quickly as possible, and to believe that I had long been convinced of
the critical state of my heart, even before this bad man confessed his
feelings to me. I did not write you anything about it, because I
naturally regarded the matter as a wretched piece of stupidity on the
part of this above-mentioned heart, and even now I can't quite believe
in it. You know I never was very lucky in regard to real happiness. And
for that reason I haven't much faith even now; if it is true that he
loves me to distraction, as he declares he does, I feel convinced I
shan't get any enjoyment out of it, and he will be sure to get killed,
for he is going off to the war as a volunteer nurse. And yet I have not
tried to dissuade him from taking this manly step. You remember that my
chief objection to him was that he wasn't quite manly enough. And now,
after all, his love is to be put to the test of fire, and we shall see
whether he will bring it home uninjured from the smoke and horror of
battle! How shall I bear the separation! I shall paint a few poor
pictures and get a few gray hairs, and then when he comes back he will
realize clearly what a mistake he has made. But, as God wills! I'll
bear it quietly. The times are so great, who has the right to think of
his or her poor person? All is enthusiasm; Elfinger is going too (his
little nun seems to have driven him to desperation), and, what will
rejoice you, Schnetz has joined his old regiment again, and looks upon
life like a new man. It touched me to hear our good Kohle, who paid me
a visit this morning, curse his poor health, which shut him out from
all the hardships of war. He has designed a splendid tableau: Germania
on the summit of the Lurlei rock, from which she has cast down the
enchantress in order to excite all her sons to battle against the enemy
by her song of triumph. Rossel, who, of course, would be perfectly
useless away from his rocking-chair, has at least subscribed a thousand
gulden for the benefit of the wounded. Every one according to his
strength. I shall make lint of my paint rags, and sacrifice my heart's
blood for the cause in another way. Farewell! Rejoice in your
unclouded, paradisaical, peaceful life in the beautiful South; and
write to me soon, dearest, beautifullest, happiest, only sister mine!
Rosenbusch wishes to be remembered. A fortnight more--and then in this
whole house, where so many dear ones have lived and labored, there will
beat but one lonely heart--that of your Angelica."
CHAPTER V.
When that old earth-shaker Vesuvius grows tired of his peaceful
slumbers and, breaking out into sudden fury, lights up the night far
and wide with his flaming torch, till all around is bathed in purple--
"In Capri the Marina
And Naples Day and Mergellina,"
--not only is the hut of the poorest vintager reddened by the terrible
glow, but, in the yard behind, the water bubbles in the well, and a man
skilled in reading the signs can estimate the strength of the eruption
from the boiling and steaming of this narrow, walled-up fountain with
as much accuracy as from the surf of the open sea, that washes the foot
of the buried cities.
So, too, are the changes of that light, which streams from those
immortal deeds and sufferings that move the world, reflected in the
lives of humble mortals; and it would be no slight task to trace out
the signs of such a time not merely on the battle-field, but in the
homes and huts of those who were left behind.
A psychological study of war, such as we may expect from some one
better fitted for the task, will have to bring out this reverse side of
the medal sharply and clearly. But the novel steps back modestly when
its elder brother, the epic, in glittering armor and with clang of
arms, enters once more upon the world's arena. Where every individual
lot was so completely merged in the fate of the nation, we should give
the reader but a poor idea of our friends if we showed them as busy
with themselves, their personal aims, duties and interests. That each
of them had proved himself ready, according to his manner and ability,
Angelica's letter has already shown us. Therefore we are all the more
sorry that the excellent writer herself did not quite rise to the level
of the time.
It is true it never occurred to her to complain that the Eden-like
condition of a life devoted to art, and removed from all worldly
turmoil--where beauty is the highest aim of all striving, and that
alone has the right to existence which is perfect in itself--had
suddenly been destroyed, and had given place to a hard, merciless
reality. Upon the whole she had a warm appreciation of the magnitude of
the great historical issue at stake, and it filled her with joyful
enthusiasm to see how earnestly all who were connected with her, as
well as the whole people, felt the force of the old proverb that one
should make a virtue of necessity.
Yet in spite of all this her heart, usually so brave, was unable to
preserve this heroic spirit, that sustained many a weaker one, through
the long time of trial.
Even when taking leaving of Rosenbusch she had shown herself strong.
She felt it her duty not to make heavy her parting lover's heart, but
to give him, in her own person, an example of the way one should
sacrifice one's dearest wishes on the altar of the fatherland, with
smiling magnanimity. But this "_P[oe]te, non dolet_" revenged itself
upon her. Scarcely was she alone, when she reproached herself for
having pretended an unwomanly hardness and severity that was calculated
to frighten away her sensitive friend, rather than to bring him nearer
to her. She immediately wrote him a long letter, in which, for the
first time, she confessed her great love for him without reserve;
beseeching him in the most moving terms not to expose his life
recklessly, sending him all her prescriptions for rheumatism and chafed
feet, and entreating him to write to her at least once a week.
These weekly letters of his were now the only thing for which she
seemed to live, aside from the mere mechanical activity with which she
devoted herself to works of charity in the women's societies and on her
own account. She never appeared among her friends except on those
occasions when she had just received one of these letters from the
front, and then she came running to old Schoepf, her cheeks glowing
with joy, to tell him the latest news about Rosenbusch and Elfinger,
and to have pointed out to her, on the special map that Rossel had
given the old man, the exact spot where her lover must now be. But for
everything else she showed but slight interest, just as she seemed to
have completely lost her humor.
She was only amusing when she came to speak about the _francs tireurs_
and the treachery of the native inhabitants, by whom she was
perpetually imagining her lover attacked, plundered, maltreated, or
even killed, in spite of the red cross which she had made and sewed on
his coat-sleeve with her own hands. On these occasions she indulged
in such droll maledictions upon the Gallic national character,
and recounted such incredible instances of her own cowardice and
ghost-seeing, especially at night, that she finally had to join in with
the laughter of the others, going home again with her heart somewhat
lightened.
During all this war time she did not touch a brush. As nobody cared for
flower pictures, it was evidently a saving for her to cut up her canvas
and make use of it for sewing purposes, rather than to waste oil colors
on it.
She never allowed any of the camp letters that her tender-hearted lover
wrote her to be seen by any one else. They were love-letters, she said,
and not newspapers, and belonged to her alone. Once only did she
prevail upon her heart to part with one, in order to give her friend in
Florence a pleasant Christmas surprise, for Julie knew that she could
give away nothing in the world that was dearer to her than such a token
of life and love from the hand of her betrothed. She accounted to Julie
for the fact that this epistle, a comic rhymed affair in Rosenbusch's
old light-hearted manner, sounded less tender than the others, by
explaining that it was accompanied by an extra sheet in prose, which
dealt with the intimate affairs of the heart. True to the profound
saying of Elfinger--"The stronger the love, the weaker the verses"--our
lover had taken good care not to compose his actual love-letters in
rhyme, for which Angelica felt grateful to him in her soul.
CHAPTER VI.
The hard war winter was over; the spring had brought peace and the
birth of a new German Empire; and midsummer saw the victorious host
returning to its home.
It is just two years since that day when our story began. Once more it
is hot and still in the Theresienwiese, so still that a flute concerto
from the window of the studio building could be heard for a long
distance around. But the flute is silent. Moreover, although it is a
weekday, a Sunday calm hangs over the country round about. No roll of
carriages is heard, and no people are seen hurrying busily through the
streets of the suburb. Yet the great bronze maiden before the
Ruhmeshalle does not seem surprised at this loneliness and quiet. It is
true, without raising herself on tiptoe, she can look away over the
houses of the city, to the gate on which stands a smaller likeness of
herself in a chariot of victory, drawn by four stately lions with
majestic heads and manes. And so she knows the reason why everything in
her neighborhood appears as if it were dead. Just as the blood from the
whole body streams swiftly to the centre of life, when some sudden
stroke of fear or surprise reaches the heart, leaving the extremities
paralyzed and lifeless, so the whole population had collected around
that spot where their heart was to-day--the arch of triumph through
which the conquerors were to enter. The great bronze woman sees the
flash of arms and the waving of flags on the high-road before any one
else, and something like a smile flits across her tightly-shut lips.
Any one who had been watching her closely at this moment would have
seen that she raised her arm higher than usual, and slightly moved the
wreath in her hand, as if in token of greeting to the triumphal
procession. This occurred just as the bells rang out from all the
church towers in the city, and a shout of joy from a hundred thousand
throats announced the arrival of the advance guard.
Among the entering host are two faces well-known to us.
At the head of his regiment, which has left nearly half its number on
the cold ground at Bazeilles and Orleans, and for that reason has to
accept a double tribute of flowers from the windows on the right and
left, rides Captain von Schnetz, his lank figure seated bolt upright in
the saddle, his breast blazing with orders, and his whole person
covered from head to foot with the bouquets which, aimed at the rider,
have fallen off and been handed up to him by the boys that run along at
his side. He has decorated his sword with them, and his helmet, and his
pistols, and his horse's trappings, although usually he is no great
admirer of flowers. Nor does he do this now for his own glorification
or pleasure. But he knows that, at a window in the first story of that
stately house over yonder, there sits a woman, thin and prematurely
old, but whose cheeks, usually so pale, wear a joyous flush to-day, and
whose eyes, grown faded through long suffering, beam once more with
something of the brightness and hopefulness of youth. It is to this
woman that he wants to show himself in his covering of flowers.
Heretofore, she has worn a crown of thorns; now he wants to show her
the promising future he has won for himself and her. But she sees him
from a distance only. When the good, honesty yellow-leather-colored
face, with its black imperial, rides by, close to the house, her eyes
are so bedimmed by tears that she only sees, as if through a veil, how
he lowers his sword to her in salute, and bows slightly with his
garlanded helmet. The wreath which she has held ready for him falls
from her trembling hand over the railing upon the heads of the densely
packed crowd below. But they seem to know for whom it is intended. In a
second twenty hands have helped to pass it along to him, and now it is
handed up to the rider, who lets all the others slide off his sword so
that this one alone shall be wound about it.
Not far behind this brave soldier rides another, upon whom, likewise,
the eyes of the women and girls in the windows gaze with pleasure,
though he is a stranger to them all, and, for his part, very rarely
lets his dark eyes rest on any of these blooming faces. For who is
there here whom he cares to seek? And whose face would he be glad to
see unexpectedly? It was only with great reluctance and in order not to
offend Schnetz, who asked it of him as a particular proof of
friendship, that he finally consented to take part in the entrance of
the troops, and to visit once more the city which had so many bitter
associations for him. These last two years--what a different man they
had made of him! And yet--although he was firmly convinced that the
source of every joy was dried up in his innermost heart, and that
henceforth nothing was left to him but a barren satisfaction at duties
conscientiously fulfilled--even he could not altogether escape the
festal mood of this marvelous hour. His handsome face, made bolder and
keener by the hardships of war, lost the sad, hard expression which had
never been absent from it during the whole year; a bright
determination, a quiet earnestness, beamed from his eyes. As he rode
through the triumphal avenue strewn with flowers, amid the chime of
bells and the wildest shouts of joy, he lost the consciousness of his
own hopeless lot, and became merged, as it were, in the great,
pervading spirit of a unique and sublime festival, which would never
come again; and to take part in which, with the Iron Cross on his
breast, and honorable, scarcely healed wounds underneath, was a
privilege which might well be thought to compensate for all the lost
bliss of a young life.
After the entrance ceremonies were over, he wended his way toward the
garden on the Dultplatz, where he thought there would be the least
danger, to-day, of meeting any one of his acquaintances. Here,
surrounded on all sides by the country-folk who had streamed into the
city in great crowds, he sat in the shade of the ash-trees and, like a
dream, the events of the last two years passed in review before him;
from that first Sunday afternoon when he dined here with Jansen and his
new friends, down to the present moment, when he sat in the crowd
solitary and alone, sought by no friendly eye, and merely stared at as
one of that great host which had done honor to its fatherland.
The crowd in the garden had already begun to thin out a little when
Schnetz touched the dreamer on the shoulder. He did not speak a word
about the meeting he had just had with his wife; but such an unwonted
joyousness could be detected in his voice and bearing that for the
first time Felix began to feel a quiet envy of this happy man, who had
been expected and welcomed by some one whom he loved. He, for his part,
would have greatly preferred to leave the town again before night; for
after the first glow of enthusiasm was over, his spirits had once more
become so gloomy that he would have given a great deal to escape from
the festivities of the evening. But he had promised Schnetz a whole
day, and he had too often been under obligations to his friend, in the
hard days of trial that winter, not to grant him this small favor.
"Of course I will let you off from all ceremonial visits," said his
friend, as they left the garden arm-in-arm. "But we really must go and
pay our respects to the invalids, and afterward shake hands with Fat
Rossel. He would never forgive you if you didn't think it worth while
to congratulate him in his new state; and, besides, it is all up with
your _incognito_. At the window from which our friend Rossel viewed the
spectacle sat another individual, who once upon a time took a great
fancy to your worthy self, and who, notwithstanding the fact that her
grandpapa and husband stood behind her, gave vent to her patriotic
enthusiasm in the most unrestrained manner possible, throwing all the
flowers in her basket at you at one go. But, of course you, like Hans
the Dreamer, rode past your happiness all unconscious of it."
"What, Red Zenz? And she recognized me?"
"In spite of your uniform and short-cropped hair. But you must accustom
yourself to a more respectful way of speaking of her. One speaks now of
Frau Crescentia Rossel, _nee_ Schoepf. They wrote me about this affair
a good while ago; but as you refused, once for all, to listen to any
news about Munich matters, I kept this event from you also. It must
have come about curiously enough, and quite after the manner of the
creature as she was then--I mean, before she had been tamed by the yoke
of wedlock. You know--or don't you know yet?--that Rossel lost his
whole fortune some time ago. He had invested it with his brother, who
was at the head of a mercantile firm in the Palatinate, carrying on a
brisk trade with France. This brother became a bankrupt in consequence
of the war, and our Fat Rossel would have become a miserably poor devil
overnight if he had not owned the house in the city and the villa out
there on the lake. He immediately sold the house with all its
appurtenances, of course at a low enough figure, for no one had much
money to spare in war time. But for all that it was such a good round
sum, that the interest from it just succeeded in keeping his head above
water, though he could no longer live like a _grand seigneur_. A
purchaser might also have been found for the villa; but in order not to
disturb our good Kohle, who was in the very midst of his Venus
frescoes, he resisted the temptation, and--who would have thought
it?--aroused himself from his bear-skin to take up his brush again,
though, to be sure, with much grumbling and cursing. This act of
heroism seems to have melted, for the first time, the armor of ice in
which the heart of the little red coquette was encased; particularly as
he did not for a moment bemoan the loss of the property on his own
account, but only expressed the deepest sympathy for his brother.
To be brief, as he perceptibly pined away under all this, partly from
love-sickness, partly because he had been obliged to dispense with
the services of his all-too-sumptuous cook, this singular creature
was touched with pity for his troubles, appeared one day in the
scantily-furnished lodgings with which the former Sardanapalus was now
forced to content himself, and announced to him, without any further
ceremony, that she had been thinking the matter over, and was willing
to marry him. She felt, to be sure, not a spark of sentimental love for
him--such a love as that she had experienced but once in her life, and
then it had gone badly with her--but she no longer felt any aversion
toward him, and since he needed a wife who understood something about
housekeeping, he had better go and make inquiries whether there wasn't
another room and a kitchen to be had on the same floor, in which case
they could go on living there.
"And they say the arrangement has really worked very well so far. Of
course old Schoepf has gone to live with them; and Uncle Kohle, who, in
the mean while, has refused the hand of Aunt Babette, and has quietly
gone on painting his Venus allegories in spite of Sedan and Paris, also
sleeps and takes his meals there; and Rossel paints one glorious
picture after another, protesting all the while, they say, against this
useless expenditure of strength, and longing for the time when he can
finally settle down to rest. I have my private suspicions, however,
that, in spite of all this talk, he is more contented with his present
life, even leaving his marital joys out of the question, than with the
barren seeds of thought which he, lying idly on his back, once
scattered to all the winds of heaven."
CHAPTER VII.
In the mean while they had passed through the city, which was
richly decked out with flags, wreaths and mottoes, while crowds of
joyfully-excited people surged up and down the streets--and had arrived
at the English garden.
"Where are you taking me to?" asked Felix. "There is no hospital within
twenty miles of here, unless they have been turning the Chinese tower
into one."
"Come along," answered Schnetz. "You'll soon get things straight. The
queen-dowager selected the place herself, and no doubt many a poor
fellow will make true the saying: '_hodie eris mecum in Paradiso_.'"
"In the Paradise garden? _In our Paradise?_ The boldest imagination
among us all could never have dreamed of such a thing as our meeting
there again under such different circumstances."
"_Sic transit!_--And besides, our friends are, fortunately, much too
lively a pair of birds of paradise not to fly away again some fine
day."
When they reached the garden gate, they saw that all the benches under
the trees were empty, although in all the other beer-gardens they had
passed the people sat packed close together. An inscription indicated
the different use to which the house was now devoted, and the few
grave-looking people who met them--among the rest women with eyes red
from weeping, leading little children by the hand, and further back in
the garden the pale, tottering figures of convalescents--formed a sharp
contrast to the noisy, merry crowd that was generally to be found here
on holidays. The two friends walked thoughtfully round to the other
side of the house, and, being in uniform, had no difficulty in
obtaining admittance.
They had made the rounds of many a hospital-ward within the last year,
and had seen the after-effects of the war in much more horrible
pictures than any that clean, quiet rooms could offer them.
And yet now, when they beheld once more the halls which they had left
in the blaze of the carnival time, robbed of all their ornaments,
and the sisters of charity moving softly up and down the long row of
sick-beds, soothing a moan of pain here and mixing a cooling drink
there; and the grotesque frescoes on the bare walls no longer concealed
by tall plants; and outside the window the pure sunlight shimmering
through the green treetops, instead of the midnight stars looking in
upon a merry feast--such mingled feelings came over them that neither
could utter a word.
They started to look for their friends. But strange faces only looked
up at them from their beds of pain. Finally, a young doctor gave them
the desired information.
The halls down below here were already full when the two gentlemen had
been brought in. So they had willingly acceded to their request to have
a room to themselves, and had quartered them in the top story. He
offered to guide them up there himself; but this Schnetz gratefully
declined, not wishing to take him away from his patients.
So they mounted to the corridor of the top story, and at the very first
door which they came to they heard a voice from the room within that
caused them to start. It was a soft, girlish voice reading something
aloud--verses, as it seemed.
"It isn't likely they are in here," muttered Schnetz, "unless they have
been seized with a pious fit, and have consented to let a sister of
charity come in and edify them with her hymn-book. Well, there have
been instances.--But no, this hymn-book has never seen the inside of a
church, at all events."
They listened, and distinctly heard the lines.
"'Holy Maid of Orleans, pray for us!'" cried Schnetz. "I must be
greatly mistaken in my man, if Elfinger isn't found somewhere near when
Schiller is being spouted."
Without stopping to knock, he softly opened the door, and entered with
Felix.
It was a high but not a very large room, whose only window opened on
the rear of the garden. Only a single ray of the afternoon sunshine
streamed through the gray blind and fell upon one of the beds that
stood near the wall on the right; while the other cot, opposite it, was
surrounded by a high Spanish screen, and was pushed back so as to be
entirely in the shade.
On the bed to the right lay Rosenbusch, covered over with a thin
blanket, the upper part of his body propped up into a half-sitting
posture by pillows, holding a sketchbook on his knees and busily
engaged in drawing.
Except that his face was somewhat paler, he showed no traces of the
hardships he had suffered; but on the contrary, his bright eyes beamed
from under a red fez as merrily, and he looked as fresh as he lay there
in his loose jacket, with his carefully-tended beard, as though he had
made his toilet for the express purpose of receiving visits.
"I could have told you so!" he cried to his friends, as they entered
(the reader who sat behind the screen was silent in an instant)--"the
first visit of the saviours of the fatherland, on this day of triumph,
is to the invalid's paradise. God greet you, noble souls! You find us
here as well provided for as if we were in the lap of Abraham; art,
poetry, and love, make our life beautiful, and the fare is ample;
though, unfortunately, we are on invalids' diet. No, you mustn't look
at what I am scribbling. Or rather, for all I care, you may look at the
thing as much as you like. A Rosenbusch, _seconda maniera_, or _terza_
rather, if I count in my classical period, my parting of Hector and
Iphigenia _a la_ David. Now, as you see, we are splashing about in
realism of the most modern sort--Father Wouverman will turn in his
grave, but I can't help that. And, after all, this pack of Turcos and
Zouaves are by no means to be despised. Magnificent contrasts of
color, set off by the vineyard scenery, and our own blue devils over
there--like a thunder-cloud. By Jove! it won't look bad, will it? Do
you know what the secret of modern battle-painting is, the clew to the
riddle, to find which I had first to have a hole shot in my thigh? The
episode, my dear fellow, nothing but the episode. Grouping in masses,
tricks of tactics--nonsense, a map would do just as well for that
purpose. But to condense in an episode the prevailing character of a
whole battle--that is the point. Those old fellows had an easy time of
it, for in those days a great, murderous battle was nothing but a
handful of episodes. Well, every man must accommodate himself to the
length of his blanket."
"Tours is long enough to keep you warm, old comrade-in-arms," replied
Schnetz, examining the ingenious sketch with great pleasure. "But how
goes it with your bodily progress?"
"Thanks. Fairly. In six or eight weeks I hope to prove myself quite a
lively dancer at my own wedding. I only wish," he added, in a lower
voice, with a slight movement of the head toward the other bed--"that
our friend over opposite had such bright prospects--"
"Herr von Schnetz!" they now heard Elfinger's sonorous voice say from
behind the screen--"You seem to have completely forgotten that there
are other people living on the other side of the mountain. Whom have
you brought with you? To judge from the step it is our brave baron.
Won't the gentlemen be so kind as to do a poor blind man the honor? You
will find some one else here who will be very glad to welcome my old
friends again."
At the first sound of these cheerful words, which moved him painfully,
Schnetz had stepped behind the screen and seized the hands the sick man
gropingly held out to him. Felix, too, approached. Elfinger could not
raise his head from the pillow on account of the ice compress that was
laid across both eyes, but the pale, finely-formed face beneath it lit
up with such a joyful smile, that the two friends were so moved they
could hardly stammer out the necessary words of greeting.
A slim young figure had risen from the chair at the head of the bed to
make room for the gentlemen. She still held in her hand the book from
which she had been reading, and her delicate face blushed when Schnetz
turned and cordially pressed her hand.
"I need not introduce you to one another," said Elfinger. "Baron Felix,
too, will probably recollect my little Fanny, from having met her at
that memorable boating party. In those days we two were not so well
acquainted with one another as we are now, for, as you know, 'it must
be dark for Friedland's stars to shine.' I still had one eye too many.
It is only since I have been left quite in the darkness that she has
clearly seen that her heavenly bridegroom would not be angry with her
for being unfaithful to him in order to light a poor blind cripple
through life. Isn't it so, sweetheart?"
"Don't boast in such a godless way," they heard Rosenbusch call out,
"as if it were on your account, _pour tes beaux yeux_, as messieurs our
hereditary enemies say, that she became converted and joined our
society. Nonsense! Fraeulein Fanny, it is simply because you have to do
penance for your faithless sister, and redeem the honor of the Munich
women."
"Be quiet over there, most fickle of mortals," cried Elfinger; "or I'll
complain of you to Angelica. You must know they take turns in nursing
us, these two good angels; and although that frivolous man opposite
ought to thank God that such an excellent woman has finally received
him into grace, he is perpetually making love to my sweetheart over the
screen. Fortunately, I have, once and for all, said good-by to
jealousy, which would certainly be ridiculous enough in a blind man--"
"I hope you exaggerate, Elfinger," interrupted Felix; "when we took
leave of one another in Versailles the doctor gave us great reason to
hope--"
"The way was a trifle long, and the snow-storm that welcomed us home to
our fatherland--pshaw! If it is so, and I only have enough twilight
left for me to recognize the outlines of a certain face when it is
close to mine, I will be happy. But even if this is no longer possible,
ought I not to count my lot fortunate? 'I had it once--I tell you I can
recall all the faces I loved as distinctly as if I had a pair of
perfect eyes in my head--" he felt for the hand of the blushing girl
and pressed it to his lips. "And now," he said, "enough about my
respected self. Since we last saw one another the most wonderful events
have come to pass. The German empire and the German emperor! Good God,
we praise Thee! Do you know, since all this happened I have begun to
have some hope for the German stage again?"
"At all events, your colleagues have learned how to play the _role_ of
heroes respectably well, without opening their mouths wide, rolling
their eyes, and sawing the air with their arms and legs."
"No, but seriously, do you remember our first conversation on this
subject, my dear baron? Now just see whether I haven't cause for hope.
Our want of unity was chiefly to blame for the wretched state of our
stage. Imagine thirty-six court-theatres fighting with one another for
the few actors who really have talent. Now, my idea is that, when they
have become a little sick of military spectacles up there in the
imperial capital, they will arrive at the conclusion that a great
nation also needs a national theatre; not one in name, but one which
shall really unite all the best talents. A model manager, a model
repertoire, and model performances, not given oftener than, at the
most, two days running; and not with one eye on Melpomene and Thalia,
and the other on the cash-box, so that a miserable clap-trap piece will
be allowed to remain on the desecrated boards thirty consecutive
nights, merely because a few actresses change their dresses seven times
in the course of the performance. Only the very choicest pieces must be
selected, from the classical and modern stock, and the parts must be
filled only by the strongest actors. All real talent must be engaged at
any price, though there should be three Franz Moors and Ophelias
playing against one another at the same time; and the whole must be
emancipated from all court influence, and regarded as an imperial
affair under the charge of the Minister of Culture, who should be
responsible to the nation. What do you say to such a stage?"
"That it will continue to be too fine for this world for some time to
come," answered Schnetz. "But who knows? Even this world can improve;
we have seen how it has done in other fields. I only fear that, even
under the most favorable circumstances, the other Germans will
respectfully decline to give money, _in majorem imperii gloriam_, for a
theatre of which the Berliners alone will reap the benefit."
"Naturally," cried Elfinger, gesticulating excitedly; "and they would
have a perfect right to do so. For that very reason my plan is to make
this model stage accessible to all the empire. What else do we have
railroads for, and the gala-performances that have been attempted here
and there? All that is necessary is that it should be made a regular
institution. Six winter months in Berlin, a month's vacation, four
months' of triumphal progress of the imperial actors through all the
cities of Germany in which a worthy temple of the muses can be found,
then another month of rest, and so on with grace _in infinitum_. Don't
say a word against it! The thing has its difficulties, but, when we
shall have gotten our theatrical Bismarck, you will see how well it
will work, and then everybody will wonder why it was not thought of
long before. Isn't it natural that the talent for impersonation should
also grow richer among a people who have finally won self-respect, who
have learned how to walk, and to stand, and to talk as well as the rest
of the world? I--of course, I have retired from the scene. But,
nevertheless, I can work for it. I will give instruction in
declamation; I will open the minds of the young actors; I will show
them how to recite verses and bring style into their prose--you know
rhapsodists always have been blind from time immemorial--and with the
aid of my little wife here, and of my tremendous memory--"
At this moment the young doctor came in. He had heard Elfinger's
earnest speech outside in the corridor, and came to warn him not to
over-excite himself. His friends took leave at once.
"I hope you won't leave Munich without having seen Angelica again,"
said Rosenbusch. Felix, though he would greatly have preferred not to
look up any one else, had to promise that he would call on her. He did
not notice the peculiarly sly look which the painter bestowed upon
Schnetz. Still, although he believed he should not see these two good
friends again, he left them with a comforted feeling. He knew that
each, after his own fashion, had attained the goal of all his wishes.
CHAPTER VIII.
Outside, they were swallowed up again in the roaring and surging human
stream, and borne toward the city. The old countess drove past them in
a very elegant open carriage, her daughter by her side, and her son
and son-in-law on the back seat, both in uniform and decorated with
medals of honor. The happy old woman, who was taking the fresh glories
of her family out for a ride, and gazing around her with proud eyes,
recognized Schnetz immediately, and nodded to him with amiable
familiarity. She looked at his companion through her eye-glass, but did
not appear to know him.
"Brave youngsters," muttered Schnetz. "Whatever else you may say of
them, they certainly fought well. But now let's take a drosky. Of
course, our young husband lives outside there where the last houses
are."
As they drew up before Rossel's quarters--a plain little house in
the Schwanthalerstrasse--they caught sight of a woman's head at the
flower-framed window above; but it was instantly drawn in again.
"Madame is at home," said Schnetz, with a smile. "Of course, she has
been expecting your visit, and has probably arrayed herself in great
style. Hold on tight to your heart, _triumphator_!"
Upon arriving up-stairs, they were not received by the lady of the
house herself, as he had expected, but by a servant-girl, who conducted
them into the studio. In comparison with the luxuriously-furnished
room in which their friend used to recline on his picturesque
bear-skin in his own house, this one was very scantily decorated.
There were no costly Gobelin tapestries, beautiful bronze vases,
and brilliantly-polished pieces of furniture in the style of the
Renaissance. But on some of the easels stood pictures in various stages
of completion, and the artist himself advanced to meet them, in his
shirt-sleeves and with his palette on his arm.
"So here you are again!" he cried. "Now thanks be to all the gods that
you have come back with sound limbs and unscratched faces! You have a
fine piece of work behind you. Nor have we stay-at-homes been lazy in
the mean while; and though not fighting for emperor and empire, we can
at least say of ourselves that we have been working _pour le roi de
Prusse_. But it makes no odds, let us hope for better times; in the
mean while I am trying to drive away the blues with this daubing. For
Heaven's sake, don't look at the things; they are wretched efforts,
merely made in order to try my brush again. For that matter, you
mustn't look about you here at all--_quantum mutatus ab illo!_ Of all
my household goods, I have retained nothing but my Boecklin; a thing of
that sort is like a tuning-fork when one has lost the key-note. Neither
must you inspect me too closely. I am reduced, my dear fellows, very
much reduced. You see I have shrunken to unnatural proportions; what
has become of my rounded form? But, what could be expected when a man
gets to work by eight o'clock every day, and so violates his holiest
principles? But wait, I will go and call my wife. She is the thing best
worth seeing in the whole house."
He made his friends sit down on a small leather sofa that bore little
resemblance to the celebrated "West-easterly" divan of former days,
and ran out calling for his wife. In the mean while, they had time to
look around. So much that was excellent met their view on all the
canvases--such clearness, and simplicity in form and color--that they
were moved to sincere enthusiasm, and eagerly expressed their delight
to one another.
"You are too good," Rossel's voice rang out behind them. "It is
possibly true that, in the course of time, I have become a passably
good colorist. It isn't for nothing that a man refrains from his own
sins for ten years, and has no other thoughts than to get at the
secrets of the great. But so long as no one cares a rap about it, it
remains a barren, private delight, and finally withers like a plant in
a cellar. Who cares, nowadays, whether human flesh like this looks
fresh, or as if it had been tanned? The subject, the idea, and now, to
cap the climax, the patriotic sentiment--no offense, my heroes! Even in
that way we can drag ourselves out of the slough; of course, upon
condition that we give that nixie there a petticoat, and provide that
fisher-boy with a pair of swimming-trousers at the very least."
"Amid all these profound remarks we have wandered from the main point
again," said Schnetz. "Where is your wife?"
"She asks to be excused--says she is engaged--and won't show herself at
any price. I told her to her face it was only on account of the Herr
Baron. 'Of course,' she answered, 'I wouldn't mind the first-lieutenant
at all.' Oh, my dear friends, if I only were not so hen-pecked! But I
can assure you, much as I have always raved about women without brains,
I now see clearly that they are the very ones who know how to succeed
in having their own way. However, in the present case, it has turned
out to my advantage. For no matter how free from prejudices one may be,
he can't help making a wry face when he sees his wife blush slightly in
saying good-day to her first and only love. Won't you come and dine
with me to-morrow? Little, but cordially offered--_un piatto di
maccheroni, una brava bistecca, un fiasco di vino sincero_. I think the
lady of the house will make her appearance too--"
Felix excused himself by saying that he was to leave on the following
day. Old Schoepf now entered, looking a little more dried up than
of yore, and with his dark face almost completely covered by his
snow-white hair and beard. He was in the best of spirits, and inquired
eagerly about the campaign experiences of his friends. When the
conversation turned upon Kohle, the old man declared that they must
certainly go out and visit him at the villa, to see the frescoes he had
already finished. He had only allowed himself a half-holiday, and had
hurried back again as soon as the entrance of the troops was over, to
add the last touches to the paneling. When Felix had to decline this
invitation likewise, the old gentleman bestowed a look of questioning
surprise upon his grandson-in-law; but he refrained from pressing the
young man any further, who acted as though the ground of Munich burned
under his feet.
Felix was obliged to tell his friends about the position that awaited
him in Metz. On more than one occasion he had attracted attention at
headquarters, and his judgment and energy, the fact that he was
acquainted with the French language, and, perhaps, the wish to have
some one who was not a Prussian connected with the administration of
the conquered province, had united in causing him to be made aide to
the new governor of the frontier fortress. To carry out properly a task
which combined such difficult and untried elements, fresh minds were
required--such as had not merely acquired experience under existing
well-regulated forms of government, but such as had been schooled in
real life, and, fitted with the necessary mental quickness, were also
equipped for unforeseen contingencies.
The grave face of our young Baron lighted up a little as he spoke of
the life of activity before him. But an expression of settled
resignation could be detected in every word he spoke. The others,
however, apparently paid no attention to this; and, as he went
down-stairs, Rossel shouted "_Au revoir!_" after him, just as in the
old times when they were certain of meeting again within a few days.
As they stepped into the street, Felix heard his name called from one
of the windows above. He saw young Frau Rossel standing among the
evergreens, cheerfully nodding and waving her hand to him. Her delicate
coloring looked even brighter than in the old days; and a little
morning-cap, which she had coquettishly placed a little on one side on
her golden-red locks, gave her round face a most charming appearance of
housewifely dignity.
"You are not to suppose I don't care anything more about my old
friends!" she shouted down to them. "At the entrance of the troops I
threw a whole lot of flowers at you; and you, proud sir, didn't deign
to look up once. Well, this time, at all events, you have turned to
look at me. Your uniform doesn't become you half as well as citizen's
dress. You don't look so distinguished in it. As for me, I couldn't
think of letting you see me. But in six or eight weeks from now--you
must come to the christening--do you hear? My husband will write to you
about it. And, now, good-by, and good luck to you. I'm sure I wish it
you with all my heart. You have certainly worked hard enough to deserve
it."
With this the laughing face disappeared from the window, without
leaving the men time to say a word in reply.
CHAPTER IX.
"And now to Angelical," said Schnetz. "You haven't far to go, and she is
certain to be at home."
Felix stood still.
"Let me off from this visit," he said, his face suddenly darkening.
"Help me think of some excuse, so that I shan't offend the good girl.
You know how much I esteem her; but she is the only person who, I have
reason to believe, knows all. The others may have been satisfied with
that fiction about the duel; but she, Julie's best friend--"
"No matter what she knows or doesn't know--nonsense! You can be as
brief as you want. Come, give me your hand on it. Good! And there's her
house there. I will say adieu to you here; I have some business to
attend to; and I will call for you this evening at the hotel, and we'll
go and see the illumination together."
"They are all so kind!" cried Felix, when he was alone; "they all want
to help me to bear what is bitter and irremediable. But it is high time
for me to try a change of air. Here--where they are all going to lead
such happy and comfortable lives, and where every one breathes more
freely and more healthily now that the storm of war has swept away the
old mists and fogs--for me alone to go about with such a face among
these good, contented people--no! I must go away from here, and the
sooner the better. If I leave this evening, travel all night--to-morrow
I can be deep in my work. I will beg Angelica to excuse me to Schnetz.
She will be the first to understand that I am in no mood for
illuminations."
He had no sooner formed this resolution than he drew a long breath, and
hastened his steps toward the house which Schnetz had pointed out to
him. The gloaming had already come, and the first candles of the
illumination were glowing in a few of the windows; but those at
Angelica's house were dark. Up-stairs the door was opened for him by
the old landlady, of whom Angelica hired her lodgings. The Fraeulein was
at home, she said, pointing to the nearest door. He knocked with a
beating heart, of which he felt fairly ashamed. A woman's voice called
out "Come in." As he entered the dusky room, a slender figure rose from
the sofa, on which it had had been idly sitting as if waiting for him.
"Is it permitted me to come so late, my dear friend?" he said,
advancing hesitatingly. The figure tottered forward to meet him, and
now for the first time he recognized the features of the face--"Irene!
Good God!" he cried, and involuntarily stood still; but the next moment
he felt two arms encircling him, and burning lips pressed to his own,
stifling every word and plunging his senses into a whirl of delirious
joy. It was as if she wanted never to let him recover his speech again;
as if she feared he might vanish from her arms forever, the moment she
let him go. Even when she finally removed her lips from his and drew
him, bewildered and trembling, upon the sofa at her side, she went on
talking alone, as if any word that he might throw in would destroy the
spell that had at last led the loved one to her side again. He had
never seen her thus before; the last bar had fallen from her virgin
heart; and a yielding woman, laughing and weeping in the sweetness of
passion, lay upon his breast, with her arms around his neck.
Not a word was said about that which had kept him from her so long. It
was as if the war had called him from her side, and now at last he had
returned and all would be well again, and far more beautiful than it
could ever have been without his youthful heroism and his honorable
scars. He had to listen to many tender complaints and reproaches for
not having given her any news about himself in all this time. But the
moment he tried to say a word in his own defense, she closed his lips
with impassioned kisses.
"Be still!" she cried. "It is true you are a great sinner, my darling
hero, but I--what wouldn't I forgive you on this day, this glorious day
of festival and joy! And, you see, it did not help you any after all.
You imagined you were safe from me, and thought you could march in here
with the rest without any one's being the wiser, while I sat and sulked
in my old-maid's cell on the Lung' Arno. But this is the time of
miracles! I cast aside my pride of birth, and all the good training I
owe to myself, as if they had been old rags, and went to uncle and said
to him: 'If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to
the mountain. That wicked Felix would like to be rid of me; but it
takes two to do that. Come, uncle, let us go to Munich. I must see my
lover ride in through the gate of victory, Schnetz writes that he looks
nobly in his uniform, and I can't help it even if the old countess
doesn't think it proper for me to run after this faithless man. He ran
after me long enough, and we ought to exchange _roles_ for once.' And
so here I am, and have been sitting here on the very same spot for
three hours, waiting for a certain youthful hero, and scolding terribly
at Schnetz, who had promised me that he would entice him into this
love-trap just as soon as he possibly could. And now it has actually
sprung upon you, and you sha'n't be let out again as long as you live."
The lights in the streets outside had long been blazing in full
brilliancy, and under the windows a joyous crowd of happy people
streamed past toward the centre of the city, where the illumination was
said to be the finest. But the two happy lovers had forgotten all else
in the bliss, so long deferred, of gazing into one another's eyes and
seeing the flame of inextinguishable love and devotion glowing there.
She asked after the companions who had been with him through the war,
and he after the friends she had left behind in Florence. But neither
paid much attention to what the other answered; all they cared for was
to hear each other speak, and to assure themselves by the sound of
their voices that they were once more united.
An hour may have passed in this way, when some one knocked softly. The
knock was repeated three times before they heard it, and Irene ran to
open the door. Angelica came flying in, the two girls fell on one
another's necks, and good Angelica's voice was so stifled by suppressed
tears that it was a long time before she could speak.
"Of course I have come too soon," she said at last; "but when
wouldn't it have been too soon? A thousand congratulations, my dear
Felix--pardon me, the Herr Baron doesn't come glibly to me to-day--and
now, make haste, so as to see a little of the illumination--it is
magnificent--we have just come from it, and Irene certainly didn't
travel five hundred miles just to sit here in the dark while all Munich
swims in a sea of light. Besides, she saw very little of the review
this morning, for she only had eyes for a single defender of the
Fatherland. You will have seen all you want to in half an hour, and
then I invite the ladies and gentlemen to assemble once more under my
humble roof and partake of a modest cup of tea. Schnetz will also
appear, and your uncle, the baron, has solemnly pledged me his word not
to let himself be dragged into any champagne-supper to-day. It's a pity
Rosenbusch isn't well enough yet! The poor fellow has only a lame leg,
and an elderly girl as a wife, as a reward for all his bravery. But
don't you think he bears his lot with incredible fortitude?"
The lights of the festival had long been extinguished, and the last
joyous echo of this happy day had died out, when Felix entered the
little room, which was the only one still to be had in the whole great
hotel. Even now he could not think of such a thing as sleep. He sat
down on the bed and drew from his pocket a letter which Irene had given
him when he parted from her before her hotel, and gazed--with what
overmastering emotion!--upon the handwriting of the friend whom he had
believed to be lost to him forever, and whom this day restored to him
again, to add to all its other unexpected blessings. He read the
following lines:
"Let this letter bear you our congratulations, dear old friend. When it
comes into your hands the last shadow will have been lifted from your
life. You will hear enough about us from the lips of your beloved, to
satisfy you of our happiness. But, possibly, there may be one subject
concerning which she may feel a delicacy about speaking; our happiness
is now secure from all external interruption. A few weeks ago a legal
divorce was effected, and our union, which certainly stood in no need
of a certificate to cement it closer, has now, for the children's sake,
received the sanction of the law. The unhappy woman herself lent a hand
in bringing this about. She is in Athens, where a rich Englishman has
been paying his court to her. The last spark of ill-will toward her has
been extinguished in me. I can think of her as of one dead. May she
find peace in the sphere she has voluntarily chosen--as far as such a
being ever can find or bear peace.
"And now let us at least hear from you again, my dear old boy. All we
have heard about you has rejoiced our hearts. You are about to enter
upon a new phase of life, and to put in order that part of the world
which has been assigned to you. I wish you all success. After all, it
is your proper calling; and if the wise saying of our friend Rossel is
correct, that real happiness is merely that condition in which we are
most keenly conscious of our individuality, you certainly must be
esteemed happy, and will make happy the noble heart that has
surrendered to you. Dear old fellow, what a splendid prize each of us
has drawn! That we had to work hard to deserve it, is all the better.
All that is not deserved humiliates. And we still have an excess of
happiness given us by the gods, whom we ought not to be too proud to
thank.
"But here I am talking about our own fates, and passing by, without a
single word, the great and mighty event in the world's history which
has just been concluded. Though, to be sure, there are no words capable
of expressing its greatness and importance. In the consciousness of
this dumb amazement the feeling can scarcely be avoided that the Muses,
who are usually silent mid the clash of arms, will not recover their
voices very soon. You men of action have the lead for some time to
come; for the revolution that has taken place in the public mind, and
the movement which has extended to all conditions of life and of civil
society, is far more wonderful, far more pregnant with consequences
than you, who took an active part in it, can appreciate in the first
pause after your final blows. We who are lookers-on are in a position
to get a more comprehensive view, for we can also see how the recoil,
of whose force you can have no conception, acts upon our neighbors.
"The truth is, this is a period of reconstruction of all political and
social conditions; whatever is essential asserts itself, and whatever
is _real_ clamors everywhere for the place that belongs to it by
nature. Consequently, those who are called upon to rearrange our new
life have the first and last word; while those who, like us artists,
have to do with dreams, stand aloof and thank fortune if their names
are still mentioned now and then. You know that, with all due respect
for politics, I cannot regard them as belonging to the highest problems
of the human mind. The possible and the useful, the expedient and the
necessary are, and must ever be, relative aims; it should be the task
of the statesman to make himself less and less necessary, to educate
the public sense of justice so that the greatest possible number of
free individuals can live in harmony with one another; and each, alone
or in conjunction with some fellow-workman, can occupy himself with the
eternal problems. Shall we live to see the time when the arts which
have heretofore flourished like wild flowers upon ruins, shall adorn
the symmetrical, inhabited, and solid walls of the new structure of the
state with their foliage of undying green? Who can say? Mankind lives
quickly in these days. In the mean while let each one do his best.
"Farewell, and make up your mind to _live_, and to let your fellow-men
_know_ that you live. I wish you could all--dear, good, and faithful
friends--wrap yourselves in the mantle of Faust and be set down among
us at this very moment. I am writing this letter in a villa on the
slope of the splendid hill that bears upon its summit old Fiesole.
Julie is walking up and down the garden carrying our _Bimba_ in her
arms, while little Frances walks by her side, busily studying her
lesson. How beautiful the world is all around me! And with what still,
pure, silent joy do I think of you, dear friends! Come and give us a
sight of your happiness, and rejoice with us in ours!
"And then we will make the old 'Paradise' to live again under another
heaven and on a new soil."
THE END.
REMORSE.
From the French of TH. BENTZON.
(_Forming Number_ 13 _of the "Collection of Foreign Authors._")
16mo. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.
* * * * *
_From Lippincott's Magazine_.
"'Remorse,' which appeared recently in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, is
a novel of great power. The author, who writes under the name of 'Th.
Bentzon,' is Madame Blanc, a woman of great intelligence and the
highest character."
_From the New York Sun_.
"The story entitled 'Remorse' attracted much attention from the grace
and vivacity of its style, and from the singular vigor evinced in the
portrait of a literary personage whose successive love-affairs were
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of a tragical situation are evolved with much ingenuity out of this
antithesis. There is in these figures a certain crispness and
vividness, as if the author had studied their counterparts In real
life."
_From the New York Graphic_.
"Told with such grace and delicacy as to render it intensely
interesting. It belongs to the best class of modern French fiction,
which embraces the finest representatives of literary taste and skill."
_From the New York Evening Post_.
"Th. Bentzon is a novelist of no mean gifts, even in the art of apt
narration, while her handling of strong passion is at times very fine.
'Remorse' is a tale of considerable power."
_From the Boston Courier_.
"'Remorse' is a book of positive grasp, and penetrates the senses with
a keen, steady point, like that of a rapier."
_From the Boston Gazette_.
"'Remorse' has strong dramatic power in its plot, which is treated in a
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_From the Utica Morning Observer_.
"It is sparkling and brilliant, full of that nameless element which
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sensational."
_From the Washington National Republican_.
"This is a highly interesting tale. It is well written; its characters
are delineated with an artistic touch; its theme is well developed, and
its incidents are of startling interest."
* * * * *
_D. APPLETON & CO._, 549 & 551 _Broadway, New York_.
AMERICAN PAINTERS:
_Biographical Sketches of Fifty American Artists_.
WITH EIGHTY-THREE EXAMPLES OF THEIR WORKS,
Engraved on Wood in a perfect manner.
* * * * *
Quarto; cloth, extra gilt Price, $7.00: full morocco, $13.00.
* * * * *
_The painters represented in this work are as follows_:
CHURCH, HUNT, J. H. BEARD,
INNES, WHITTREDGE, W. H. BEARD,
HUNTINGTON, W. HART, PORTER,
PAGE, J. M. HART, G. L. BROWN,
SANFORD GIFFORD, McENTEE, APPLETON BROWN,
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* * * * *
The publishers feel justified in saying that the contemporaneous art of
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clear type, the paper is of the finest, the margins broad, and the
illustrations printed with artistic care. The volume contains brief
sketches of fifty prominent American artists, with examples from their
works. Some idea of the time and labor expended in bringing out the
work may be gathered from the fact that to bring it before the public
in its present form cost the publishers over $12,000."--_Boston Evening
Transcript_.
"This book is a notable one, and among the many fine art books it will
rank as one of the choicest, and one of the most elegant, considered as
an ornament or parlor decoration. The engravings are in the highest
style known to art. Mr. Sheldon has accompanied the illustrations with
a series of very entertaining biographical sketches. As far as
possible, he has made the artists their own interpreters, giving their
own commentaries upon art and upon their purposes in its practice
instead of his own."--_Boston Post_.
"'American Painters' consists of biographical sketches of fifty leading
American artists, with eighty-three examples of their works, engraved
on wood with consummate skill, delicacy of touch, and appreciation
of distinctive manner. It is a gallery of contemporary American
art."--_Philadelphia Press_.
"This work is one of surpassing interest, and of marvelous
typographical and illustrative beauty."--_Philadelphia Item_.
"The whole undertaking is a noble one, illustrative of the best period
of American art, and as such deserves the attention and support of the
public."--_Chicago Tribune_.
* * * * *
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 549 & 551 Broadway, New York.
HEALTH PRIMERS.
EDITED BY
J. LANGDON DOWN, M. D., F. R. C. P.
HENRY POWER, M. B., F. R. C. S.
J. MORTIMER-GRANVILLE, M. D.
JOHN TWEEDY, F. R. C. S.
Though it is of the greatest importance that books upon health should
be in the highest degree trustworthy, it is notorious that most of the
cheap and popular kind are mere crude compilations of incompetent
persons, and are often misleading and injurious. Impressed by these
considerations, several eminent medical and scientific men of London
have combined to prepare a series of Health Primers of a character that
shall be entitled to the fullest confidence. They are to be brief,
simple, and elementary in statement, filled with substantial and useful
information suitable for the guidance of grown-up people. Each primer
will be written by a gentleman specially competent to treat his
subject, while the critical supervision of the books is in the hands of
a committee who will act as editors.
As these little books are produced by English authors, they are
naturally based very much upon English experience, but it matters
little whence illustrations upon such subjects are drawn, because the
essential conditions of avoiding disease and preserving health are to a
great degree everywhere the same.
VOLUMES OF THE SERIES.
Exercise and Training. | The Heart and its Functions.
(Illustrated.) | The Head.
Alcohol: Its Use and Abuse. | Clothing and Dress.
The House and its Surroundings. | Water.
Premature Death: Its Promotion | The Skin and its Troubles.
or Prevention. | Fatigue and Pain.
Personal Appearances in Health | The Ear and Hearing.
and Disease. (Illustrated.) | The Eye and Vision.
Baths and Bathing. | Temperature in Health and Disease.
In square 16mo volumes, cloth, price, 40 cents each.
* * * * *
_For sale by all booksellers. Any volume mailed, postpaid, to any
address in the United States, on receipt of price_.
D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers,
549 & 551 Broadway, New York.