite melodies, a most

lovely poem, which was something more than complimentary.

Luciana, like all persons of her sort, who never can distinguish between

where they show to advantage and where to disadvantage, now determined

to try her fortune in reciting. Her memory was good, but, if the truth

must be told, her execution was spiritless, and she was vehement without

being passionate. She recited ballad stories, and whatever else is

usually delivered in declamation. At the same time she had contracted an

unhappy habit of accompanying what she delivered with gestures, by

which, in a disagreeable way, what is purely epic and lyric is more

confused than connected with the dramatic.

The Count, a keen-sighted man, soon saw through the party, their

inclinations, dispositions, wishes, and capabilities, and by some means

or other contrived to bring Luciana to a new kind of exhibition, which

was perfectly suited to her.

"I see here," he said, "a number of persons with fine figures, who would

surely be able to imitate pictorial emotions and postures. Suppose they

were to try, if the thing is new to them, to represent some real and

well-known picture. An imitation of this kind, if it requires some labor

in arrangement, has an inconceivably charming effect."

Luciana was quick enough in perceiving that here she was on her own

ground entirely. Her fine shape, her well-rounded form, the regularity

and yet expressiveness of her features, her light-brown braided hair,

her long neck--she ran them all over in her mind, and calculated on

their pictorial effects, and if she had only known that her beauty

showed to more advantage when she was still than when she was in motion,

because in the last case certain ungracefulness continually escaped her,

she would have entered even more eagerly than she did into this natural

picture-making.

They looked out the engravings of celebrated pictures, and the first

which they chose was Van Dyk's Belisarius. A large well-proportioned

man, somewhat advanced in years, was to represent the seated, blind

general. The Architect was to be the affectionate soldier standing

sorrowing before him, there really being some resemblance between them.

Luciana, half from modesty, had chosen the part of the young woman in

the background, counting out some large alms into the palm of his hand,

while an old woman beside her is trying to prevent her, and representing

that she is giving too much. Another woman who is in the act of giving

him something, was not forgotten. Into this and other pictures they

threw themselves with all earnestness. The Count gave the Architect a

few hints as to the best style of arrangement, and he at once set up a

kind of theatre, all necessary pains being taken for the proper lighting

of it. They were already deep in the midst of their preparations, before

they observed how large an outlay what they were undertaking would

require, and that in the country, in the middle of winter, many things

which they required it would be difficult to procure; consequently, to

prevent a stoppage, Luciana had nearly her whole wardrobe cut in pieces,

to supply the various costumes which the original artist had arbitrarily

selected.

The appointed evening came, and the exhibition was carried out in the

presence of a large assemblage, and to the universal satisfaction. They

had some good music to excite expectation, and the performance opened

with the Belisarius. The figures were so successful, the colors were so

happily distributed, and the lighting managed so skilfully, that they

might really have fancied themselves in another world, only that the

presence of the real instead of the apparent produced a kind of

uncomfortable sensation.

The curtain fell, and was more than once raised again by general desire.

A musical interlude kept the assembly amused while preparation was

going forward, to surprise them with a picture of a higher stamp; it was

the well-known design of Poussin, Ahasuerus and Esther. This time

Luciana had done better for herself. As the fainting, sinking queen she

had put out all her charms, and for the attendant maidens who were

supporting her, she had cunningly selected pretty, well-shaped figures,

not one among whom, however, had the slightest pretension to be compared

with herself. From this picture, as from all the rest, Ottilie remained

excluded. To sit on the golden throne and represent the Zeus-like

monarch, Luciana had picked out the finest and handsomest man of the

party, so that this picture was really of inimitable perfection.

For a third they had taken the so-called "Father's Admonition" of

Terburg, and who does not know Wille's admirable engraving of this

picture? One foot thrown over the other, sits a noble knightly-looking

father; his daughter stands before him, to whose conscience he seems to

be addressing himself. She, a fine striking figure, in a folding drapery

of white satin, is only to be seen from behind, but her whole bearing

appears to signify that she is collecting herself. That the admonition

is not too severe, that she is not being utterly put to shame, is to be

gathered from the air and attitude of the father, while the mother seems

as if she were trying to conceal some slight embarrassment--she is

looking into a glass of wine, which she is on the point of drinking.

Here was an opportunity for Luciana to appear in her highest splendor.

Her back hair, the form of her head, neck, and shoulders, were beyond

all conception beautiful; and the waist, which in the modern antique of

the ordinary dresses of young ladies is hardly visible, showed to the

greatest advantage in all its graceful, slender elegance in the really

old costume. The Architect had contrived to dispose the rich folds of

the white satin with the most exquisite nature, and, without any

question whatever, this living imitation far exceeded the original

picture, and produced universal delight.

The spectators could never be satisfied with demanding a repetition of

the performance, and the very natural wish to see the face and front of

so lovely a creature, when they had done looking at her from behind, at

last became so decided that a merry impatient young wit cried out aloud

the words one is accustomed to write at the bottom of a page, "Tournez,

s'il vous plait," which was echoed all round the room.

The performers, however, understood their advantage too well, and had

mastered too completely the idea of these works of art to yield to the

most general clamor. The daughter remained standing in her shame,

without favoring the spectators with the expression of her face. The

father continued to sit in his attitude of admonition, and the mother

did not lift nose or eyes out of the transparent glass, in which,

although she seemed to be drinking, the wine did not diminish.

We need not describe the number of smaller after-pieces for which had

been chosen Flemish public-house scenes and fair and market days.

The Count and the Baroness departed, promising to return in the first

happy weeks of their approaching union. And Charlotte now had hopes,

after having endured two weary months of it, of ridding herself of the

rest of the party at the same time. She was assured of her daughter's

happiness, as soon as the first tumult of youth and betrothal should

have subsided in her; for the bridegroom considered himself the most

fortunate person in the world. His income was large, his disposition

moderate and rational, and now he found himself further wonderfully

favored in the happiness of becoming the possessor of a young lady with

whom all the world must be charmed. He had so peculiar a way of

referring everything to her, and only to himself through her, that it

gave him an unpleasant feeling when any newly-arrived person did not

devote himself heart and soul to her, and was far from flattered if, as

occasionally happened, particularly with elderly men, he neglected her

for a close intimacy with himself. Every thing was settled about the

Architect. On New Year's day he was to follow him and spend the Carnival

at his house in the city, where Luciana was promising herself infinite

happiness from a repetition of her charmingly successful pictures, as

well as from a hundred other things; all the more as her aunt and her

bridegroom seemed to make so light of the expense which was required for

her amusements.

And now they were to break up. But this could not be managed in an

ordinary way. They were one day making fun of Charlotte aloud, declaring

that they would soon have eaten out her winter stores, when the nobleman

who had represented Belisarius, being fortunately a man of some wealth,

carried away by Luciana's charms to which he had been so long devoting

himself, cried out unthinkingly, "Why not manage then in the Polish

fashion? You come now and eat up me, and then we will go on round the

circle." No sooner said than done. Luciana willed that it should be so.

The next day they all packed up and the swarm alighted on a new

property. There indeed they found room enough, but few conveniences and

no preparations to receive them. Out of this arose many _contretemps_,

which entirely enchanted Luciana; their life became ever wilder and

wilder. Huge hunting-parties were set on foot in the deep snow, attended

with every sort of disagreeableness; women were not allowed to excuse

themselves any more than men, and so they trooped on, hunting and

riding, sledging and shouting, from one place to another, till at last

they approached the residence, and there the news of the day and the

scandals and what else forms the amusement of people at courts and

cities gave the imagination another direction, and Luciana with her

train of attendants (her aunt had gone on some time before) swept at

once into a new sphere of life.

FROM OTTILIE'S DIARY

"We accept every person in the world as that for which he gives himself

out, only he must give himself out for something. We can put up with the

unpleasant more easily than we can endure the insignificant.

"We venture upon anything in society except only what involves a

consequence.

"We never learn to know people when they come to us: we must go to them

to find out how things stand with them.

"I find it almost natural that we should see many faults in visitors,

and that directly they are gone we should judge them not in the most

amiable manner. For we have, so to say, a right to measure them by our

own standard. Even cautious, sensible men can scarcely keep themselves

in such cases from being sharp censors.

"When, on the contrary, we are staying at the houses of others, when we

have seen them in the midst of all their habits and environments among

those necessary conditions from which they cannot escape, when we have

seen how they affect those about them, and how they adapt themselves to

their circumstances, it is ignorance nay, worse, it is ill-will, to find

ridiculous what in more than one sense has a claim on our respect.

"That which we call politeness and good breeding effects what otherwise

can only be obtained by violence, or not even by that.

"Intercourse with women is the element of good manners.

"How can the character, the individuality, of a man co-exist with polish

of manner?

"The individuality can only be properly made prominent through good

manners. Every one likes what has something in it, only it not be a

disagreeable something.

"In life generally, and in society, no one has such high advantages as

a well-cultivated soldier.

"The rudest fighting people at least do not go out of their character,

and generally behind the roughness there is a certain latent good humor,

so that in difficulties it is possible to get on, even with them.

"No one is more intolerable than an underbred civilian. From him one has

a right to look for a delicacy, as he has no rough work to do.

"When we are living with people who have a delicate sense of propriety,

we are in misery on their account when anything unbecoming is committed.

So I always feel for and with Charlotte, when a person is tipping his

chair. She cannot endure it.

"No one would ever come into a mixed party with spectacles on his nose,

if he did but know that at once we women lose all pleasure in looking at

him or listening to what he has to say.

"Free-and-easiness, where there ought to be respect, is always

ridiculous. No one would put his hat down when he had scarcely paid the

ordinary compliments if he knew how comical it looks.

"There is no outward sign of courtesy that does not rest on a deep moral

foundation. The proper education would be that which communicated the

sign and the foundation of it at the same time.

"Behavior is a mirror in which every one displays his own image.

"There is a courtesy of the heart. It is akin to love. Out of it arises

the purest courtesy in the outward behavior.

"A freely offered homage is the most beautiful of all relations. And how

were that possible without love?

"We are never further from our wishes than when we imagine that we

possess what we have desired.

"No one is more a slave than the man who thinks himself free while he

is not.

"A man has only to declare that he is free, and the next moment he feels

the conditions to which he is subject. Let him venture to declare that

he is under conditions, and then he will feel that he is free.

"Against great advantages in another, there are no means of defending

ourselves except love.

"There is something terrible in the sight of a highly-gifted man lying

under obligations to a fool.

"'No man is a hero to his valet,' the proverb says. But that is only

because it requires a hero to recognize a hero. The valet will probably

know how to value the valet-hero.

"Mediocrity has no greater consolation than in the thought that genius

is not immortal.

"The greatest men are connected with their own century always through

some weakness.

"One is apt to regard people as more dangerous than they are.

"Fools and modest people are alike innocuous. It is only your half-fools

and your half-wise who are really and truly dangerous.

"There is no better deliverance from the world than through art; and a

man can form no surer bond with it than through art.

"Alike in the moment of our highest fortune and our deepest necessity,

we require the artist.

"The business of art is with the difficult and the good.

"To see the difficult easily handled, gives us the feeling of the

impossible.

"Difficulties increase the nearer we are to our end.

"Sowing is not so difficult as reaping."

CHAPTER VI

The very serious discomfort which this visit had caused to Charlotte was

in some way compensated to her through the fuller insight which it had

enabled her to gain into her daughter's character. In this, her

knowledge of the world was of no slight service to her. It was not the

first time that so singular a character had come across her, although

she had never seen any in which the unusual features were so largely

developed; and she had had experience enough to show her that such

persons, after having felt the discipline of life, after having gone

through something of it, and been in intercourse with older people, may

come out at last really charming and amiable; the selfishness may soften

and eager restless activity find a definite direction for itself. And

therefore, as a mother, Charlotte was able to endure the appearance of

symptoms which for others might perhaps have been unpleasing, from a

sense that where strangers only desire to enjoy, or at least not to have

their taste offended, the business of parents is rather to hope.

After her daughter's departure, however, she had to be pained in a

singular and unlooked-for manner, in finding that, not so much through

what there really was objectionable in her behavior, as through what was

good and praiseworthy in it, she had left an ill report of herself

behind her. Luciana seemed to have prescribed it as a rule to herself

not only to be merry with the merry, but miserable with the miserable;

and in order to give full swing to the spirit of contradiction in her,

often to make the happy, uncomfortable, and the sad, cheerful. In every

family among whom she came, she inquired after such members of it as

were ill or infirm, and unable to appear in society. She would go to see

them in their rooms, enact the physician, and insist on prescribing

powerful doses for them out of her own traveling medicine-chest, which

she constantly took with her in her carriage; her attempted cures, as

may be supposed, either succeeding or failing as chance happened to

direct.

In this sort of benevolence she was thoroughly cruel, and would listen

to nothing that was said to her, because she was convinced that she was

managing admirably. One of these attempts of hers on the moral side

failed very disastrously, and this it was which gave Charlotte so much

trouble, inasmuch as it involved consequences and every one was talking

about it. She never had heard of the story till Luciana was gone;

Ottilie, who had made one of the party present at the time, had to give

her a circumstantial account of it.

One of several daughters of a family of rank had the misfortune to have

caused the death of one of her younger sisters; it had destroyed her

peace of mind, and she had never been properly herself since. She lived

in her own room, occupying herself and keeping quiet; and she could only

bear to see the members of her own family when they came one by one. If

there were several together, she suspected at once that they were making

reflections upon her, and upon her condition. To each of them singly she

would speak rationally enough, and talk freely for an hour at a time.

Luciana had heard of this, and had secretly determined with herself, as

soon as she got into the house, that she would forthwith work a miracle,

and restore the young lady to society. She conducted herself in the

matter more prudently than usual, managed to introduce herself alone to

the poor sick-souled girl, and, as far as people could understand, had

wound her way into her confidence through music. At last came her fatal

mistake; wishing to make a scene, and fancying that she had sufficiently

prepared her for it, one evening she suddenly introduced the beautiful

pale creature into the midst of the brilliant, glittering assembly; and

perhaps, even then, the attempt might not have so utterly failed, had

not the crowd themselves, between curiosity and apprehension, conducted

themselves so unwisely, first gathering about the invalid, and then

shrinking from her again; and with their whispers, and shaking their

heads together, confusing and agitating her. Her delicate sensibility

could not endure it. With a dreadful shriek, which expressed, as it

seemed, a horror at some monster that was rushing upon her, she fainted.

The crowd fell back in terror on every side, and Ottilie had been one of

those who had carried back the sufferer utterly insensible to her room.

Luciana meanwhile, just like herself, had been reading an angry lecture

to the rest of the party, without reflecting for a moment that she

herself was entirely to blame, and without letting herself be deterred

by this and other failures, from going on with her experimentalizing.

The state of the invalid herself had since that time become more and

more serious; indeed, the disorder had increased to such a degree that

the poor thing's parents were unable to keep her any longer at home, and

had been forced to confide her to the care of a public institution.

Nothing remained for Charlotte, except, by the delicacy of her own

attention to the family, in some degree to alleviate the pain which had

been occasioned by her daughter. On Ottilie, the thing made a deep

impression. She felt the more for the unhappy girl, as she was

convinced, she did not attempt to deny it to Charlotte, that by a

careful treatment the disorder might have been unquestionably removed.

So there came, too, as it often happens, that we dwell more on past

disagreeables than on past agreeables, a slight misunderstanding to be

spoken of, which had led Ottilie to a wrong judgment of the Architect,

when he did not choose to produce his collection that evening, although

she had so eagerly begged him to produce it. His practical refusal had

remained, ever since, hanging about her heart, she herself could not

tell why. Her feelings about the matter were undoubtedly just; what a

young lady like Ottilie could desire, a young man like the Architect

ought not to have refused. The latter, however, when she took occasion

to give him a gentle reproof for it, had a very valid excuse to offer

for himself.

"If you knew," he said, "how roughly even cultivated people allow

themselves to handle the most valuable works of art, you would forgive

me for not producing mine among the crowd. No one will take the trouble

to hold a medal by the rim. They will finger the most beautiful

impressions, and the smoothest surfaces; they will take the rarest coins

between the thumb and forefinger, and rub them up and down, as if they

were testing the execution with the touch. Without remembering that a

large sheet of paper ought to be held in two hands, they will lay hold,

with one, of an invaluable proof-engraving of some drawing which cannot

be replaced, like a conceited politician laying hold of a newspaper, and

passing judgment by anticipation, as he is cutting the pages, on the

occurrences of the world. Nobody cares to recollect that if twenty

people, one after the other, treat a work of art in this way, the

one-and-twentieth will not find much to see there."

"Have not I often vexed you in this way?" asked Ottilie. "Have not I,

through my carelessness, many times injured your treasures?"

"Never once," answered the Architect, "never. For you it would be

impossible. In you the right thing is innate."

"In any case," replied Ottilie, "it would not be a bad plan, if in the

next edition of the book of good manners, after the chapters which tell

us how we ought to eat and drink in company, a good circumstantial

chapter were inserted, telling how to behave among works of art and in

museums."

"Undoubtedly," said the Architect; "and then curiosity-collectors and

amateurs would be better contented to show their valuable treasures to

the world."

Ottilie had long, long forgiven him; but as he seemed to have taken her

reproof sorely to heart, and assured her again and again that he would

gladly produce everything--that he was delighted to do anything for

his friends--she felt that she had wounded his feelings, and that she

owed him some compensation. It was not easy for her, therefore, to give

an absolute refusal to a request which he made her in the conclusion of

this conversation, although when she called her heart into counsel about

it, she did not see how she could allow herself to do what he wished.